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She smiles sweetly at me, but her gaze flickers several times to Lucas. “Sounds like there’s a lot of history between you two,” she says, laughing, but the sound is off.
Then I remember that she’s my age and single, and I recall as well seeing Lucas smiling down at someone from the chair. His stupid big smile with the stupid dimple to one side.
“Don’t worry, Miranda,” I say, rolling the ball in my hand, my fingers absently tracing the seams. “He’s all yours.”
My first throw misses by a hair.
“Sloppy, Peapod!”
“Why does he call you that?” asks Miranda, still with the big, false smile.
“What did you just call me?”
“Peapod.”
Lucas spits a sunflower seed into a cup. His eyes flash to mine, then away. The sunset paints his profile in dusty rose.
“Like two peas in a pod. Only you’re the pod and I’m the pea.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“You’re ridiculous. But you’re also my Peapod. The place I feel safe.”
I stare at him, shocked, my belly full of fuzzy warmth. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
He grins. “Good. I’m practicing for my date tonight.”
“Ugh! You’re a shithead.” I shove him so hard he almost falls off the roof of my house.
He just laughs.
I narrow my focus to the target, letting everything else fade away, and throw. Muscle memory does right by me. It’s a direct hit. Lucas drops into the water with a yelp. The crowd cheers.
I toss the last ball to Miranda and make my way back to Zoey and Ethan.
“You okay?” asks my friend.
“Yep.” A glance at my watch brings a sigh of relief. “I’m heading to the face painting booth. I’ll be there for an hour. If you see my parents, send them my way?”
“Will do,” she says, giving me a brief hug. “We’re going to check in with Daphne. I’ll give you the lowdown.”
I smirk. “Awesome, thanks.”
Ethan frowns. “The lowdown on what?”
Laughing, Zoey drags him away.
13
After doing my time at the dunk take and putting on dry clothes, I walk around the carnival searching for a familiar blond head. It takes me forty minutes to find her due to seemingly endless interruptions from nosy former classmates digging for information on my life and well-meaning but borderline angry townspeople wanting answers about my plans for Wild Lake.
If anyone other than Phil, my varsity swim coach, had stopped me on the street yesterday and asked me to volunteer, I would have said no to avoid this exact situation.
On a positive note, by the time I spy Celeste, my hair is mostly dry and my balls have thawed. I’m also hungry, and if I’m honest, only part of that hunger is for food. The rest is for her.
Always for her.
Since I first saw her that night in her backyard—ten years old, scrawny, in paint-splattered shorts, with tangled hair and giant blue eyes—some deep part of my psyche had surrendered to her. Needed her.
