“Jules, I…” I start and stutter, not knowing what to say.
“What are you two talking about?”
I use my brother’s amazing timing to break eye contact and shift focus on him. “Going to college.” I glance at Jules, who is still staringat me, and she arches a brow as if to say “Really?” She rolls her eyes and pulls away, putting a mile of space between us. I try to act like it doesn’t sting. “Nice man bun.”
“Thank you.” He sits on the grass in front of us and rests his forearms on his drawn-up knees.
“How were your hot dogs?” Jules asks. Mason hates seafood, always has. Ever since we started crashing their crab party, Mr. Marrow has always made it a point to grill up some hot dogs for my brother.
“Perfectly burnt,” he says with a smile. “When do you leave for Penn? You have to go early for field hockey, right?”
Jules stares up at the branches and rests her hands on her chest. “Yup. August ninth.”
“Are you excited?”
“Yeah, and nervous.”
“I think that’s normal. Especially since you’re aiming to transfer to Wharton Business School.” He leans forward to smack her leg. “Really impressive, by the way.”
“Thank you.” She lifts her head and smiles, and Mason pats her shin one more time and leans back on his hands.
Jules goes back to staring at the trees, and Mason tilts his face toward the sun. I’m hit with how much I’ve missed these moments, just the three of us.
Growing up, we were together a lot. Flying down the neighborhood hill on snow days, running through the sprinkler in the summer, and carving pumpkins in the fall. Typical kid stuff. Always together. But now I’m struck with how much we’ve not only grown but how we’re growing apart.
“What are you going to do without us?” I ask, trying my best to play it cool and not give away the creeping sadness.
“Enjoy the peace and quiet,” Mason says without missing a beat. But his expression softens. “Nah, I’ll miss both of you. Won’t miss your weird eighties dance parties on the couch, though.”
“Oh please.” Jules sits up and pins him with a disbelieving expression. “Like you don’t love jumping in the middle of those.”
He doesn’t bother denying it. “And, Jules, just so you know, I have plans to come see some of your hockey games.”
She practically melts, her eyes wide. “Really?”
“Hell yeah. Maybe while I’m there, I can meet an upperclassman who will show me around. Maybe take me back to her place and—”
“Okay.” I leap off the hammock. I start walking toward the table where the moms are putting out the biggest chocolate cake I have ever seen. I have absolutely no desire to hear my brother talk about hooking up. “Who wants to pretend this conversation never happened and go eat some cake?”
I make the mistake of looking behind me just in time to see Mason and Jules share a look. Jules cups the side of her mouth and loudly whispers, “Should we make an eating joke or…”
“I hate you both.” With a glare, I march away from them, turning away before they can see me smile.
Chloe hands me a Popsicle before falling into her chair. We’re all sitting in a line behind Mom, Richard, and the Marrows, Jules to my left and Mason to my right. It’s a thousand degrees and probably my fifteenth Popsicle. The neighborhood kids run around the cul-de-sac with sparklers and those damn pop-its. It’s the most domestic thing I’ve done all year. I kind of love it.
“I wish July Fourth wasn’t so patriotic,” Chloe grumbles as she rummages through the cooler we jam-packed with Popsicles and ice pops. “And that your parents would let us drink. I mean, seriously, it’s not like we’re going to get wasted on White Claw in front of them.”
“Isn’t that the whole point of today?” Jules asks, clearly amused. “To be patriotic?”
And boy, does she look it. Whereas Mason is sporting a Metallica shirt, and I’m wearing my Smokey the Bear “Only You Can Prevent Wildfires” shirt like I do every year, Jules is decked out from head to toe in red, white, and blue. All the way from her dangly American flag earrings to her American flag flip-flops. It’s funny because this is the one day of the year where she ignores how much of a dumpster fire this country has become.
Chloe props her feet on top of the cooler and fans herself. “I just wish we could eat hot dogs and watch the fireworks without all the ’Murica, you know?”
I lean forward to get a better look at her and her “Stop Pretending Your Racism Is Patriotism” shirt.
“So you what, want to have a barbecue, watch fireworks, and listen to Taylor Swift?”
She peers at me over top of her overly large sunglasses, which is amusing because the sun set like a half hour ago, and grins. “Exactly. Start waving flags of our favorite albums instead of the Stars and Stripes.”
