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planning a lawn reception with a string quartet and a helicopter to carry the bridal party to and from the wedding.
    The food for the reception was already picked out and would have a French flair, the menu supervised by a celebrated chef who had restaurants downtown and in Highland Park. The cookies would look like lipstick on a pig. The guilt stabbed at me for thinking such a thing.
    “I think it would be great. No one in Alison’s family has had cookies like that.”
    My mother laughed with relief. “I don’t know why you were giving me crap about it, then. I’m just so glad you came to your senses. We’ll do the candied almonds too. And your cousin Angela already has the design for the cake—yellow and white, right?”
    “Yeah, Mom,” I said, a little out of breath and feeling the heat of tears prick at the corners of my eyes. “With the bridges and the little fountain.”
    What was wrong with me? How could I have even contemplated doing what I had almost just done? I looked over at Carlos on the bed. He had turned against the wall, no longer looking at me, which compounded my shame. He was a good guy. How dare I drag him into my turmoil and confusion?
    No, I needed to make things right. To get back on the—you should pardon the pun—straight and narrow. I had to atone.
    I don’t recall the rest of our conversation. It was most likely more about the wedding, whether my mother should invest in a long dress, how they would handle the rehearsal dinner, stuff like that. All the while we talked, I groped around in the shifting blue light from the TV, gathering my clothes and pulling them on as Mom yammered, blissfully unaware of the crisis her son was having at that very moment.
    By the time we hung up, I was dressed again and knew what I had to do. Carlos was sitting on the edge of my twin bed, looking at me.
    “I guess we’re not gonna finish,” he said sadly. He glanced at me, and I could see the hope in his eyes as he waited, presumably, for me to correct him.
    “I can’t do this. I’m sorry.”
    He didn’t say anything for a while, then, softly, “It’s okay.”
    I went over to the closet near the front door, opened it, and reached inside my jacket pocket for the note I had written. I returned to the bed and held it out.
    “What’s this?” he asked, turning it over in his hands.
    “Not much. But I think when you read it, you’ll understand where I am.” I looked into his eyes, much as it pained me to do it. “And why we can never allow this to happen again.”
    He nodded and set the note down on the mattress. He stood and got dressed quickly.
    He left a few minutes later, without saying a word.
    I curled up on my bed in a little ball, feeling nothing.

C HAPTER 6: C ARLOS
     
     
    I HURRY down the stairs, emotions ricocheting through me like I’m some kind of human pinball machine. Disappointment, rage, and sadness compete in equal measure. Part of me wants to turn around, march back up the stairs, and make Andy finish what he started. It had all been going so well until the call from his mother.
    Why didn’t he just let it ring? Would it have made that much of a difference if he had simply talked to his mom a couple of hours later or tomorrow?
    I shake my head, knowing I will do the right thing. I get to the bottom of the stairs, thinking how it’s appropriate that the entrance to Andy’s home is a set of back stairs, hidden away. They kind of reflect who he is. I pause before exiting, knowing the door will lock behind me, and questioning myself. Am I sure I want to step out into the night? In a sense I’ll be burning my bridges behind me.
    But then I think of Andy telling his mom how he can’t wait for July and that “Alison” is “dying” to see her.
    That bridge is already in cinders.
    I step outside. The night is still. The rain has stopped and the air is cool, fresh, and clean. Lake Michigan, opposite the apartment building, shimmers under the light of a half moon, peeking out