The Year We Fell Apart by Emily Martin

windowsill and land on the orchid her ex-boyfriend Christopher gave her last summer. Christopher, the boy she still has pictures of on her phone. She would never admit she holds on to a flower and a few blurry photographs because she never really let go of Christopher.
    I fold the skirt neatly and put it on the bed. “I remember.”
    “Be careful how close you let him get.”
    A sequined top lands next to me.
    “Try that,” she tells me, already stepping out of the skirt she just put on and kicking it aside. “Ugh. My thighs are getting so fat. I need to do some serious lunges before I wear that again.”
    “Sadie, you’re a twig. Knock it off.”
    She wrinkles her nose at her reflection. Turning to look at her profile, she sighs. “With no muscle definition. I’m going to start running tomorrow, I swear.”
    This is beginning to feel a lot like when someone complains about how disappointed they are in their terrible SAT score, and yours is significantly worse. Whenever Sadie criticizes her chest-stomach-hips-thighs, I automatically compare them to mine. And believe me, my score is definitely lower. Sadie always tells me otherwise, that she wishes she had my legs, or would kill for my butt. But in reality, going from two-a-day swim practices to hardly exercising at all is beginning to change my body. It’s hard, though, because my stomach hasn’t gotten the memo and I’m still hungry. All. The. Time.
    I swap my shirt for hers. “Well, what do you think?”
    Sadie yanks on my forearms to uncross them. She looks me over and nods her approval. “Wear it tonight.”
    I look at myself in the mirror. Despite the couple pounds I’ve gained, I don’t look too bad. It’s a cute top. A bit tight, but less revealing than I thought it would be, with just the right amount of cleavage.
    Sadie’s now wrapped in an even shorter skirt than the last one. “Ready?”
    “Yeah.” I grab my purse and hand her the to-go bottle, taking one last look at her orchid before following her out the door.
    Her dad jumps up from the kitchen table when we get downstairs.
    “We’re going out,” Sadie calls to him as she slips into a pair of wedges and tosses me my flip-flops.
    He rocks onto his heels and smiles at us. “Not too late!”
    “Mmkaybye,” she says, already halfway out the door.
      *  *  *  
    I screw my face up until the taste of lukewarm vodka passes. Blowing out a fiery breath, I eye the far corner of the campsite, where Cory, Gwen, and Mackenzie are standing in a loose circle near the keg.
    “Who are these girls, anyway?” Sadie grumbles. She nods in their direction.
    She’s giving them The Look. The one where she clenches her teeth and wrinkles her nose, and her top lip curls up just slightly. It almost makes her ugly. Almost.
    When she gives someone that look, I know the next ten to fifteen minutes will be spent discussing their numerous flaws as well as the various, unforgivable ways they’ve offended her.
    “Gwen is the one with dark hair who looks pissed off most of the time. The blonde is Mackenzie. They’re in my photography class.”
    “Is Mackenzie from 1955?” She squints in distaste at the full, tea-length skirt Mackenzie has on.
    “At least she knows who she is.”
    I scan the party again. A few people are relaying wood over to the bonfire pit in the middle of the clearing, where another team of guys is alternating between chugging from red plastic cups and trying to get the fire going. All that results is a funnel of white smoke. They haven’t realized the kindling is too damp, and at this rate they’ll be lit well before the fire. Cory and the girls move off to the side as a group gathers around the keg. Declan has to be around somewhere if Cory is here.
    I’m really not as worked up about him as Sadie thinks. I know that one night isn’t going to change anything; that there’s no bridge back to who we were before. And I was being honest when I told Gwen we were just friends.
    But I