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There’s a bar back here, right between the massive man-made waterfall and the rose garden, complete with a crystal bowl full of pink punch. Likely alcoholic.
The bartender, a twenty-something guy in a catering uniform, watches Fern approach the table, take a glass, ladle the punch.
He leans in to whisper something to her. She returns an inviting smile.
I look away. I’m not foolish enough to believe my gorgeous, friendly sister is somehow lacking experience with men. She’s twenty years old now.
But I’m worried because she spent weeks crying over her last boyfriend. Because, like me, she believes in the magic of love and the idea of destiny. And realizing the person you’re with isn’tThe Oneis soul-crushing.
“Be careful,” I say, when she returns with two glasses of bright pink punch.
She laughs. “Take your own advice.”
“What do you mean?”
“Lexi Huntington.”
“What about her?”
Fern opens her mouth to answer, but then I don’t hear a word.
And I don’t see anything else in the world.
Becausesheis here now.
Lexi Huntington pushes everything else away.
From right here, ten feet from the sliding glass door, I watch Lexi descend the oak stairs in the middle of the living room. She keeps one hand on the railing. She uses the other to wave to her guests.
She’s not wearing a backless dress, but she is wearing pink. A neon pink as bright as her mocktails. As pink as the bikini she wears all afternoon. As pink as the color she paints her nails and the lipstick she wears when she sneaks to the backyard to kiss boys from school.
Not that I watch her do that once she’s started. But I can wonder…if it were me with her instead…
For one beautiful moment, I imagine the pink makeup on my skin. My lips. My neck. My collarbone. Like in one of those old movies Grandma loves. In one of the scenes in her romance novels. The physical marking of passion. Not just a sexual passion—an emotional one.
Lexi is drop-dead gorgeous, yes, but I don’t want her solely because of her round blue eyes, her soft lips, her curvy figure.
I want her because she’s Lexi.
She’s the sun and I’m the planet in her orbit, powerless to resist her gravity.
Of course the adventurer in my graphic novel would describe love this way. What other way is there to describe it?
My sister keeps talking, the guests keep mingling, the music keeps playing. But I don’t hear a thing. Only the notes Lexi creates in my head. A beautiful melody, as romantic and timeless and easy as a dance.
Fern follows me inside, from the backyard into the main room. For a few minutes, she stands with me, watching Lexi greet her father’s friends professionally and her school friends casually. As usual, Lexi slips between modes perfectly. She stays charming and effervescent and inviting.
After Fern finishes her punch, she leaves—probably to go see that bartender—and I stand at the wall, alone, watching the action. Every time Lexi finishes chatting with a friend and goes in search of another conversation, I tell myself,This is it. I’m going to talk to her.
Every time, I’m too slow. My heart is thundering and my feet feel like lead.
She starts another round of banter before I work up my courage. The party fills up. Two dozen people mill about the large living room. Then three.
Mr. Huntington, the patriarch of the family, taps a wineglass with a fork to call a toast.
Once the room has quieted, he holds up his glass. “Today is one of the proudest days of my life. My daughter Alexandria Huntington’s sixteenth birthday.”
As if she’s drawn by magic, Lexi floats (reallyfloats) to her father. The crowd parts for her. The room focuses on her. The entire world stops for her.
