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Ignoring Maggie’s grumbling, I pull up Instagram and spy on Serenity’s account for clues.
Serenity Jackson (formerly Hyman) has 1.2 million followers, and one of them is me. I’m not a doom scroller by any stretch, but I do like to keep up with my old friend.
Today, there’s a new post of her on the red carpet at a fancy film festival in one of those American mountain ski resort towns. Her skin glows in a green dress, and her hair is pulled up in a loose bun with tendrils brushing her shoulders. She’s stunning. And out of my league. She was out of my league in high school and times a thousand today.
My old friend looks happily single. I don’t know why I’m relieved by this inference—it’s not as if I have a chance of getting down with a famous movie star.
What clues am I even looking for? There’s no way to know whether she’s going to a class reunion. Hollywood stars don’t advertise their travel plans.
But just look at her. If I hadn’t been so shy and botched that kiss, I might have hitched myself to her shooting star and ended up a Hollywood house husband. Is that a thing?
I glance around my dad’s garage and towing company where Maggie and I work. Dad pitches in when he’s up for it, but I think he’s itching to retire soon.
“What are you doing there? Staring at your American crush again?”
I look over at my sister, who’s wiping her hands with the oil rag and peeking over my shoulder.
“Sending my regrets to a party.”
Maggie swipes the invitation from my hand and looks it over, then makes a noise of interest. “You should go.”
“Don’t like parties.”
“How are you related to me?” Maggie shouts over her shoulder as she returns to tinkering with the car.
I find the class president’s Instagram—per the instructions on the invite—and type a message. Then I delete and retype it.
Should I stay or should I go?
Before I can question it, I send the class president my response. I’m going.
It’s better to have to cancel a reservation than beg for one after I change my mind.
Then I click over to Serenity’s ’gram account and debate whether to DM her.
Would that be creepy? We were friends. I lived in an apartment with her and her dad for an entire academic year.
And she and I kissed. And what a kiss that was. Terrible—awkward and dry and not well thought out. The buildup was excruciating, delicious torture. I loved the idea of kissing the soft, pillowy lips that smiled at me every morning in homeroom. The execution of that idea was not my best work.
Serenity and I haven’t kept in touch. I don’t know how she would interpret a random message from me.
Or if she’d even see this message.
Finally, I decide. No sense in not trying.
I type out the words and hit send before my nerves get the better of me. “Hi Serenity. I don’t know if you remember me, but it looks like I’ll be stopping by the class reunion. Are you going?”
Send.
Breathe, Cian. Breathe.
Maggie is about done with my lazy ass.
“What are you doing now? Charlie just rang, asking when the car will be ready.”
“Booking a flight to Ohio,” I say, tapping on the travel app on my phone.
“Is that the one with the potatoes?”
