When I get back to my parents’ house, I help clean up—bagging trash and folding up chairs and tables for my dad to return to the rental company tomorrow.
Annie helps, too. She’s staying here tonight since her apartment is downtown and the area will take a while to clear out from the big fireworks show the city holds over Lady Bird Lake.
When my dad ducks inside to ask my mom where she wants the lanterns, Annie corners me.
“You two are dating, aren’t you?” She sets her hands on her hips and shoots me a look that’s part excitement and part hurt.
“What?” I say quickly, not because I didn’t hear her question, but because I need more time to figure out how to answer it.
“You and Delaney,” she clarifies. “You’re dating.”
She doesn’t frame it as a question this time. She’s certain. Still, I try to dodge the implication.
“What makes you say that?” I ask.
Annie cocks her head and narrows her eyes as if to say “Seriously?”
“You couldn’t take your eyes off each other all night. Even when you were conspicuously on opposite sides of the yard, you both always knew where the other was. You, in particular, were looking at her like you used to in high school, with those big heart eyes like an emoji.”
Was I really that obvious?I sigh, knowing I can’t lie to my sister. We’re clearly busted.
“I wouldn’t saydatingexactly.” I grimace.
“What would you say?”
I frown. “Olivia would say ‘summer fling.’”
Annie stares at me. “Summer fling?” she repeats. “That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard.”
I shrug. “I don’t disagree.”
Annie looks thoughtful. Dad comes back outside, and Annie whispers, “Meet me at the treehouse after the parents go to bed.”
I scoff but nod in agreement. Our dad built the treehouse in the oak tree by the back fence of the yard when Annie and I were six. It was always our own hideaway where we’d go to talk to each other about anything and everything. I remember many nights when one of us would whisper, “Treehouse” to the other before bed, and we’d sneak out of the house and talk late into the night without our parents knowing.
I’m not even sure it can still hold our weight, but Annie is a sucker for nostalgia.
An hour later, I climb the rope ladder to the treehouse, where Annie is already waiting for me.
I scrunch against one wall of the treehouse, my knees to my chest and my neck at an angle to keep from bumping my head on the ceiling. Annie sits by the opposite wall with her legs crossed and a blanket around her shoulders. She’s not struggling to fit into this little space like I am, though she is nearly a foot shorter than me.
Didn’t this treehouse use to be bigger?
“Spill,” Annie commands, without preamble.
So, I do. I tell her about the sharing stick and the muumuus, the hike and canoeing, the movie day and Schlitterbahn. I don’t go into detail about the kissing, but Annie is pretty good at reading between the lines.
“Wow.” Annie breathes out when I finish. “Do you love her?”
She watches me carefully. The glow from her phone screen is the only light we have between us.
I nod slowly, owning up to it. “I always have,” I add softly.
“Does she love you?”
I chuckle sardonically. “That’s the million-dollar question. I’d like to think so. I mean, she acts like she does, but if pressed, I’m pretty sure she’d deny it.”
“But why?”
