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At the sound of it, something in me snaps to attention, yelling at me to turn around in my chair, and I choke when I finally do; Felicity’s usually all bright colors and oversized tees from the animal shelter, with her wild, curly hair tied up in some messy scrunchie situation. But tonight, it’s like she’s done a full 180.

She’s wearing this soft, fall-colored orange, or maybe yellow, dress that hits mid-thigh and sways around her legs when she walks. Her natural hair’s down—long and shiny and curled all the way to the top—and the bonfire glow lights her face all warm and gold. Is she wearing lipstick? And boots. Not her normal rain boots; these are…nice. Boots that make her legs look long and toned and…

I glance beyond her and check that everyone else is noticing too.

Felicity has always been so used to the shadows. She’s one of those people who is so comfortable in the quiet, unknown space that you have to pull her out into the light, and yet here she is, all eyes on her like a spotlight from the heavens is lighting her up.

A sharp feeling slices low in my stomach when I see one guy behind her staring at her butt so obviously that he might as well have a magnifying glass held up to it. All the way, she remains completely clueless, no idea that half of her graduating class is staring at her.

Felicity doesn’t see me at first. She’s looking around, chewing her bottom lip as she lifts a hand to tuck a stray curl behind her ear, and I swear my chest caves in.

Why is she nervous? Who is she looking for?

She finally spots me, and when our eyes lock, her whole face brightens like I’m the only light in this field. And even though I shouldn’t—because she’s not mine, because we’re best friends, because I promised myself after this summer that I’d never mess that up again—I can’t help it. Something inside me shifts like the ground just tilted a degree to the left, and I soften.

She walks toward me, that dress brushing against her legs with each step, and I swear everything else goes blurry around us. The fire. The crowd. The music.

It all simmers into nothing…just her, coming closer.

Her hip hits the armrest of my chair and I breath in deep; she smells like apples and vanilla and cinnamon spice.

“Hi,” she says, small and sweet, like she’s worried she’ll disrupt something as the others keep on talking.

“Hey,” I say back, and my voice sounds deeper than normal. Rougher.

I clear my throat and pretend to take another drink so she doesn’t notice the shakiness in my hands or in my voice. Her eyes trail over my face like she’s checking my mood. Or maybe checking if I’m mad. Or if I even noticed she dressed up.

I noticed. I noticed so hard it feels like a punch to the ribs.

But maybe she doesn’t know that unless I outright tell her?

“You look…” Pretty. Beautiful. Like you walked out of some movie scene I’d die to live in. “…nice.”

Nice? Of all the words in the English dictionary, nice is what I pull off?

Felicity smiles, all soft and grateful, cheeks tinged pink. Walker’s voice cuts in from behind me; I didn’t even notice they had made it back sometime during Felicity’s slow-motion waltz over here. “We’re gonna go grab more firewood. Try not to burn the place down.” He elbows at me so hard I nearly throw my water at him.

Lottie follows Walker, so it’s just me and Felicity and the fire. It pops, the air smells like smoke and damp leaves, and everything inside me is screaming for something I am not ready to name.

“Is there a reason you dressed up tonight?”

Our bonfires have always been a “come in whatever” style; Odelia dresses up, but everyone else is mostly in sweats and T-shirts. We usually end up wrapped under blankets anyway, all eyes focusing in on the fire in front of us.

Felicity grabs a water from the cooler, and I have to pull my eyes from her legs in those boots. Are those Lottie’s? I’m going to have to have a talk with her about dressing Felicity up like she’s her personal Barbie doll.

“Nope.” She twists the cap of water in her hands, unscrewing and screwing but never taking a sip. “No reason.”

My eyes squint. “No reason at all that you’re dressed like…Dolly Parton?”

Felicity cackles, loud and over the top, my favorite version of her laugh. “I am not dressed like Dolly Parton.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“It would be an honor.”

I grin. “I meant it as a compliment.”

Felicity looks up at me with that sweet smile, and I start to say something else, but I’m not sure what exactly I’m trying to say. Ever since this summer, I’ve found it harder and harder to talk to her without blurting everything I’m thinking right out at her. Without asking the question constantly circling like a shark in chummed waters: Do you think about that moment we had too?