“What flag would you be flying, then?” Jules asks, perking right the hell up at the mention of Taylor Swift.
“1989, obviously.”
“I’d flyReputation,” I supply and lean back in my chair to watch a young mom chase her toddler down the street.
Chloe snorts. “Of course you would. Jules?”
“Lover.”
Chloe nods. “That tracks.”
Curiously, I look at Jules casually taking a bite of her ice pop. I wonder whenLoverbecame her favorite? Back in middle school, she used to playFearlesson repeat. The entire album, not just the song. It got to the point where if I heard “Hey Stephen” one more time, I was going to lose my mind. Going fromFearlesstoLoveris just another example of how much she’s changed.
“Not that anyone asked,” Mason pipes up, “but I’ll just be over here in myFolkloreera.”
Chloe raises her fist into the air as if she’s standing with him in solidarity. “Let yourFolkloreflag fly, baby cakes.”
Mason seems pleased with the response and goes back to playing on his phone.
I lean in closer to Jules. “Lover, huh? Any specific reason?”
Jules sucks out the last little bit of juice from her ice pop and shoves the wrapper into one of the cup holders of her foldout chair. “Maybe. By the way”—she shifts so she’s facing me—“you may think you’reReputation, but you’re definitely moreThe Tortured Poets Department.”
“Oh really?”
She nods, and her phone buzzes, and a text steals her attention before she can explain.
She takes her necklace between her fingers and idly rubs the silver bow and arrow.
“Tyler?” I ask knowingly.
She doesn’t look at me when she answers. “He’s with his family at their beach house. He’s trying to focus on family time before school.”
I stick the orange Popsicle in my mouth and take in the tiny micro shifts of Jules’s expression. A twitch of her brow. A slight frown on her lips. A touch of sadness in her eyes. “Are you two…okay?”
This seems to get her attention. She puts on the fakest smile I have ever seen and drops her hand from the pendant. “Why wouldn’t we be?”
I suck on my Popsicle, my gaze never leaving hers, and slowly shrug. “I don’t know, you tell me.”
“There’s just a lot to do before school, you know?” She’s lying. I know she is. But before I can press, she puts her hand on my arm and twists so she’s giving me her full attention. “Hey, the Nats are playing the Reds in a couple weeks. Do you still want to go?”
We’ve been going to see the Nats and Reds play for years. It’s one of my favorite parts about summer. “Hell yeah, we are.”
A burst of laughter catches our attention and we all watch as Mrs. Barndhart encourages her husband to keep telling whatever story he’s acting out in front of their friends in their front lawn across the way. She holds up her cup, and some of her cheap wine sloshes out while she continues to laugh like a hyena.
“Think Mom will let me fire a bottle rocket at the neighbors this year?” Mason asks.
“Probably not,” I tell him, though I’d love to see it.
Chloe stares at the Barndharts and their drunk friends with curiosity. “Why would you fire a bottle rocket at your neighbors?”
“Different political beliefs,” Jules answers simply. As if the large political flags hanging from their house and the boat sitting in the driveway didn’t answer that question.
“Ew.” Chloe gasps with a sudden idea. “I can distract them for you.”
Mr. Barndhart finishes his story and pulls out his phone and turns his red slogan cap backward. He cues a song and motions for his group to follow him.
Mason sinks in his seat. “Oh, Jesus, here they come.”
