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Saturday afternoon I hurry downstairs to head to Vaughn’s party. Halfway down I realize I forgot his gift, and I turn to get it but find Amber at the top of the stairs. She takes in my white crocheted slip dress and shell-studded flip-flops and fiddles with one buckle of the vintage denim overalls she’s layered over a ribbed white tank top. They swim on her, so she’s rolled the legs to mid-calf. Well-loved white Chucks cover her feet. “I thought it was a barbecue,” she says.
I nod. “It is.”
She fingers the brim of her KU blue and crimson ball cap. “Maybe I’m underdressed for an L.A. barbecue?”
“You’re both overdressed.”
I twist to find Dixie standing at the foot of the stairs, wearing a tiny red bikini top—the kind held on by a tie around the neck and one at the back—and ripped cutoffs so short the front pocket linings hang past the frayed denim, and so baggy they show off matching red bikini bottoms. She’s holding a bottle of tequila and shaking her head like Amber and I are hopeless. “Get real, girls. Between the temperature and the drinks, everybody’ll be in the pool in an hour.”
With that pronouncement, she turns and strides to the door. The bikini is definitely a thong. I follow but glance back at Amber and murmur, “Don’t take fashion cues from a girl dressed like a Baywatch extra.” I glance down at my outfit and sincerely hope every other girl there isn’t in a bikini. “Or one who might be trying too hard. You nailed it. You look cute and casual. And besides,” I add as I pull the door closed behind us, “you’re a ten-second walk back here for your suit if you decide to swim.”
“You look great,” Amber offers. “The dress suits you. It’s summery and fun, but, you know”—she tips her head toward Dixie’s all-but-bare back and gives me a grin of pure mischief—“still leaves a little to the imagination.”
“Imagine this,” Dixie says, and flips us the middle finger over her shoulder. “You’re just jealous of my bikini.”
Amber laughs. “Dixie, I may, on occasion, be jealous of your perky B cups, but I promise I don’t envy the bikini.” In a not-so-subtle aside to me she says, “I couldn’t wear that thing even if I wanted to. I’d never get my boobs strapped into a triangle top.”
Though we have different maternal genes to thank for it, we’re in a similar situation in the boobage department. I give her a smile of commiseration. “Me, either.”
“You two kill me,” Dixie huffs. “Making everybody wonder, ‘Will they or won’t they?’ is totally the point of wearing a triangle top.”
Cars are parked bumper to bumper in the driveway next door. The steady beat of music beneath the ebb and flow of conversation confirm we’re not too early. Both grow a little louder when Vaughn opens the front door.
“Hello, Birthday Boy,” Dixie says, handing him the bottle of tequila.
He hears her, because he takes the alcohol, but his eyes are locked with mine. “Happy birthday,” I say, then realize that damn it, I forgot his present. I’m about to tell him I’ll be right back, but the way he’s looking at me makes all my limbs forget how to work, and I’m frozen to my spot. Amber rescues me by murmuring, “Happy birthday from me, too,” and handing him a small wrapped box she produces from a pocket of her overalls. “It’s a Jayhawks bottle stopper. In case you have leftover tequila.”
“Thanks.” He spares a quick glance at my sisters. Then, with his eyes back on me, says, “Come on in.”
Dixie goes first, and then Amber, because I’m still kind of stuck, but finally my feet get the memo and I step inside Vaughn’s house for the first time. It’s sleek and modern. Definitely some designer’s idea of a bachelor pad, but not a reflection of Vaughn’s personality if you ask me. I have this sudden flash of Becca standing by the low-slung leather sofa in some Armani/Casa showroom, saying, “This would be perfect for the living area.”
“Dix!” Dylan calls from a slider leading outside. “Get that sweet ass of yours out here and tell me what you think of my peach daiquiri. You too, Ginger.”
“Ginger?” Amber questions. “Since when am I Ginger?”
Dixie rolls her eyes. “Since birth. Come on.” She takes Amber’s arm and heads toward the epicenter of the party. It looks like a big crowd—heavy on the X chromosome—is on the back patio.
Vaughn leans forward to say something in my ear, but the doorbell rings and he pulls back. He hesitates for a second like he’s considering making a run for it and having whoever is at the door let themselves in, but his hosting duties kick in. “Give me a minute?”
I nod. He can have all my minutes.
The group of new arrivals looks like High School Musical the College Years, and Vaughn is quickly swept up into their momentum. He tosses me an apologetic glance and a one-more-minute signal with his index finger as he’s led away. I wave my arm to let him know it’s okay. It is his birthday party, after all.
Left on my own, I’m tempted to keep to myself and take a look around. I’m given no such luck when Dylan pops back into the house, notices me still in the entryway, and shouts, “Kendall! We’ve run dry. Bring your sexy self over here and help me make another pitcher.”
I laugh. He waits until I’m in motion, as if he knows better than to trust me, before he steps away. I come upon the kitchen to find him grabbing a bowl of fresh peaches. He tosses his free arm around my shoulders. “Let’s go, babe, you’re up next.”
We step outside onto a large redwood deck. The sun is low in a violet-crimson sky, but the air is warm and summery. Dylan keeps hold of me until we reach a built-in bar with a blue-flecked granite countertop. “This is Kendall,” he says to the friends gathered there.
“Hi.” I give a quick wave. “Hellos” ring out in return.
The blender whirrs, and a minute later I’m handed a glass filled to the rim. Dylan says, “Here. Tell me that’s not the best damn daiquiri you’ve ever tasted.”
“I’m sure it’s great. It’s just that—”
“Come on, Midwest. It’s Vaughn’s birthday. You accepted the invite, which means you’re duty bound to celebrate.”
