“Wow,” Ruby mutters as she takes in the sea of red, white, and blue. “I forgot how patriotic middle America is.”
“Isn’t it so fun?” Ashleigh jumps up and down and the stars on her pom-pom headband bobble back and forth. Her stars-and-stripes leggings blend in perfectly with the scenery.
“It’s . . .” I can tell Ruby is trying not to hurt Ashleigh’s feelings and I’m so grateful. Ashleigh spent thirty minutes nailing the blue cat-eye eyeliner look; it would be devastating if Ruby said something that messed that up. “It’s really something. You can tell they put a lot of effort into the decorations.”
And by decorations, she means a plethora of American flags. Some small, some huge, some painted on. There’s a flag for everyone. It’s quite a sight to behold.
“Ughhhh,” I groan. A pang of grief makes my heart ache. “I wish they could’ve seen Ben before Nate murdered him. He would’ve been a hit.”
The strong showing of patriotism may be a bit alarming, but it’s also the proof I need that my instincts for my campaign were right on the money.
“This is all a little too much for me.” Ruby stops in her steps. “I think I’m going to go hang with Mr. and Mrs. Carter and save a good seat on the parade route. You two go on without me.”
“Are you sure? My husband’s around here somewhere.” Ashleigh doesn’t hide her disappointment that Ruby doesn’t want to hang out with us. “He has a group for his new dental practice and I’m sure there’s room for you to join us.”
“You’re so sweet and I love that you’re excited to support your husband by being a part of the parade.” Ruby rests a hand on Ashleigh’s shoulder before laying down the gauntlet. “But I need you to know that I’d rather die a slow, painful death than be stuck walking up and down these streets in this weather. Or any weather actually.”
Welp.
If nothing else, Ruby will always be honest with you.
I pull poor, tenderhearted Ashleigh away from my crass best friend. “Don’t take it personally. She’s always like this.”
I know Ruby won’t admit it, but her dad used to take her to all the neighborhood events and she’s never recovered. My dad wasn’t wrong when he said we’re too alike. We’re both emotional avoiders, but as bad as I am, Ruby’s worse.
Ruby leaves to find a place to sit in the shade and I go with Ashleigh to find Grant.
Our neighbors mill around the clubhouse parking lot, where all the cars and “floats” are lined up. There’s a group of kids dressed up as George Washington. They start dancing what I think is supposed to be hip-hop when their adult plays a track from Hamilton. Behind them, a group consisting of all ages are rocking their karate uniforms with different color belts tied at their waists. Two of the older members hold a banner advertising the local martial arts studio I tried out the summer before fourth grade.
I wave to the Karens, who are putting the finishing touches on their old Buicks. They started entering the parade when I was in elementary school and still do it up big. A group of moms with strollers decked out in red, white, and blue gather together in matching “All American Mama” shirts. They’re passing around a sparkly tumbler in a way that makes me think they aren’t sharing water.
Everything is almost exactly the same as I remember, but somehow it’s also totally different. New businesses unroll their banners while neighbors I don’t recognize wind garland around their antennas and write on their windows. I almost feel sad as I realize how much I’ve missed. A melancholy settles over me when I think of the memories I missed out on because of a grudge I may have nursed for too long.
“Oh, there’s Nate!” Ashleigh points in the direction of a cherry red Mustang convertible and races ahead.
Mr. Wilson is bent over the hood of the car, rubbing it with whatever cloth he always has shoved in his back pocket. He has a look of pure determination on his face, and by the way his car is sparkling, his hard work is paying off.
However, not even a shiny convertible or its shinier-headed owner could distract from the man standing beside it with his arms crossed. I try not to gawk—Kimberly has told me staring is rude enough times—but what can I say? I’m a glutton for punishment . . . and Nate.
He’s traded his normal uniform of khakis and a button-up for a more casual pair of chino shorts and a T-shirt. Informal looks really good on him. He’s smiling at the older woman next to him and my stomach twists into knots. I haven’t had the awkward morning-after thing in years and I don’t know what to do.
Spending the night with him was one thing. I went into it not wanting anything more from him, but then he had to mess around and turn out to be some kind of goddamn sex god.
So inconsiderate.
And then, after all that, I had to see that picture on his wall.
It’s too much. Feelings from the past are colliding with the present and it’s becoming more and more difficult to separate the two.
I manage to pull my eyes away from Nate just in time to dodge a small child in a football jersey. My face almost meets the pavement, but he doesn’t even stumble.
“Sorry, ma’am!” he shouts over his shoulder and keeps running.
“Ma’am?” I gasp, never in my life more offended by seemingly good manners. “How dare you! I’m a very young twenty-nine, thank you very much!”
I mean, the nerve of children these days. I have a center part. I wear baggy jeans. I know the lyrics to Olivia Rodrigo’s songs! I’m youthful and hip, dammit!
“Wow, Collins.” A deep, excruciatingly familiar voice says from much too close. “Yelling at children now? I already knew you weren’t going to be competition, but it’s like you don’t even want to win.”
My nerves go haywire. I don’t know what’s up or what’s down. The words he’s saying annoy the shit out of me, but the way he says them turns me on. I haven’t been this sexually confused since I was fourteen.
But on the upside, at least he’s not acting weird.
Or weirder than normal.
“Oh please.” I roll my eyes, grateful to know that I’ll be able to throw attitude his way no matter how many orgasms he provides. “You should really give up now. I’m worried your fragile ego will never recover when I crush you on the ballot.”
“Besides crafting, what have you done? Have you even studied the bylaws? Do you understand what it really means to be HOA president?”
“Do you know what it really means to be a loser?” I regret it as soon as I say it.
However, to be fair, this is the nerdiest trash talk I’ve ever witnessed, let alone participated in. No matter what wicked burn I come back with, we’re still arguing over the HOA. It’s impossible to make this anything other than cringeworthy.
It might be a trick of the light, but I swear I see him smile before he asks, “Seriously?”
I won’t dignify that with an answer. Instead, I do the mature thing: I stick out my tongue and do the loser sign.
“Okay then!” Ashleigh steps between us. I guess holding my fingers in the shape of an L is a step too far for neighborhood politics. Noted. Ten out of ten chance I will do it again. “Why don’t we go get you two set up on the back of Mr. Wilson’s convertible? I think he has a list of rules to go over before you can get in.”