“You’re lucky,” he said, picking again. “With mine, it was all the time. At least until we came here. Now they just do it on the phone, when they think I’m asleep.”
“Is that better?” I asked him.
“It’s still yelling,” he replied. “Just one voice, not two.”
I nodded, fighting the urge to reach out and brush back the hair that had fallen into his face, just to be able to do something in that moment. Instead, I said, “You know what? I think you and I need to make a pact.”
This got his attention, and interest, immediately. “A pact?”
I thought for a second. “Yeah. Let’s agree, that as of right now”—I looked at my watch—“July fourteenth at four-oh-five p.m., we won’t talk about the summer ending, at least with each other, for a full month. Unless we absolutely have to before then.”
“And if we do?” he asked.
“Then we have to pay a dollar into . . .” I glanced around, spotting my almost-empty water bottle. I took off the top, dumped it, then wiped the mouth on my shorts. “This bottle. Then, on August fourteenth, we’ll take all the money we’ve collected and put it towards something awesome.”
“Like shrimp burgers?”
I wagged a finger at him. “Can’t tell you for a month. My secret. Do we have a deal?”
“Deal.”
He stuck out his hand, I stuck out mine, and we shook. Then, to seal it, I pulled a wrinkled bill from my pocket and stuffed it in the bottle. “Hopefully, that will be the only dollar in there. Right? Because we are not talking about that thing that we aren’t talking about.”
“Nope,” he said. “We are not.”
Another car was pulling up now, the radio blasting. I pushed my hair back from my face and turned towards them as Benji took his position by the cooler. This would be good, I told myself. There was plenty of time still left for both of us.
“Hello,” I said, as the window rolled down in front of me. “Welcome to Colby. Name, please?”
* * *
“I knew it.”
Daisy turned, startled at the sound of my voice. When she saw it was me in her bedroom doorway, her shoulders sank. “Okay, fine,” she said, waving a hand at the dressmaker dummy in front of her. “I lied. But I did it for a good reason.”
Of course the dress was beautiful. Gone were the ruffles and cascading layers. All that remained of the original was the powder blue color. It had been reshaped into cocktail length with a slightly flared skirt. The neckline was trimmed with beads the color and shape of peppermint candies. The pink version, cut but not yet sewn, was spread out on the bed.
“Daze,” I said quietly, walking over to it. “This is beautiful.”
“It’s nice, right?” She reached out to the bottom hem, adjusting it, then stepped back, narrowing her eyes. “I’m still working out how far to take the candy theme. I don’t want it to be totally crazy, but I think I need something sort of fun for the trim. Maybe some silver, to look like Kisses or something.”
“You’re making two,” I observed, as she removed a pin, then replaced it. “Does this mean I still get to wear one?”
She looked at me. “Emaline. You’re entitled to have your own plans and your own dress. I swear, it’s not a big deal.”
“Big enough for you to tell a lie,” I pointed out. “And you never lie.”
It was true. Daisy was unfailingly honest, which could be both wonderful and awful. On the one hand, she would always tell you when an outfit didn’t look good or you were making a bad choice. On the other, she would always tell you when an outfit didn’t look good . . . or you were making a bad choice. How you felt about it might vary. But she never did.
“You were so happy that night when Theo asked you to the Beach Bash,” she said now. “And it’s just a dress.”
“A gorgeous dress,” I added. She smiled, pleased. “I’d love to have the chance to wear it. If you’ll allow me to.”
“Of course!” she said. “Who else is going to wear it? Morris?”
I looked at the dress again. “Blue’s not his color. Also, the sleeves would look bad with hairy arms.”
“Agreed. But I am getting him to wear long pants this year, if it kills me.”
She bent down over her sewing box, taking out something, and I took my normal place in the chair by the window, out of her creative space but still close enough to talk. I’d seen her through a lot of projects: we had our rituals.
“You want Morris to wear long pants,” I said, “and I’m just hoping I can convince Theo not to get a tux. Want to trade?”
“Nope,” she said. Immediately, she looked at me, worried. “I didn’t mean how that sounded. I just—”
“I understand,” I said, nodding. “Theo’s . . . well, he’s not for everyone.”
Wisely, she didn’t comment on this, instead bending down to pin something on the hem. From where I was sitting, all I could see was that it was sparkly, catching the bit of light slanting through her window. Finally she said, “He’s really nice. Just . . .”
I waited, but she didn’t continue. “Not from here,” I finished for her.
She looked over her shoulder at me. “It’s just a big switch from Luke, is all. I think I need a little bit longer to get used to it.”