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“I’m getting something from my best friend in her will,” I say. I’m feeling increasingly self-conscious in my shorts and shirt. “I don’t know how much it’s going to be, but I’d like to go as a tribute to her.”
“I don’t know about that,” my dad says.
“It’s a lovely idea,” Mr. King says at the same time. “I should be going, in any case.” He hands me a business card, and I clutch it in my palm, its crisp edges against my skin. “In case you decide to go to France, you know where to reach me.”
“Thank you,” I say. This time my words aren’t squeaky, just soft and breathless.
“Anyhow, great to see you,” my dad says to him. “Nice remembering old times and looking forward to new ones.”
“Most definitely,” he answers, his smile widening again. “And you too, Margaret,” he says to my mother. Then he looks at me. “Jordan.” The way he says my name thrills me to my core again, sending tingles through my body.
Did he just wink at me?
