“This is the one.”
I take it from him. It’s flatter than the others. Smooth along both edges, weighted just right, and fits neatly against my fingers like it was meant to sit there.
“Good pebble?”
“Good pebble.”
There’s a brief moment where our eyes meet, but I turn back to the water before it lingers too long.
“Okay,” I mutter. “Round two.”
He steps in behind me again, closer this time. His hand glides along my arm, fingers trailing over my wrist and up over my hand, guiding the angle of the stone. His other hand settles at my hip, steadying me, thumb stroking just slightly into the fabric of my jeans.
“Trust it,” he says.
I don’t know if he means the pebble or the motion or him, or something else entirely. But I swallow, then flick my wrist the way he showed me.
The stone skips.
Once. Twice. Three times, before it sinks.
Elle loses it on the spot.
“You did it!” she shrieks, jumping up and down before crashing into my legs to hug me. Evan’s still behind me, his palms running up and down my arms, and I realize I am in a Prince sandwich.
A laugh spills out of me. “It was the perfect pebble.”
Evan’s hands stay warm against my arms.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “It was.”
Elle takes off again, already searching for her own perfect pebble.
“See? You just needed to find the right one! That’s what Dr. Dahlia says—they know when it’s the perfect fit.”
With a soft smile, I look out across the lake, at the water smoothing itself flat again after the ripples. Behind me, Evan’s hands still skate warmly back and forth over my arms.
And for the first time since arriving in Maplewood, I don’t feel like I’m standing on the outside of something looking in.
I feel chosen.
Chapter nineteen
I’m not scared of dinner with you
Evan
The truck smells like lake water, and the cooler knocks faintly around in the back of the truck. Elle’s kicked sideways in the back seat with one sneaker half off, still talking even though her eyelids are drooping.
“And the girl penguin gets to be in charge too sometimes,” she adds, voice thick with exhaustion, “because that’s the rule.”
“Only sometimes?”
“Most times, I think.” She shrugs sleepily. “I think it’s s’posed to be romantic.”
I glance at Penny. She’s turned slightly in her seat so she can see Elle better, elbow hooked over the headrest. Her hair’sa mess and cheeks a little pink from the wind, but she looks relaxed.
“Very romantic,” she agrees solemnly, and Elle beams.
