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“And Jubal?”

My stomach drops because I want to know what he’s going to say and whether Jubal will still be his quarterback when the conversation is over. Dad watches me for another moment, his hand lifting as if he might reach for me again before the mail clutched between his fingers stops him.

“We’ll talk about Jubal tomorrow.” He looks down at the envelope in his hand, and I know that’s all I’m getting from him tonight. Before I can decide whether to push, he holds it out. “I almost forgot. This came for you.”

The return address wipes every argument I was about to make from my head because my MCAT scores are finally sitting in my hands. I knew they were coming and could have checked them online as soon as they were available, which makes it even stranger that I didn’t. My thumb runs along the edge of the envelope as I try to remember the last time I checked and come up blank. A few months ago, I would’ve known exactly when the score was supposed to post. The fact that it’s been available long enough to reach me in the mail should make me feel like I forgot something important, but there’s a strange relief in realizing I managed to let it go without even knowing I was doing it.

“Do you want me to stay while you open it?”

Yes. I want him to sit beside me and hold my hand because I don’t know if I can survive seeing another failing score by myself. But he just asked me for space, and I need to give him that.

“No,” I swallow past the word caught behind it. “I’m okay.”

Dad hesitates, and for one selfish second, I hope he ignores me and stays. Instead, he leans in and kisses my forehead. “I love you, Bug.”

The tears I’d almost gotten under control spill over again as I hold on to him for another second. “I love you too.”

Dad gives me one last look before turning toward the house, leaving me holding the answer I’ve been too scared to look at. I’ve imagined opening my score so many times that I’ve managed to scare myself with every possible number. A good score means figuring out what comes next, while another bad one means admitting the first two weren’t something I could fix, and I’m not sure which answer scares me more anymore.

Olivia steps outside a few minutes later and pulls the door closed behind her. “Your dad sent me.”

“Of course, he did.”

A sob escapes me as she sits beside me, close enough that our shoulders touch. Her eyes drop to the envelope in my hands, but she doesn’t ask about it.

“Is everyone still inside?”

“No. They heard enough to know it was time to hightail it out of here.”

Waiting another minute won’t make whatever’s inside the envelope any easier to handle, no matter how scared I am to open it. I pull out the letter and find the score, reading it again because it can’t be right. I check the line above it before going back to the number, desperate to find something I missed, but the number doesn’t change. Neither does what it means.

“I failed.”

I told myself I was prepared for this because I’d failed before, but I wasn’t. I wanted to see a number that proved this time was different, and it fucking hurts that I didn’t.

“I’ve taken this fucking test three times, and I still can’t pass it.” My voice breaks as I hand her the letter because I can’t keep staring at it. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

Olivia takes the letter without answering, and I’m relieved she doesn’t reach for some encouraging thing to say. I don’t need another test date or another study plan tonight. I need to be angry that I worked for this again and still ended up here, because underneath the anger is the part I don’t want to touch yet. The part that knows taking it again means risking this feeling a fourth time, while not taking it again means I might have to let go of a future I still don’t know how to stop wanting.

“I just want someone to tell me how I’m supposed to feel about any of this, because right now, I feel fucking awful about all of it.”

Olivia reaches for my hand, and I let her take it. “I can listen.”

Talking about any of it isn’t what I want, even if part of me wishes it could make me feel better. I want her to tell me what to do. I want there to be one right thing I can do next that won’t hurt anyone, including me, and I’m so fucking tired of not knowing what that is.

“I want to go after Jubal, but I can’t make what I did stop hurting just because I’m sorry. Dad needs space from me, but all I want is for tomorrow to get here so I can know we’re okay. And then this fucking score.”

“You don’t have to know any of that tonight.”

“But I want to.”

“Okay, well, I’ve never had a boyfriend, and I’m currently avoiding every question about my future, so I remain spectacularly unqualified for this conversation.”

A laugh pushes through the tears before I can stop it. “That might be the least helpful thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“I have a gift. But I know your dad loves you, and half the Valor nearly started a civil war in your kitchen after you came outside.”

“What?”