I force myself to keep an even expression, though my chest feels tight.
“So ... I’m sorry,” Eric says. “And that’s it. That’s all I wanted to say.”
He looks like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders, but I feel like I’m carrying it now. It always made sense to me why Eric was so awful to me. He knew Ro better than almost anyone. He also knew more about that night than most people did. So why is he apologizing?
Everything he’s thought about me for the past nine months is true. As much as it has hurt, there’s almost been a tinge of relief, knowing that someone was saying what needed to be said.
“Thanks,” I say belatedly. “That’s ... thanks.”
He nods. “No problem.”
“I better get back to work,” I say, and he says something about doing the same, and then he’s gone.
Back inside, Willow looks at me with expectant eyes. “Well?”
“He wanted to apologize,” I say.
“That’s great!”
“It’s weird.”
“No, it’s great! It’s about time. All those comments and just over some old middle-school grudge?”
“Yeah,” I lie.
We don’t have time to talk more about it before the first set of kids arrive. We welcome them and fall into our usual routine. At lunch, Luke sits next to me, his hand on my shoulder or back the whole time. I don’t know what it says about us that it has become so easy, so natural to pretend. By day, we are Duke and J.J. By night, we’re the old Luke and Jessi, but neither version of us is even close to the truth.
On Wednesday night, after spending a couple of hours after camp with Ernie, I’m in my room, rifling through my closet, trying to find something for tonight. I know it’s just dinner, that it will only be my parents and Luke, who is used to seeing me sweaty, drab, and makeup-less in my Camp MORE uniform. Still, I can’t get myself to not care.
It’s all an act. He’s only coming to keep up appearances,I tell myself over and over, but my brain is relentless. No matter how many times I tell myself to relax, I still find myself tapping my fingers on any available surface. It takes me five tries to decide on the off-the-shoulder shirt and black jeans. I paint my fingers and toenails. I’m wearing perfume, for God’s sake.
“You look nice,” Dad says when I enter the kitchen. He is chopping up ingredients for a salad, and Mom is pulling out garlic bread from the oven.
“Thanks,” I say. “Do you need any help?”
“No. I think we’ve got everything,” Mom says. “Just double-check that I put out enough glasses on the table.”
I go to the dining room and have just finished surveying everything when the doorbell rings.
“I’ll get it!” I call, and hurry for the door. Luke is standing there, one hand in his pocket, the other around a bouquet of roses. He looks good in his light blue button-down shirt and gray slacks, but his eyes keep jumping all over the place. Like he’s nervous or something.
“Hey,” I say, the butterflies in my stomach doing a weird dance when he finally meets my eye. “You look ... dapper.”
He raises one eyebrow. “You sound surprised.”
I can hear my mom coming out from the kitchen, so I stand on my tiptoes and kiss his cheek in case we have an audience. I feel considerably less stupid for the perfume and five outfits when I catch the whiff of cologne on his neck. He must really be getting into character tonight.
“Well, you’ve met my parents,” I say quietly, stepping back.
“Not as your boyfriend.”
My heart beats faster in my chest. Nervousness turns to sadness as I think of what could have been. In another world, this could have been real. Luke and I could have been dating, and his coming over would have been a sign of Mom’s progress and a reason to celebrate.
Luke steps inside and notices my bare feet. “Should I take my shoes off?”
I shake my head.
“You didn’t have to get me flowers,” I say, loud enough for Mom to hear as she approaches us.
