“He didn’t,” says Ilmari. “He didn’t write Rachel either.” Caleb groans, dragging a hand through his messy beach curls. “Wait—you didn’t write Rachel?” says Jake, his tone brightening. “Oh my god, babe, did you write me? I’m your emergency contact?” Caleb pulls his apologetic gaze from me, turning to Jake. He takes a step forward, reaching out a hand. “Babe, listen—” “Oh, fuck no.” Jake jerks away. “Do not tell me you picked Mars. I swear to fucking god, Cay.”
