PAIGE

How long is too long to hide from your date in the bathroom?

I look down at my watch. I’ve been in here five minutes and might have another three before Curtis, my dating-app disaster, gets suspicious or assumes the country-fried chicken sandwich I’d ordered from this fifties-themed diner isn’t settling well.

But who am I kidding? I’m long past caring what Curtis thinks. If his endless insults weren't waving red flags in my face, his fascination with dead mammals and hatred for eighties bands would be enough.

On any other online date gone wrong, I would have hopped in my little blue sedan and wished my suitor farewell, but my car had different plans today. Plans that included an expensive trip to the mechanic, leaving me without my own ride. I’d already rescheduled with Curtis before tonight, so ditching him again felt rude, so much so that I broke the cardinal rule of online dating and let Curtis pick me up from my house.

And now, I’m hiding in a bathroom.

I pace the single-user restroom, careful not to step on any of the shreds of toilet paper that litter the linoleum floor, and debate my two options—tough out this date or call one of my housemates, Missy or Ji, to pick me up. I think about sticking it out, but then I remember the corn kernels speckling Curtis’s beard and the way he keeps acting like he thinks he’s Timothée Chalamet and I’m the lucky girl he has whisked away for the greatest night of her life.

Shivers travel down my spine at the thought—and not the good kind.

Okay, phone a friend it is. I start to call Missy, but I remember she’s at a pageant meeting, so I dial Ji’s number instead. My call instantly goes to voicemail.

I end the call. “No, Ji! I need you.” I take in a deep breath, one that fills my lungs with a lethal dose of Lavender Linen air freshener.

After a moment, I call Ji once more and leave a voicemail this time.

“Ji-soo!” I say, using her full Korean name for emphasis. “Remember that time at Berkeley when Carson Silla asked you out, and he spent the whole date talking about cryptocurrency so you needed an emergency extraction? Well, my date is Carson 2.0, except replace cryptocurrency with dead boar species and you get the picture. Like, did you know people dug up a monster hybrid wild boar-pig in Georgia that weighed eight hundred pounds? A monster hybrid wild boar-pig. Eight hundred pounds. They called it Hogzilla. I shouldn't know that. Help!”

After I finish my message, I text her as well, just to cover all my bases. But an automated message instantly responds back:

Ji-soo: I’m driving right now, but I’ll see your message when I get to where I’m going.

Ack, why does Ji have to be so responsible?

Pocketing my phone in my old jeans, I pivot toward the mirror and tuck my long brown hair behind my ears before gripping both sides of the sink and bracing myself for a Super Bowl-worthy pep talk. “Okay, Paige Devons. You’ve gotta tough this out. You can do this! Embrace your inner Karen. That’s right—you are a big, bad, bossy Karen who doesn’t take no for an answer. You’re going to hike up your big-girl pants, march outside this bathroom, and tell your date you are ready to go home.”

I do a small fist pump for good measure just as several loud thuds slam against the bathroom door. Springing into action, I swing the door open and am greeted by several perturbed-looking diner patrons.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” I say with warming cheeks as I shuffle past them in the narrow bathroom hallway, making my way into the main dining area. For a Thursday night, the old diner is bursting with people, courtesy of the Buy One Meal, Get One Free advertisement painted on the glass door in neon letters.

When I return to our cherry-red booth, I slide into the seat across from Curtis and watch as he thumbs his phone enthusiastically, getting really into whatever video game he’s playing. He bites his tongue in concentration and doesn’t look up at me until his video-game avatar dies a virtual death.

“That took forever,” Curtis says, putting his phone on the table.

My date is such a gem. I’m shocked that he’s still single.

“So, I was thinking.” He pulls a flosser from his pocket. “When you finish your sandwich, I know this cool place nearby where we can go dancing after dinner.”

My stomach churns. I don’t know what horrifies me more—another hour with my date or the corn pulp about to be flung at me once it’s dislodged by the flosser between his crooked incisors.

I force a smile. “Oh, that sounds… neat. But unfortunately, I have a big day at work tomorrow, and I should probably get home.” There. I said it. I’m so proud of me.

“That’s okay. The dance studio isn’t too far from here, and I heard a little exercise before bed will help ya sleep better. The better the sleep, the better the next day.” He smiles wide as if he’s just solved world hunger, and his wiry beard hairs shift upward, making him look like the backwoods version of the Grinch.

Okay, maybe I need to be more assertive. “Um, okay. I… I just left my cat at home, and I think she needs food. To be fed. ’Cause she’s hungry.”

Hey, all you Karens out there—step aside, most assertive woman coming through.

“Don’t you live with your friends? I saw at least one when I picked you up. Can’t she feed your cat?” Curtis asks. “What was her name?”

“Who? My cat?”

“No, your friend.”

“Ji.” I say, too cautious to give him her full name.

“Yeah, she’s hot.”

Okay, Operation Tough-It-Out is a no-go. I repeat, Operation Tough-It-Out is a no-go.

I glance around the diner, hoping that my brain can come up with a plan C. I have no car, but I do have feet, a useful asset when running away from disastrous dates. For a moment, I consider running home. The diner is situated on the outskirts of Denver, just thirty minutes from my small town in Pine Lakes, Colorado. So I’m looking at an approximate run of thirty miles, which would get me home at about… never. I would never make it that far. I haven’t run over three miles since PE class in my senior year of high school, and even then, my best friend Jordan practically dragged me the last three laps by my arm as my legs did a little Jell-O dance beneath me.

Jordan.

While his name always stirs the happiest feelings inside me like some kind of euphoric soup, tonight, it is also accompanied by an angelic choir—he’s just become my ticket out of here.

“I guess Ji could totally feed my cat,” I mumble, keeping my eyes on Curtis as my right hand fumbles—inconspicuously, I hope—in my purse. My hand clutches my phone, and I glance down long enough to press Jordan’s number on speed dial. What I’m about to do goes against the invisible barriers Jordan and I have placed around our friendship. We talk about everything with each other except dating. Never dating. But I’m desperate.

I glance down at my phone and see that the call has started. Jordan’s answered the phone. That’s when I say those three little words I’ve never used before. “Got any crawdads?”

Then I end the phone call under the table, feeling like a middle-schooler who’s just prank-called someone at a sleepover.

Curtis looks at me like I’ve had one too many orange sodas tonight, and I can’t blame him. I would think I was crazy too.

“What?” He squints at me.

“Oh, um, that’s right—you ordered fried shrimp, not crawdads.” I bump my palm on my head as if to say, Oh, silly me, and then I drop my phone back in my purse and wait.

The next fifteen minutes are filled with start-and-stop conversation as I eat the rest of my sandwich at a glacial pace, hoping Jordan got my message loud and clear.

Curtis is just asking the waitress for the check when the bell on the diner’s front door dings, and my best friend steps inside.

He’s dressed for work, but the top button of his white collared shirt is undone, and his blue-patterned tie hangs loosely around his neck. These are his nice work clothes. Wait, let me rephrase that—he’s in the clothes that make me want to raid his closet and burn anything that isn’t those clothes. Or maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe I should torch the business clothes because they make my heart sound like a conga line when he wears them.

Regardless, these are the clothes he wears specifically for important meetings with clients.

My face heats, and suddenly I feel like the girl who cried wolf, pulling out an SOS for this inconsequential date. Jordan probably came running from whatever meeting he was in. But even though I feel terrible for dragging him here, I can’t help the relief that fills me when I see him. This dingy diner just became a safe haven for me, because that’s what Jordan always does—he takes the worst places and turns them into a shelter from the storm.

His brown eyes meet mine, a hint of mischief lingering there. He runs a hand through his head of dark-blond hair before a full-hearted smile breaks across his lips. My stomach flips, and now my heart is signaling SOS for an entirely different reason.

I am hopelessly, passionately, and unrequitedly in love with my best friend.

JORDAN

I quickly park my silver Kia Sorento on a patch of nearby grass, one in a line of many crookedly parked cars, and look up at the aging diner. It resembles a vintage refrigerator that’s been knocked on its side and given windows.

Looking down at my Find My app on my phone, I use the dot with Paige’s face to confirm that she is, in fact, in this diner and has not been chopped up in some alleyway. Momentary relief hits, but then panic resurfaces. She’s never used our “only in emergencies” phrase before, and I can’t stomach the idea that Paige could be hurt.

I rush out of my car toward the diner, nearly knocking down a teenage waitress texting outside. My heart is pounding with thoughts of Paige in danger, being harassed by some jerk, but then I see her through the window, smiling her polite smile at someone, and it tells me what I need to know.

She’s safe.

I bend over, resting my hands on my knees like I just finished a marathon, before loosening my tie and unbuttoning the top button of my dress shirt. I can breathe again. I walk a little farther until I get a better view of her date through the window. I’m surprised to see a burly guy with a long beard—he’s not at all Paige’s type. But then again, I guess I don’t really know her type. Paige and I kind of have an unspoken understanding between us. We don’t talk about our dating lives. It’s the one part of Paige I’m happy not knowing about.

Paige gives her date a weak smile that is completely void of the singular dimple that often adorns the left side of her face. She’s wearing a wolf T-shirt we bought as a joke our junior year of high school—clearly the height of fashion. Wow, she really brought out the big guns for this one. I can’t imagine a scenario in my mind where this date makes sense.

I start towards the door, a grin parting my lips as I forge a plan. Since Paige called me out of my meeting, and she seems relatively unscathed, I’m going to have a little fun. I twist my dad’s ring from my index finger and pocket it before entering the diner.

The diner’s about the same temperature inside as outside, which is saying something in the month of June. The place is a dump, but apparently a good one, considering the crowd here tonight. I make eye contact with Paige, and her shoulders slump in relief. I smile at her because it’s Paige, and nothing in this world lights me up like she does—especially when I take her by surprise.

“Paige!” I yell from across the diner. Silverware stops clinking, and the hum of conversation comes to a sudden stop, like that part in movies when a record scratches and everyone pauses what they’re doing. It’s that, except Elvis Presley’s “Jailhouse Rock” keeps playing from the diner’s vintage jukebox.

Paige’s eyebrows arch upward. Her relief turns to embarrassment as she realizes how I’m planning to rescue her. Her eyes go wide, and she gives me the most minuscule shake of her head.

But I just nod, my way of saying, Oh, we’re doing this. I prowl toward her—yes, prowl. “Paige Devons,” I say in a deep, torn-up voice when I reach her table. “I know we said we’d go our separate ways when you left me in Bali”—we’ve never been to Bali, but it’s the first place I think of—“but I can’t do this.”

I thump my hand over my heart like I’m a man in the throes of love and try not to laugh as Paige’s vibrant green eyes narrow into daggers. “The striped sandals, the fire hydrant on Ninth Street, the rain gutter on my mom’s roof…” I spout the random list of things based on the items I see from my vantage point in the diner, then I stop and give her an inflamed look. “I can’t see anything anymore without being reminded of you, babe.”

Paige hates “babe” as an endearment. It reminds her of the pig. But when she hears it, I watch as her embarrassment turns to sly determination, and I know she’s in this with me.

She gasps. “Andy-Randy!”

My eyebrow quirks up.

She bites back a smile. “You’ve got to be kidding me, babe,” Paige says. “I never left you in Bali. You left me.” The passionate denial in her voice rings true—her love of reality TV is paying off tonight. “Your sister told me you didn’t love me anymore.”

I don’t have a sister, but regardless, I hear a full-blown gasp from the table behind me.

“My sister?” I huff. “She doesn’t know what I want. She just wants to be the first to the altar.”

“And you, babe? What do you want?” Paige asks, voice sultry now.

“You. I want you, babe.” I get down on one knee, my pants scraping against the browning linoleum floors, and pull the ring from my pocket.

Her eyebrows rise with exaggerated delight as if my dad’s oversized ring has been on her wedding Pinterest board for decades. I’ve seen a picture of Paige’s dream ring, which is nothing like this, but she’s looking at my dad’s ring like it’s everything she’s hoped for and more.

“Oh, babe!” Paige gives me a wide smile, flashing her adorable dimple. “Yes! Yes!”

I stand up, and she jumps out of the booth and into my arms. I lift her off the ground, which is not hard to do since I’ve got a good eight inches on her five-five frame.

She whispers into my ear, “I’m going to kill you.”

I grin as if the words are sweet nothings. “Oh, Paige, you romantic, you,” I whisper back.

The whole diner is cheering, a crowd of people gathered around like we’re street performers paid to give them a good show. Some dad’s even got his little girl on his shoulders.

I know what’s supposed to come next. Any romcom worth its salt would insert a meaty kiss right about now, but Paige and I have never crossed that line and never will. It’s not that Paige isn’t fun or witty or beautiful, because she’s all of that. She’s got these killer green eyes that look like grass in the summertime and this rich-brown hair that puts dark chocolate to shame. Not to mention that dimple—I love that dimple. But Paige is my best friend, as in platonic. We’re often together but never “together.” She dates, I date, and we’re good with that. Why fix what’s not broken?

I drop Paige’s feet to the ground, and she gives me a big smile, one that’s clearly for the sake of our charade.

“Andy-Randy, you are just the cutest.” Paige leans in closer. “Now, let’s get out of here.”

That’s when I remember Paige’s date. I got so caught up in our act that I forgot why I was here in the first place. I turn to the guy. His eyes are wide, and his jaw is slack. Regardless of Paige’s reason for wanting to ditch this guy, I just ruined his night.

“Sorry, man,” I say, and I mean it.

The least I can do is pay for their dinners. I take two twenty-dollar bills from my wallet and give them to him. His eyes light up, and he leaves one of the bills on the table and pockets the other. Apparently, any grievance he’s had over my impromptu proposal to his date has been quickly overshadowed by the fact that he’s twenty dollars richer.

Paige gets her purse out of the booth then grabs my hand, not in the we’re a happy couple kind of way but more like a lobster clamping its prey. She starts forward, my hand grasped tightly in hers, and we pass dozens of well-wishers on our way out of the diner.

Paige gets in the passenger seat of my car and shuts the door before glaring at me. The ferocity of her stare hits me with the force of a stuffed animal, soft and adorable.

“You are such a brat.” She slaps my arm.

“I’m sorry—I don’t know who you’re talking to. Am I Andy or Randy?”

She slaps me again, and I laugh before starting my car and shifting into Reverse.

Paige eyes me as I drive away from the diner. “You know I’m terrible at improvising.”

“Oh, I know. The Sound of Music, junior year?”

“Ugh.” She buries her head in her hands. “Don’t remind me.”

“I’ll never forget the way Cade ended up singing both Liesl and Rolf’s parts, like some kind of confused narcissist.”

“I couldn’t think of the lyrics,” she moans.

“Oh, I know. We all knew.” I can’t help but laugh at the memory. Best musical I’ve ever been to.

“I’m glad you were so entertained.” Paige glares at me again, but the muffled sound of her ringtone pulls her attention away. She fishes her phone from her purse and answers.

From Paige’s side of the conversation, I can tell that it’s Ji. They talk for a moment. Paige says something about hybrid boar-pigs and bathrooms, and I don’t even attempt to interpret that. Several moments later, Paige says goodbye, puts her phone back in her purse, and tosses it into my backseat before leaning against her headrest.

“Now, are you going to tell me why your bearded lawn gnome merited the emergency phrase?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.

“Oh, so, so many reasons why.” She blows out a breath. And that breath tells me all I need to know about the kind of day she’s had. I mentally reroute us to a new destination and start driving to the one place that always puts a real smile on her face.

She puts out her fingers as she recounts her date’s offenses. “He’s got the manners of a pubescent tween, he thinks TOTO is overrated, and he’s a taxidermist.”

This contains so many Paige-isms that it’s hard to know where to start unpacking. “A taxidermist? What’s wrong with that? Someone’s got to stuff the animals in the natural history museums.”

“Yes, but I don’t want to be Mrs. Taxidermist,” Paige says.

“Mmm, well, I guess it doesn’t matter. He was a goner from the moment he insulted TOTO.”

She throws up her hands. “Right? Thank you. He said ‘Africa’ was overplayed. It’s a classic. You can’t overplay a classic.”

“Gosh, the gall of this guy,” I tease.

Paige hits my arm again. I smirk. Paige loves all music, but her first concert was TOTO, and ever since, the band has been on the list of things you don’t cross her on.

“Why did you go out with him in the first place?” It’s the question that’s been burning in my mind ever since I saw him.

Paige squirms and starts picking an invisible thread off her T-shirt. “He didn’t seem so bad online.” She doesn’t expound, and by her aloof response, I can tell our discussion on dating has come to an end—w

hich I don’t mind one bit.

“And your car? I didn’t see it in the parking lot,” I say, doing my best to change the subject.

“Dory broke down today.” She uses the name we bequeathed her little blue car in high school.

“What, again?” Oh, yikes, it has been a day for Paige.

“Yep.”

“Poor Dory.”

“Yeah, that’s what the mechanic said when he told me the transmission needs to be replaced. She’s going to be the death of me.”

“After a day like today, you know what you need?”

“A pomegranate face mask and America’s Got Talent?”

I grin. “If you have time, I was thinking Trello Park.”

Paige sucks in a breath of air and instantly perks up. “Uh, yes. I will make time. You’re my hero. You know that, right?”

Paige and I continue our easy conversation as we drive through several tree-lined streets before getting onto the highway and driving toward Trello Park in Pine Lakes. Paige pulls her long hair into a ponytail with a hair tie she left in my cup holder a week ago, and we talk about her big day at work tomorrow. Since January, Paige has been a copywriting intern for Wonderman & Fleck, a local advertising agency. But this internship was only meant as a stepping stone to get Paige out of Colorado and into her dream job in California.

Ever since attending college at UC Berkeley, Paige has had her heart set on working for Z3 Group, a thriving ad agency in San Francisco. They won’t seriously consider her unless she has at least an internship, which is why Paige took the one at Wonderman & Fleck.

A few weeks ago, Paige decided she wanted more work experience to pad her résumé before applying to Z3, so she talked to her current boss about making her internship at Wonderman & Fleck a full-time copywriting position. Tomorrow, she’ll find out if she gets the job or not.

I can tell Paige is nervous—she’s gnawing at her bottom lip like it’s corn on the cob. I can’t imagine how tense she must feel. Her internship ends next month, so if she doesn't get the job tomorrow, it will be a hit to her career plans.

“Hey.” I tap my knuckle against her leg. “Tomorrow will be great. No one’s as good with words as you. They’d be crazy not to promote you.”

She rolls her eyes and gives me a wry look. “Uh, Andy-Randy?”

Okay, improv-wise, she’s got a point. But give Paige a pen and some paper, and she’ll transform the most two-dimensional product into a living, breathing thing.

“Andy-Randy was just another bit of your genius,” I insist. “It was catchy and rhymed. I’m pretty sure Famous Amos and StubHub would get behind me on this one.”

She laughs. “I’ll be sure to mention that next time I apply for a job.”

“Do that.” I loosen my tie completely and toss it into the back seat. “But seriously, Paige. You can market anything because you see the best in everything.”

“Aw, you softie.” Paige’s heart-shaped face brightens with a smile, then she leans forward and tugs at her shoelaces.

PAIGE

Ugh. Why does he say things like that? I simultaneously want to throttle him and pull his lips to mine.

I finish fiddling with my already tied shoelace, letting the flush in my cheeks fade from what I know is an unbecoming shade of pink. Then I straighten in my seat, and Jordan hands his phone to me. I absentmindedly pull up his music app just as we enter Trello Park. It takes all I have not to blast Roberta Flack’s “Killing Me Softly with His Song” for all the world to hear—that’s my mood right now. But I won’t do that because I’m a dignified lady who’s got my life together. Insert crying-uncontrollably GIF.

“Where to?” Jordan taps his fingers rhythmically on the steering wheel as we stop at a fork in the road just past the park’s entrance. He looks as eager as I am to start our little game.

Even at night, Trello Park is alive with people, lights, and parties. It’s the park that never sleeps, and my chest buzzes with excitement. Old-fashioned streetlamps line the road every twenty feet, giving the park a cozy feel despite its miles of acreage.

I look both ways then settle on the path where a flag football game is being played under bright stadium lighting. I point in the direction, and Jordan lifts a brow.

I shrug. I want a challenge tonight.

We park right in front of the field full of guys who look to be in their early twenties. Jordan parks so close that I feel like if the players wick away their sweat, it will land on our windshield.

Suddenly I want to chicken out.

“What’ll it be, Devons?” he asks as if he’s got me cornered.

Here’s the thing. Jordan believes that music can enhance any moment, and if you play your cards right, a well-timed song will inevitably elicit a reaction from people, giving them the courage to do something they wouldn’t normally do without said music. We’ve been putting that theory to the test ever since Jordan moved to Pine Lakes during my junior year of high school almost seven years ago—and since then, we’ve witnessed the sweetest moments, from a first kiss to a toddler rocking out on his third birthday.

It’s my turn to start the game. I look out at the football players in front of me and try to pin down a song that feels just right for one of the guys in this group.

After I scroll through Jordan’s Spotify for several minutes, he starts humming the Jeopardy song.

“Stop,” I complain. “They keep moving around the field. It’s hard to figure out the mood of just one of them.” Just then, lightning strikes, and I know exactly what song I’m choosing.

Jordan rolls down the windows and turns the volume all the way up. Moments later, OneRepublic’s “I Ain’t Worried” blasts through the car speakers.

A couple of players stop to look at us, but a few seconds later, smiles break out across the team, and the men start pulling their T-shirts over their heads and tossing them to the sidelines.

“What is happening?” Jordan asks, staring at the sudden outbreak of shirtlessness on the field.

“I told you, you should have seen Top Gun: Maverick. If you did, you’d know this is the Miles Teller ab-shake song.”

I can tell by his disgusted face that the pieces are connecting for him.

“No man can resist showing off his muscles when this song is on.” I lean forward and cross my arms on the dash, making a show of admiring the scene before me.

Jordan slaps his hand over my eyes. “Paige, don’t look. It’s a flab show out there.”

I smile and claw at his hand. “I created this ab show. Let me see.”

Jordan and I laugh as he reverses the car and pulls out of the parking lot, rolling up the windows.

I point at him. “Admit it—I totally nailed that one.”

“I can’t believe you, Paige.” He shakes his head. “The things you’ll do.”

“Hardly. Good luck topping that.” I pass his phone back.

Jordan drives around, eventually parking in a spot where we usually find couples. And tonight, a couple is definitely there. Everyone within a five-mile radius can probably hear them—they’re in a full-blown argument.

Jordan grabs the phone too quickly, an unmistakable glint in his eye.

“Jordan, don’t do it,” I say, but his smile only grows.

The windows go down again, and Jordan fast-forwards his song to a prime location for this moment and this couple. Jordin Sparks’s song “Battlefield” blares into the night—the lyrics emphasizing over and over again why love is like a war zone.

The two stop arguing long enough to glare at Jordan with the ire of a thousand angry bees, apparently realizing the song is referring to them. The girl pulls the guy by the hand, and they trudge away as if to finish whatever heated conversation they were having in a more private place.

Jordan swipes furiously at his screen now, chuckling to himself. Seconds later, the chorus of Player’s “Baby Come Back” blares at full volume.

I sink down in my seat. “You are poking the bear, Jordan.”

The girl turns around long enough to shout a few choice words our way, but the music is so loud that we can’t hear it.

Yeah, did I mention that not everyone loves our game?

She turns around, and the couple starts running toward a nearby pavilion like they expect another snarky song to rain down on them at any moment. I wouldn’t put it past Jordan, but he’s laughing so hard he’s got tears in his eyes.

“Paige,” he manages, “please tell me that makes top ten.”

I give up on fighting my smile because as much as I hate making people angry, Jordan’s song choices were on point. I roll my eyes and laugh. “Fine, top ten.”

Jordan does a nerdy little fist pump that would’ve made anyone else look ridiculous, but of course, he just makes it look cool. Then again, when you’ve got a tall, athletic build with toned arms, a firm jawline, and a knockout smile to match, looking cool isn’t difficult.

“Lookout Point?” he asks, wiping his tears away.

“Mmm, yes, please.”

Jordan starts driving toward our favorite spot in Trello Park. We’ve passed some baseball fields and pavilions and started the incline toward Lookout Point when Jordan’s phone alarm buzzes. It must be nine o’clock—the time every night when he checks in on his mom.

Just after our senior year of high school, Jordan’s mom, Sandy—or Mrs. Miller, as I will forever call her—was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. It was a long, difficult battle for both Jordan and his mom, but the process brought them closer than ever. Jordan’s dad died in a small-plane crash when Jordan was three years old, and since Jordan is an only child and there was no other family nearby, he dropped everything for his mom when he found out about her diagnosis. He withdrew from Stanford to go to community college, living at home until he had the financial means to move to his own place several houses down from his mom.

Mrs. Miller is okay now—her cancer is in remission—but she’s one of the unlucky few who struggles with chemotherapy-induced peripheral neuropathy years after treatment, which means she often experiences some form of pain in her arms or legs.

Jordan calls his mom on the car’s speaker phone, but it goes to his mom’s voicemail. He hangs up and calls again.

This time, Mrs. Miller answers. “Can’t a woman ignore a phone call every once in a while?”

“Hey, Mom. Did you take your meds tonight?”

“You mean that plastic container with cute little candies inside? I handed them out to the Girl Scouts earlier today,” she says.

Jordan’s mom is the most sarcastic person on the planet, and I love her.

“Well, did you at least get a box of Thin Mints?” Jordan asks.

“Nope, just some Caramel Delights for Paige.”

“Hi, Mrs. Miller,” I practically sing as I lean closer to the speaker.

“Hi, sweetie,” she coos.

Jordan just shakes his head.

While I hope Jordan never thinks of me as a sister, I love that his mom accepts me as a pseudo-daughter, especially since my parents no longer live in Colorado, having moved to Nevada while I was attending college in California. Mrs. Miller is my mom away from mom. Jordan always says she loves me most, but there is no way that’s true. Jordan is like the poster child for saintly sons. I’ve only seen him miss a phone call from his mom once, and if he’s not checking in on her at her house every day, he makes sure to call at night and often sends one of their neighbors over to make sure she’s okay.

“Did Candice stop by tonight?” Jordan asks.

“No,” Mrs. Miller says. “I passed her on the street earlier today and told her I didn’t need a babysitter.”

“Mom,” Jordan grumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose.

This is about the time when I want to jump in and tell Jordan that his mom’s a grown woman and she can manage herself, but we’ve started that conversation too many times to count, and it always ends with a swift topic change or Jordan shutting down.

Even though it’s been years since Mrs. Miller’s struggle with cancer, Jordan still treats his mom like a porcelain doll, but she is one of the strongest women I know. While most people would shatter under her life experiences, she stands as tall and put-together as always. But despite her resilience, Jordan is bent on coddling her like a child. But who am I to judge when I have no idea what it feels like to watch a parent fight for their life?

I wasn’t even there. Though I kept tabs on Mrs. Miller through phone calls and texts during her treatment, I didn’t call Jordan. Not once. For four and a half years.

Yep. I, his so-called best friend, didn’t call Jordan during the most crucial time of his life. We say we’ve been best friends for nearly seven years, but for more than half of those years, I was nursing my pride away in college as he endured his greatest struggle alone. It wasn’t until I returned home six months ago that we started talking again. But despite my neglect through those years, Jordan’s never once resented me for not being there for him. He’s forgiving and gracious, and I don’t deserve his friendship, but he gives it to me regardless. The least I can give him is respect and space when it comes to his relationship with his mom.

“I was in the zone working on a new sewing project tonight,” Mrs. Miller says. “I probably wouldn’t have heard the doorbell even if Candice did come by.”

Jordan blows out a long breath, and his light mood from earlier dissipates. “How are your hands feeling today?”

“Hands, are you okay?” she asks dryly. After a pause, she says, “Yes, they say they’re okay. They love you, too, Jordan. Now stop worrying about them. Goodnight.”

Jordan parks the car. “Goodnight, Mom.”

“Goodnight, Mrs. Miller!” I chime in.

“See you soon, sweetie,” she says before ending the call.

Jordan leans his head against the headrest, and a bit of dark-blond hair falls onto his forehead. I want to brush it away, squeeze his hand, lean over and embrace him, but I don’t. We’re not like that. So I try the next best thing, asking, “You want to get some air?”

“Yeah,” he says quietly.

We get out of the car and start walking up the sidewalk until we’re at Lookout Point, a spot where the trees open and all of Pine Lakes is on display. Streetlights twinkle below us like constellations, mirroring the star-filled sky above, and the majestic mountains that surround Pine Lakes are but a shadow against the dark night.

We find a park bench and sit, taking in the view we know so well. I hold the silence in place, giving Jordan the time he needs to process, but when his shoulders relax and his legs straighten out and cross in front of him, I know he’s back.

I flick the collar of his dress shirt. “Which client meeting did I interrupt tonight?”

Jordan smiles. “Zero Gravity.”

“The trampoline park?” I look at Jordan with wide eyes. This is big news. When Jordan was in community college, he filmed and directed a commercial for our local recreation center for one of his student projects, and it went viral. After that, he got dozens of requests to create TV spots and social media advertisements, and eventually he turned it into a business that has been exploding ever since—but Zero Gravity is his biggest opportunity yet.

“Yeah. They want us to film several of their West Coast locations for their ads,” he says casually.

I turn to him, tucking one foot under my knee. “Jordan, are you kidding me? That’s amazing. Zero Gravity is a huge client. You saved this tidbit of info until now?”

Jordan lays one arm on the back of the bench, nearly brushing my shoulder, and my heart is far too aware of its proximity. An arm. It’s just an arm, Paige. I try to remind myself how uninteresting an arm is with no luck. Jordan’s well-defined forearm might as well be a giant bounce house for all the room it occupies in my mind.

I find a new focal point in a nearby lamp and watch some bugs swarm to the light, knocking themselves into the lantern’s glass over and over again. I can’t help but feel something in common with those bugs.

“I don’t think we’ll take it,” Jordan says, his voice cool, like we’re discussing choosing an appetizer at dinner instead of making a deal with a major franchise.

“What? Why not?” I say.

“Because it would require us to go out of state for a week or more.”

Oh, this is about Mrs. Miller. He would never leave his mom for more than a day. “What does Rob think?” Rob is Jordan’s video editor and second-in-command.

Jordan leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees, and looks out over the city. “Rob thinks we should take the job and expand the business to the West Coast.”

My mind flashes back to our senior year, when Jordan and I talked nonstop about life after high school. He was like a bungee jumper, ready to fling himself into the unknown and enjoy every breath-stealing adrenaline-inducing moment. That was always Jordan, ready to fly when the rest of us were content to walk. There wasn’t an event he didn’t want to attend or a place he didn’t want to visit—but all of that changed after his mom’s illness. The light that propels him forward is only a fraction now of what it once was.

But for a moment, I see that old adventurous light flicker in Jordan’s eyes when he mentions expanding his business, those dreams of flying emerging from the dust. But it fades faster than it appeared.

“We have plenty to keep us busy here. We don’t need to expand.” He flicks something invisible from his shirt sleeve.

My heart plummets for him because I know it’s there, that desire to leave, to innovate, to be more. It crushes me to see him denying himself so that he can stay in this town, trapping himself within the invisible lines he’s drawn in the name of his mom’s health.

I nearly ask him why he does it to himself, but he changes the topic.

“I think we need one more music spot tonight.” He points to a couple in matching tan shorts and blue polo shirts. They look like they’re in their sixties, sporting gray hair and holding hands. They stop to cuddle on a bench several yards from us.

Jordan hands me his phone, and I find a song that’s sweet and full of all the love I see in this couple. When I press Play, Chicago’s “Colour My World” trills into the warm summer night. Jordan eyes me softly, curiously, as if surprised by my song choice.

Only a few moments later, the man stands and offers his hand to his sweetheart. He pulls her up and gathers her in, holding her like he’s got the world in his arms. Jordan and I watch the couple spin round and round as they slowly dance to the tune.

I let the soft, rhythmic beat pull me in as the lyrics speak of a love that has the power to transform someone’s world. Chicago’s words are like a branding iron searing my skin and igniting an intense desire to experience the kind of love this couple has. A love that’s sweet, lasting, and mutual.

A tear seeps out onto my eyelashes, then Jordan does something rare. He puts an arm around my shoulders and pulls me closer.

If ever there was a moment to tell him how I feel, this would be it. But I’ve already told him how I felt once before, and I vowed I would never do it again.

PAIGE

FIVE YEARS AGO

I just graduated. I just graduated! I’m a Tilt-a-Whirl of emotions today, spinning high one moment as I step across the stage to grab my diploma and low the next as I take pictures sandwiched between my parents in my cap and gown, realizing that in one week, I’ll be at UC Berkeley without them.

I look out the Millers’ kitchen window to the backyard and spot Jordan and our parents setting up tables of snacks and drinks for our combined graduation party. Jordan makes my mom laugh, and a new feeling propels me on another emotional high. I might be leaving my parents, but Jordan will be at Stanford, just a little over one hour from my college campus. And if he’s there, then I’ll always have a piece of home nearby.

I tug on my lavender wrap dress—which is actually doing something for my nonexistent curves—and straighten it before I grab a bowl of fruit salad from the fridge and head outside, joining Jordan under the pergola next to the pool. Lights are strung everywhere, and even though the sky is still bright blue, I can feel the magic each shining bulb brings. Which is perfect because I’m pretty sure tonight will be the most magical night of my life. At least, I hope it will be.

I hold the bowl of fruit closer, hoping it will somehow stop the flood of nerves pooling in my chest. Tonight, I am going to tell Jordan how I feel about him.

Taking a deep breath, I release my death grip on the fruit salad, placing it next to the large cake with “Congrats Grads!” scrawled across the top in red frosting.

“What’s that?” Jordan rounds the snack table until he stands next to me. “Oh, gross.”

I laugh. Jordan hates fruit salad. He doesn’t like mushy food or food that touches other food, so it’s practically Jordan repellant. I pick up a sliced banana that’s dyed red from a neighboring raspberry and thrust it toward his mouth.

“Ugh.” He darts his head back as if I’m holding a cockroach, but I push the banana closer. “Paige, that’s revolting.”

Suddenly, Jordan has both my wrists in his hands, and he forces the banana slice into my mouth, getting mushy bits on my chin.

Rolling my eyes back in exaggerated bliss, I chew and swallow the banana. “Mmm. So good.”

Jordan makes a disgusted face. I tug at my wrists to break free, but before I know it, he’s clamped both my wrists in one of his hands while the other swipes at the bottom of the cake, getting a fingerful of frosting.

“Jordan, don’t!” I squeal and break away just in time for him to grasp me around my waist and smear frosting all over my cheek.

Squeaking in protest, I wiggle and stretch my arm toward the cake. I’m just seconds away from giving Jordan his very own frosting makeover when I hear my mom call to us.

“Hey, kids,” she says, “let’s get a picture of just the two of you before everyone arrives.”

“Sure,” I say before twisting back toward Jordan and smearing my frosting-covered cheek on his dark-blue button-down shirt. Then I smile innocently up at him. “Now we match.”

A familiar twinkle lights his eyes, and I know we’re about to embark on a frosting war to end all frosting wars when his mom asks, “Will you two ceasefire long enough to smile?”

Jordan laughs and spins me around by the shoulders to face our moms, who are poised with their phones. Unexpectedly, he wraps both his arms around my middle, resting his chin on my shoulder.

Our parents snap pictures, and I don’t think my smile could be any wider. My mom looks over at Mrs. Miller, and they exchange a loaded look. A this-will-be-in-their-wedding-slideshow look.

My stomach erupts into butterflies. That knowing look, combined with the way Jordan’s arms stay wrapped snugly around my waist even after the posing is over, gives me renewed confidence that he’s feeling what I feel.

The two of us hug occasionally. We fist-bump, we high-five, and I slap his shoulder when he’s being naughty. But that’s it. However, today, his physical affection seems on a different level. It’s as if he needs something stable, and I’m the only thing grounding him. So I let the moment take hold of me and place my hands over his where they are clasped around my stomach. He doesn’t pull away, and my whole body lights on fire. I let it fuel me for the moment I know is coming.

“You want to hammock?” he asks, letting go of my waist and tugging gently on one of my dark-brown curls. I hum my assent and follow him farther into his backyard, where a hammock is wedged in a semi-secluded patch of trees. We collapse into it sideways, letting our legs dangle off the edge. The hammock’s gravity pulls us together until our arms and legs are flush against each other.

Have I mentioned how much I love hammocks?

Jordan turns his head to look at me, our faces just inches apart, and he sighs. “We did it.”

I nod. “We did it.”

“What was that, Devons?”

“We did it!” I say louder.

“Who did what?”

“We graduated!” I yell, raising my hands above my head. A new buzz of excitement fills my body, the kind I always get around Jordan.

“One more week, Paige. Then it’s miles and miles of beach,” he says.

Kicking my legs out, I make the hammock bounce. I’ve imagined many things about college in California, but nothing more so than the beach. I’ve never been to the beach. Okay, I’ve been to the beach before—once, when I was four. I think the only reason I remember that trip is because my parents got it on film, and my subconscious has absorbed that as actual memory. But now, I’ll be able to feel my feet sinking into sand, watch the sunset cast a painting’s worth of pastels across the waves, and tan this glow-in-the-dark-pale skin of mine. And best of all, Jordan’s going to teach me how to surf.

Yeah, I’ve daydreamed that experience a hundred different times, and all of them end in pure bliss.

“So, I looked at your class schedule, and two-thirty on Tuesday afternoon is basically your only free slot,” he says. “You’re taking a ton of classes, Paige. But you have a stretching class. I’m pretty jealous about that. And pottery. I thought you gave up on pottery after Mrs. Truman marked your teacup down for looking like an ashtray?”

I scrunch my eyebrows. It’s not like Jordan to ramble. “Okay, we’ll call each other every Tuesday at two-thirty. Wait, does that work with your class schedule? Where is it, by the way? You still haven’t given it to me yet.” I eye him. We still have to figure out who’s driving to whose college campus on what weekends.

He ignores my questions. “Tuesdays at two-thirty are mine, Paige. Don’t let anyone take them.” His smile is soft, and his eyes are pleading, and then his hand finds mine, and he squeezes it as if that touch could convey a thousand words.

The adrenaline of having his hand folded around mine shifts my brain into high gear, and before I know it, I’m spewing the words that have taken me almost two years to say. “I love you, Jordan.”

He smiles. “I love you, too.” He says it too casually, and I know I have no choice but to clarify. I’ve come this far.

“No. I mean… I’ve fallen in love with you.”

In a moment that feels like two seconds and two years simultaneously, Jordan releases my hand. His eyes flash with so many emotions that I think the Buckingham Palace guards might be easier to read.

He gets up, leaving me rocking on the hammock. My heart pounds.

His hands fidget, touching his collar, his sleeve, his hair, as he avoids my gaze entirely.

I wait through the agonizing moments, thinking that he’s going to open his mouth any second and end my misery when our friends Colton and Miles pull into Jordan’s driveway. Colton parks the car, and Miles is hanging out of the window on the passenger side, pumping his fist to the music blaring from the car speakers.

Jordan looks at them, then he finally meets my eyes. “I’ve… I’ve gotta go.” His expression is grim as he backs away, heading out of the cluster of trees, then jogs to the driveway. Miles and Colton pummel Jordan in bro hugs, and then the three of them disappear into the house.

The oxygen in my lungs has vanished. When I weighed the pros and cons of telling Jordan how I felt, I thought I had run through all the worst possible outcomes. His reaction has far surpassed any of those.

As the night goes on, my brain does a good job of keeping me delusional, filling itself with reassurances. Jordan really does love me but can’t admit it. After my confession, he was so overwhelmed with love for me that he couldn’t respond. He ate something foul beforehand and wanted to brush his teeth before he did anything romantic. He made a pact with the boys to stay single before college.

I’m grasping at straws, imagining everything short of He must have lost my number.

Those thin excuses get me through an hour of small talk and polite smiles, plus the weird shuffle dance I attempt when I hit the impromptu dance floor in the basement along with my best girlfriends, Ji and Missy, and what feels like half our senior class. Jordan and I didn’t hold back on the invites.

Missy grabs my wrist and uses my clenched fist as a microphone. She “ooo”s into it and sings ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” in her thick Southern accent along with Ji and the other bobbing seniors. While most everyone has abandoned their shoes in their efforts to let loose on the makeshift dance floor, Missy’s still wearing her sparkly heels, making her lean figure and perfectly coiffed blond hair a centerpiece of the room, though her flawless looks do a pretty good job of that on their own.

Missy points my own fist back to me as if it’s my turn to sing wildly into my hand-turned-microphone. I mumble something I hope sounds like the lyrics to the song, but my heart’s not in it. Missy turns toward Ji, and they both do a little side-step-shake to the music.

I take that moment to scan the crowd like I have been all night, hoping I’ll find Jordan among the dancers, but I don’t see him. I haven’t seen him since Colton and Miles arrived. The fear of not knowing what Jordan is thinking makes my feet antsy and my stomach churn. I’m suddenly grateful to be on the dance floor, where I can bounce out my nerves without drawing attention to myself.

Someone bumps into my back, and I can tell by Missy’s look of disgust that Colton is behind me.

“Sorry, Paige,” Colton says as his tall, dark, and handsome form steps out from behind me.

I look up at Colton just as Missy’s acrylic nails go machete on me, slicing into my arm.

I gasp. “Ow.”

Colton looks down at Missy’s glittering shoes before meeting her gaze. “Couldn’t ditch the heels for one night, Barbie?”

Missy scowls. “If I ditched the heels, I wouldn’t have this perfect view of your unibrow.” She points to the patch of skin between his brows, and Colton swats her hand away.

“Before you two start sticking your tongues out at each other,” I say, stepping between them, then I turn to Colton. “Have you seen Jordan lately?”

Colton finally tears his eyes from Missy, and the hard set of his jaw softens. “No, I haven’t seen him since I first came in.”

Ji steps next to Colton, gently swaying to the music. “Colton, your valedictorian speech was awesome. I’ll make sure to give you speaking time at our five-year reunion.”

Ji's our class president and looks every inch the boss lady with her crisply pressed power suit and jet-black hair pulled into a tight ponytail.

“Thanks,” Colton says. “Could you tell my dad that? He’s under the impression I wrote the speech last night.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Missy mumbles.

Ji elbows her, but Missy just rolls her eyes.

“Hey, Paige,” Colton says, grabbing all our attention. “There he is. Jordan’s right…” The words die on his lips as we all look to where Jordan is exiting a closet with April Barker, a pretty girl with cherry-red lips, raven-black hair, and dainty hands that are wrapped around Jordan’s bicep possessively. Jordan smiles at her, his eyes twinkling.

For the first time in my medical history, I think I’m going to faint.

Colton, Missy, and Ji look back at me with an equal mix of pity and sympathy. Missy and Ji have known about my feelings for Jordan for a while, but the look on Colton’s face takes me by surprise. Do all my friends know how I really feel about Jordan?

I watch Jordan disappear up the stairs with April, and the rejection permeates every part of my body. The backs of my eyes burn, and I rush out of the basement doors and out into the backyard to get fresh air, unable to stop myself.

The twinkling lights mock me from above. Their magic is just plastic and wires now. I was a fool for thinking they were anything more.

“Paige?” I hear Ji's voice first then the click of Missy’s heels on the patio. They stand in front of me, walling me off from the small group of people munching next to the snack table and look at me with all the concern and kindness in the world. My emotional dam bursts.

As tears flow freely down my cheeks, Missy tugs softly on my arm, pulling me toward a small alcove near the side of the house.

“You told him?” Ji asks.

“He doesn’t…” My chin quivers. “He doesn’t love me back.”

“Oh, honey. I’m so sorry.” Missy pulls me into a hug, and my tears smear all over her shimmery white dress.

Ji rubs my arm. “Should we key his car? Slash his tires?”

“Ooo, yeah, let’s go all Carrie Underwood on him,” Missy says.

I gurgle out a pitiful laugh. “No, I just want to go home.”

They embrace me on both sides, and we put our heads together in the center, scrunching into our usual triangle hug. Minutes later, we’re in Ji's car, backing out of Jordan’s driveway. For a moment, I think I see Jordan through the partially open blinds of his bedroom, but the ache in my chest is so awful that I don’t dare look up again. If I see his face, I’m afraid my heart will tear in two.

Jordan gave me his answer loud and clear tonight, and all I can hope is that time really does heal all wounds.