One Golden Summer(32)

“Isn’t it kind of sad to bake your own birthday cake?”

I jump at the sound of a deep voice next to my shoulder. Charlie looks like he’s just woken up. His hair is a little smooshed on one side, and his stubble has grown overnight.

“You scared me.” I shove his shoulder but end up pushing myself back. He’s that solid.

Charlie is dressed in a white crewneck sweatshirt with forest-green bands around the neck and sleeves, and—my eyes drop down the length of him—loose jersey pants. “Are those your pajamas?”

“No.” His eyes glow with wicked intent. “I sleep naked.”

“Of course you do.”

“I thought your brother and sister were on cake duty.” He looks up and down the aisle. “Or are they here, too?”

“No. They had to cancel. I’m not going to do the whole party thing.”

“Are you uninviting me?”

“There’s nothing to invite you to.”

He eyes the boxes of cake mix.

“It would just be the three of us,” I say.

“Three’s plenty. You should see what I can do with just two people.” He lifts his eyebrows, and I struggle to keep a straight face.

“I’ll leave you and Nan to it, then.”

“I should be so lucky.”

Charlie takes the boxes from my hands and sets them back on the shelf.

“Hey,” I protest.

“You’re not making your own cake. It’s too bleak.”

“Then who’s going to do it?”

He stares down at me.

“Not you.”

“Yes, me.”

“You’re not serious.” I look him over. “You can’t bake.”

“Oh, I can bake.” Charlie takes a step closer. He bends down to my eye level and lowers his voice. “I can bake all night.”

A laugh bubbles up in my throat and past my lips before I manage to school my features. I lean toward Charlie, our noses inches apart. His gaze narrows on me.

“I don’t believe you,” I say slowly. “I think when it comes down to it, you’re all talk, no bake.”

His eyes shine. “I’m going to a bake you a cake so good you’ll be ruined for all other cakes.”

“Prove.” I prod a finger into his chest, and sweet hell, it’s like poking a steel door. “It.”

“Done. I’ll see you tonight.” He turns and begins walking down the aisle.

“Charlie, wait.”

He pauses and looks back over his shoulder.

“Why?” I ask.

“Because I love defying expectations, and you, Alice Everly, seem to have a lot of them.”





18




Ipaint my toenails with sparkling purple polish and bedazzle my eyelids and cheekbones with silver glitter. I don’t bother straightening my hair—it would curl in the humidity anyway. It looks like chaos, but I feel a little chaotic. I even put on the green scrap of a dress Heather packed in my suitcase. It’s short and silky with spaghetti straps and cut low in the back. I don’t have a bra that works with it, so I’m not wearing one.

I take a photo of myself in the bathroom mirror and send it to Heather.

What is happening up there??? she writes back. And: You look HOT.

I tell myself looking hot was not the goal. I’ve decided to defy expectations, too, including my own.

I feel sunnier than I did this morning. My phone has been lighting up all day with happy birthdays from friends. The twins sent me a video of an elaborate dance routine, involving high heels, cowboy hats, and a perplexing number of jumping jacks. Bennett’s message included every tangentially celebratory emoji in the Unicode library. My dad recounted the day I was born, a story I can recite word for word. I also received a text from Harrison, asking me to dinner. I haven’t responded.

I’ve just put the lasagna in the oven when Nan calls out, “He’s here.”

And sure enough, through the window, a black Porsche slithers through the bush. The rain has stopped, but fog hangs in the trees. It’s like a car commercial.

“How do I look?” Nan asks, adjusting her tiara.

“Regal.”

And she does. She’s wearing her pearls and a tweed skirt and jacket set that she’s had forever and will never go out of style. She’s sitting straight as a pin, shoulders proud. I roll my own back as soon as I note her posture.

I open the door before Charlie knocks, propping it ajar with my hip. He stands on the stone steps, and for untold seconds, all I can do is stare. Charlie is wearing a suit. It’s the color of the sky, an almost metallic gray. The top two buttons of his white shirt are undone. And he’s holding a chocolate layer cake. For a heartbeat, he looks at me, just as stunned as I am.

“I baked,” he says.

“So you did.”

“You look…” He swallows. “Like a mermaid.”

I glance down at myself. “This dress was a leap for me.”

“It was a very good leap.” His voice is rougher than usual.

I point at his car. “The five-minute walk was too much for you?”

“I didn’t want to scuff my shoes,” he says. “And I have a few more things in the car I couldn’t carry. Do you mind taking the cake in for me?”