Page 10 of The Last Thing You Said

“Cool. What’s playing?”

I shrug. I have no idea. It doesn’t matter, really. It’s what we do on Saturday nights. “There are a couple of theaters down in Brainerd, too, if you need more variety.”

“I don’t know,” he says slowly. “I have a feeling I won’t be too bored this summer.”

I hear the crunch of gravel as Hannah pulls into the driveway. I stand up. “She’s here.”

He stands up, too, and whistles as Hannah parks her mom’s old Lexus in front of the garage. “Nice wheels.”

“Well, thanks for keeping me company.” I wave at him as I get into the car. He waves back.

Hannah grins at me. “Who’s the hottie?”

My cheeks go red. “Betty and Ron are renting out their house this summer.”

“To that guy?”

“Yeah, and his mom.”

“Does he have a name?”

“Simon.”

“Simon,” she says, like she’s trying it out. “Simon the Renter.”

“Simon the Renter.” I try it out, too.

“He’s cute.”

I shrug. “He’s nice.”

“Oh, girl, you are going to have fun this summer!”

Everything’s fun for Hannah. Trixie was the same way.

I’m more realistic.

“Yes,” I say, “I’m sure I’ll have lots of time to hang out with Simon the Renter when I’m not working my two jobs.”

“You never know.”

Maybe. Simon’s cute and friendly, but the best thing is that he’s not from here.

He doesn’t know about poor Lucy, the girl who lost her best friend.

“Guess what? My mom’s going on a book tour this summer, and I get to come along, and guess where we’re going? Texas!” She squeals. “Oh my God, what if I meet Tony Romo?”

I roll my eyes. Hannah’s mom, Madeleine Mills, has written twenty-six bestselling historical western romances. Twenty-six. Each one sells more than the last, probably thanks in part to covers with bare-chested cowboys and women with bosoms bursting out of their pioneer frocks.

Hannah’s bosom is pretty much bursting out of her own shirt tonight. She’s wearing a pink cowboy hat, the brim low over her forehead, a fitted cream-colored eyelet tank, tight denim mini-skirt, and her favorite boots, brown suede with fringe. She loves those boots enough that she would wear them to gym class if she could.

“Did I miss the memo to dress like a rodeo-ho?” I ask.

Hannah laughs as she rolls through a stop sign onto Main Street. Her dad competed on the professional rodeo circuit for a few years, and Hannah knows more about the sport than anyone I’ve ever met. As unlikely as it seems, Minnesota is home to dozens of rodeos every year, and she’s been trying to get me to go to one since the day we met.

“Must have. But I believe the term you’re looking for is buckle bunny, sweetheart. What do you call your ensemble? Laundry-basket chic?”

I laugh. “Exactly. How did you know?”