I stand on the front porch and breathe in, the air musky with the scent of autumn. Emma pauses, waiting for me to move, but my feet are rooted in place. Hanging out with her is the last thing I want to do.

My muscles tense, and my breath comes out in a shallow huff. "So what do you want to do? We could go to Mey's house. She asks about you all the time." Plus, there's safety in numbers. Emma will be less likely to twist my words if someone else is around.

"I'm not ready to see friends yet." Emma twirls her dark hair around her fingers before tossing it over her shoulder. "What about that Amish place? The one with the pies?"

My brows arch. "You mean Yoder's?"

"Duh. We go there every summer."

Emma and I have been going to Yoder's since pre-school and we always order the same thing. For me, it's their chocolate cream pie, but Emma prefers the chocolate peanut butter, even though I've told her a million times the smell makes me want to gag.

"If that's what you want." She follows me down the steps to my car, and pours herself into the passenger seat. I slip in next to her and buckle my seatbelt.

"I take it you had no idea about this?" Emma asks as I pull out of the driveway. Her fingers look unusually long and skeletal as they pull the safety strap across her chest and fasten it into place.

The sun glares through the trees. I slide on my sunglasses but keep my eyes on the road. "I knew."

"Sure you did." Her tone is sarcastic. "You keep forgetting that I know when you lie."

On the surface I stay composed, but my stomach turns inside out. Of course, she's not going to make this easy. Nothing's been easy since she came home. "My mom's been talking about us getting together for a while now. I didn't know it would be today, but I knew it was coming."

When I pause at a stop sign, I drag my gaze from the road and find Emma staring at me. Her eyes are outlined in a heavy, black eyeliner that comes to a point at the outside corner of her lids. The style gives her features a tougher edge, but it matches her black leggings and cropped sweater, the shiny leather combat boots laced half-way up her calves. It's a look she would have never attempted before, but it flatters her newly slim frame—even if it is a tad dramatic.

And that's when I remember. "Mom said the police found your missing shoe in the woods." I turn back to the road as my car lurches across the intersection.

From the corner of my eye, I see her turn away. "Yep. Don't know how they missed it the first fifty times they looked."

"So, that's where you were then? Because your shoe must mean you were there at one point, right? It wouldn't have ended up there on its own."

Emma's quiet, and I realize now how it must have sounded. Like I'm picking apart her story. When her eyes shift back to me, a shiver of unease works its way up my spine.

"For the last time, I don't know where the fuck I was." She says it slowly, like I'm too dense to understand. "Why is it that every time I see you, you ask shit like you don't believe me? First about Jordan and now this. You have a serious problem, Hayes. You need to get help."

My uncertainty grows beneath her stare.

Dr. Wilder said psychosis can occur during depressive phases and that my medications may need adjusted from time to time. Is that what's happening now? Am I making mountains out of mole hills? Turning things into something they're not?

My expression fights to stay neutral. I don't want Emma to know she's getting under my skin. I'm stronger than she gives me credit for. I need to start believing that.

"How is Jordan, anyway?" Emma's voice pulls me out of my head. "We've been in the car for almost five whole minutes and you've yet to throw her in my face."

"She was in a car accident the other night."

I steal a sideways glimpse. Emma's eyes burn a hole in the side of my face. "What happened?"

An image of Jordan lying broken and bruised surfaces in my mind. I swallow and stretch my neck, push past the ache that's been in my chest ever since I left the hospital. "We don't know yet. They're keeping her sedated."

"Sedated, huh? Wow, that's a shame. Just goes to show you can never be too careful on these roads. Do the doctors think she'll make it?"

Something about her question makes my toes clench. Her tone is off. Like she's amused by the situation more than concerned. "They say she will, but I don't know. She doesn't look good."

Emma's jaw twitches. "You've seen her?"

"Briefly. The nurses wouldn't let me stay," I say, turning onto the rural road that leads to Amish country. Rows of golden corn stalks stretch along either side of us, their frayed tips swaying in the breeze.

"But she was unconscious, right?"

My brows furrow. "Like I said, she's sedated. Her mom said they'll pull the breathing tube in a day or two."

"Jesus. Sounds like she's really fucked up. I'm surprised they let you in at all."

"I just dropped off some flowers." A sting prickles my cheeks. Don't let her know too much. If Emma is questioning my sanity, the last thing she needs to hear is that I snuck into Jordan's hospital room.

We fall silent as I maneuver the twists and curves with care, the weight of Jordan's accident keeping me well beneath the speed limit. Before long, a sprawling white farmhouse comes into view. It's the first property marking the unofficial entrance into Amish country, and is followed by half a dozen farms all boasting identical features: windows void of curtains; horses with buggies parked on pebbled driveways; children in bonnets and straw hats, chasing each other in front yards.

Once I see the sign for Yoder's Custards and Pies, I turn into the lot and park. But my fingers refuse to leave the wheel. They're curled around the leather, my knuckles white and holding me in place.

Emma shifts in the seat next to me. "Are we going in?"

My chest tightens as we get out of the car and cross the parking lot, fallen leaves from nearby trees crunching beneath our feet. When Emma opens the café door, we step inside and are swallowed by the sugar-scented air. A long glass case stretches out in front of us and showcases an assortment of desserts, each one topped with a dollop of heavy cream. Two Amish women manage the counter, both in gray dresses and matching white bonnets.

"Are you getting your usual?" Emma asks, as our gazes sweep over the pies.

My unexpected playdate has squelched any desire for sweets. "I'm not hungry."

"Get something anyway, it's on me. My parents are loaded." Her hand dips inside the neck of her sweater and she pulls a one hundred dollar bill from the cup of her bra. She flashes it in front of my face with a maniacal grin.

But I'm not sure if I can handle all that sugar in my gut.

Emma just rolls her eyes and orders for me anyway. "One chocolate cream, and one chocolate peanut butter. Oh, wait—" she says, pointing at another selection, "make that raisin instead. I want something different for a change."

I hang back from the counter as they put our desserts in plastic containers, the thought of sitting alone with Emma needling my brain. I don't like the way she looks at me, or the questions she asks. Before, I would have loved wasting the day away with her. But now? Now is a different story.

"You ready to go?"

When my eyes refocus, Emma's standing in front of me with a dessert in each hand. "Go where?"

"Home, of course. Where do you think?"

"But we haven't had our pie yet." Not that I'm complaining, I'm just confused. Why come all this way just to drive right back? Hasn't she been saying she needs to get out of that house? The sudden rush makes no sense.

"You're the one who said you weren't hungry and I'm not about to have you staring at me while I eat. I'll just have mine in the car. Besides," she adds, a grimace contorting her face. "My mom's probably having a baby cow wondering what's taking so long."

I can feel the relief wash over my face. I reach for my dessert and turn away before Emma notices my elation. But as soon as we're back in my car, her subtle insults resume. "Jordan probably won't be able to play soccer again—assuming she even makes it out of the hospital alive. I'm surprised Coach didn't make her captain this year. She's an excellent player. I mean, so are you, but she has more of a go-getter attitude."

Her words shoot through me like a bolt of lightning. "And you're saying I don't?"

There are times when I've had doubts about leading the team, but deep down, I know I'm doing a good job. Maybe I'm not as social with the girls like Emma was; my leadership skills not as aggressive. But I'm damn good at what I do.

"That's not what I said. Jeez, don't act so defensive. I just meant she has the right personality for it. It's hard to imagine you taking charge the way a captain needs to." Emma stabs her fork through the layers of filling and shovels an enormous piece into her mouth. "But whatever. I'm sure Coach knows what she's doing," she says through a mouthful of cream.

"Well, I haven't heard anyone complain. In fact, both Coach and Jordan praised my abilities."

Emma forks in another bite and arches her eyebrows, but her mouth is too busy to comment. It takes two more forkfuls to finish her dessert, and when she's done, a whipped cream mustache hovers above her upper lip. "Do you have any napkins?" she asks, wiggling sticky fingers in the air.

She reminds me of an unskilled toddler who's just learning how to feed herself. I try not to look disgusted as I nod toward the glove box. "They're in there."

When Emma opens the lid, a stack of fast food napkins topples into her lap. "Jesus, do you have enough?" I keep my eyes on the road, but can see her fumbling around from the corner of my eye. Finally, she slaps the compartment shut and wipes her mouth. "That was so good. It's been years since I've had raisin pie. My mom used to make it when I was little."

That's news to me. "Since when does she bake?"

Emma shrugs and stares out the passenger window, the orange and red trees reflecting in the glass. "She doesn't anymore."

"I didn't think she ever did. Doesn't she call herself the Takeout Queen?"

"Whatever." Emma folds her arms over her chest and plops her feet onto the dashboard, the soles of her boots leaving prints on the recently polished finish.

Her mood is changing, the air thick with a tension that wasn't there before. What I can't figure out is why. So I choose to stay quiet and let her mope in peace, and before long, we're pulling into my driveway.

Even in the chilled air, Mrs. Navarro is tending to their front garden, a task usually reserved for the landscape company that visits every week. But with the way she's throwing sideways glances at my vehicle, it's obvious she's waiting for our return.

Emma makes no attempt to get out. She just sits in the passenger seat, her boots cemented to the dashboard, and studies her bitten fingernails as if they're the most fascinating things in the world. Her empty pie container is tossed to the floor where her feet should be.

"I guess this is it," I say, an indirect nudge for her to get the hell out of my car.

"I guess." Finally, Emma sits upright and flashes an unexpected smile, the black cloud above her head vaporizing before my eyes. She reaches over and touches my arm. "Thanks for taking me to Yoder's, bestie. It was just like old times."

Except it wasn't. Not by a long shot.

She lets out a sigh. "Well, the warden's waiting. I should probably go." She glances at her mom, who's dropped the gardening charade and is now blatantly staring at us from across the yard. When Emma opens the car door, a whoosh of air blows the hair back from my face. Just before hopping out, she turns to look at me. "Oh, I've been meaning to ask you. Have you fucked my boyfriend yet?"

My breath catches in my chest. I'm not sure I heard her correctly. "What did you say?"

She laughs. "I'm sorry. I mean, my ex-boyfriend."

I grip the steering wheel with both hands and hold her gaze, the heat draining from my face.

"Oh my God—you have." Something sneaky slithers beneath her smile as she studies me longer than necessary. "Isn't it funny that the only time he says he loves you is when he's at his most vulnerable? It used to drive me insane, the lengths I'd have to go to just to hear it. Almost makes you wonder if he even means it at all."

My pulse ticks in my temples like a bomb. I knew she was up to something. I knew it.

Smith loves me. I know he does. I can see it in his smile, the way his eyes come to life whenever I walk into the room. I want to tell her that. Want to prove that what we have is real. But the moment's come and gone.

Emma swings her feet onto the driveway and pauses again before closing the door. "Have a good night, Hayes. I'll see you real soon."

The door slams shut and the car shudders in its wake. And then ... silence. Even my brain is quiet. All that's left is a vast emptiness, clinging to the one conviction that remains: the friendship I had with Emma is over. If she thinks she can cause problems and I'll just sit back and let it happen, she's wrong.

This is war.