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personalized.”
    â€œIn crayon,” she laughed.
    Hearing it now, I couldn’t deny it had been an idiot move. Why hadn’t I just stopped at Walgreens on the way? Or why hadn’t I bought one weeks before the party? Hannah loved cards. I knew that. Big, glittery, sparkly ones, ones that played music, even the cheap ninety-nine-cent ones for “just because.” I had a shoe box filled with them from her.
    â€œDaisy helped me, cut me a break, huh,” I said, shouldering my swing into hers gently. Our knees brushed against each other.
    â€œIt was more than the card,” she whispered, sniffling and swiping again.
    â€œHannah, I . . .”
    â€œI love that you love music, Jesse. You’re good—no, better than good, and I know how you get when you practice but . . . I go to all your band stuff: the fall concert, the block party, the time you guys played at the pool. But how many of my volleyball games have you been to? How many times do I give you a pass for being late to something before I look like a complete doormat?”
    â€œI get it, okay, stop.”
    â€œDo you, really? Remember in the fall when we took a ride over to the city, I kept thinking, ‘Wow, this is it, we’re finally doing something,’ and we ended up at Sam Ash for two hours. I stared at guitars while you talked to that guy with the dreads about the death of guitar solo and how you wanted to bring it back and—”
    â€œWe went for bubble tea after that. Walked around Times Square.”
    â€œIt’s all about the band. I want something different.”
    â€œBut you’re dating Duncan. He’s in a band.”
    â€œDuncan plays the drums, Jess, he’s not a drummer . There’s a difference.”
    â€œAnd you’d rather be with someone like that?”
    â€œI’d rather be with someone who wants to spend time with me .”
    â€œHannah, I do.”
    She sighed, twisting up the swing again.
    â€œYou just think you do, because you can’t.” She let go and spun around.
    I grabbed the chain of the swing and stopped her, pulled her close to me. Our foreheads touched. I tried to look her in the eyes but it was a distorted, too-close cyclops eye. She didn’t pull away; she leaned into me. A sign. I moved my face toward hers, her mouth a few sweet seconds away.
    â€œHannah,” I whispered.
    She turned her head, my lips stranded there in midair.
    â€œPlease, don’t.”
    I leaned away, staring at my feet again.
    â€œSo is this what we needed to talk about?”
    â€œNo, Jesse, I wanted to ask you for a favor.”
    This was getting better and better. I gripped the chains on the swing and pulled myself back to standing. It was fucking freezing out, but suddenly my pits were damp. I put my hood up and turned to her. Waiting.
    â€œPlease, give Duncan the song. He’s really put—”
    â€œWHAT?” I yelled, arms outstretched. A lady pushing a jogger stroller along the sidewalk in front of the park startled and eyed us through the chain-link face. I shoved my hands into my pockets. “This is what you meant by ‘We need to talk.’”
    â€œNo. Yes. Not exactly. Look, what I just said about Duncan playing the drums . . . this Battle of the Bands thing, it’s important to him. Just, reconsider. You could probably write another song in your sleep.”
    â€œDid he ask you to do this?”
    â€œNo.”
    Somehow that made me feel worse.
    â€œI have to go do a few things before work. I’ll catch you around,” I said, walking away.
    â€œJesse, the song? Please.”
    I turned toward her. She hopped off the swing.
    â€œI just—I know this is a mess and I hurt you and I’m sorry,” she said, coming closer, “but I really hope we can be friends. That we all can be friends. He makes me happy.”
    This was it. The end. In a crazy, backward movie reel, our relationship swirled