I've been standing outside Hot Topic for a solid ten minutes now. The window display is all neon-bright band tees and spiked chokers, a mannequin wearing a corset top and striped arm warmers. Somewhere inside, under the fluorescent lights and the smell of new black fabric, is Kellin Quinn.

Kellin. With his stupid perfect cheekbones and his stupid perfect laugh and the way he says my name like it's a private joke. Kellin, who I dated for eight months before it imploded in a blaze of jealousy and miscommunication and one particularly dramatic parking lot argument that still makes me cringe when I think about it.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. Then again. And again.

I pull it out. The group chat is chaos.

Vic: did u go in yet

Jaime: she's chickening out

Tony: bro just do it. worst he can do is say hi

Loniel: or say nothing. or cry. we didn't think this through

Vic: LONIEL

Tony: LMAO

Jaime: we're already in line at the food court. chicken strips are calling our name

Loniel: if u don't go in we're posting that video of u falling at the mke show*

The threat hangs in the air. That video. That godforsaken video of me eating shit in the pit back in February, caught on someone's flip phone, immortalized forever.

I groan loud enough that a mom walking past with a stroller gives me a wide berth.

The automatic doors of Hot Topic slide open and shut. Open and shut. A girl with blue-streaked hair walks out carrying a bag with the giant "HT" logo, and for a split second, I catch a glimpse of the inside. Shelves of band merch. A wall of belts. The counter near the back, where—

I look away before I can see who's standing there.