At the clap of thunder and flash of lightning outside, she gestures toward the window. “I mean, what is this? We were supposed to go sailing today.”
I check my phone’s weather app. “It’ll be sunny and hot tomorrow. We could sail then?”
“Just because the house is selling,” Cleo says, “doesn’t mean this has to be the last time the six of us come here.”
I try to smile encouragingly at Sabrina, but guilt spirals through me. I want so badly for this week to be perfect, to be good enough to compensate for the fact that it will be the last. Not just in this house but as a sixsome. Truce or not, I can’t be Wyn Connor’s friend.
Sabrina’s gone quiet and sullen, and I know she’s already thinking about next week too.
I clear my throat. “I have an idea.”
“Matching tattoos,” Parth says.
“So close,” I say. “It’s this thing I used to do as a kid because I hated my birthday.”
Sabrina, a woman deeply devoted to the concept of a birthday month, audibly gasps.
“It was hard to manage my expectations,” I explain. “And it seemed like something always went wrong.”
A pipe burst and my parents had to put repairs on a credit card.
Or Eloise was failing a class and needed a tutor. Or Dad’s second job called him in for a shift the night we were supposed to go out. No matter how much I told myself I didn’t need any big celebration, I always felt disappointed when things fell through, and then guilty because I knew how hard my parents were working to keep things going.
“A couple days before I turned ten, I had this idea,” I say. “If I chose one thing I really wanted—and knew I could actually get—on my birthday, then no matter what else happened or didn’t, it’d be a good day. So I told my parents I wanted this Oreo cheesecake, and they got it for me, and my birthday was great.”
This earns me crickets from the audience.
“That,” Sabrina says, “is so incredibly sad.”
“It’s nice!” I say. “It’s practical. I had a great birthday.”
“Honey, it’s tragic,” Sabrina says, right as Parth says, “I’m emotionally scarred.”
“I think you’re missing the point here,” I say.
Sabrina sets her mug down. “Is the point that all parents invariably fuck up their children for life, and there’s no avoiding it, so we should really stop procreating rather than continuing to make one another miserable?”
Cleo rolls her eyes. “Neither the point nor accurate.”
“We can’t control how every little thing goes this week,” I say. “But it’s been amazing, and it’s going to keep being amazing. So maybe if each of us can choose one thing—one thing we must do or have or see or eat this week—then no matter what else, we’ll have that. The one thing that we really needed out of this week. And the week will be a success.”
There’s a beat of silence as everyone considers.
“It’s a good idea,” Wyn says. Across the table, his eyes meet mine. His overgrown hair is damp from the rain, tucked behind his ears. So many of his details are slightly different, but my heart still sees him and whispers into my veins, You.
Hearts can be so stupid.
“I like it too,” Cleo says.
Parth shrugs. “I’m down.”
“Do we say what our goals are, or do we have to keep them secret?” Kimmy asks.
“Why would you have to keep it a secret?” I ask.
“So it comes true,” she says.
“It’s not a birthday wish,” Sabrina says.
“No, I like that.” Wyn’s eyes dart toward Kimmy. “It’s less pressure if it’s private.”
Parth nods. “So no one tells one another their goals until after we’ve met it.”
“You all love rules too much,” Kimmy says.
“This started with you, Kimberly Carmichael,” Sabrina reminds her.
“Lots of things start with me. That doesn’t make them good ideas.”
Cleo puts her hands on the tabletop and gyrates in another stunning approximation of Kimmy’s dance moves.
Sabrina narrows her eyes. “What am I looking at, and why do I feel like I had a nightmare about it last night?”
16
REAL LIFE
Wednesday
WHILE EVERYONE ELSE in town is packed into coffee shops and restaurants, sipping tea or eating clam chowder, the six of us brave the rain to tromp between candy stores and home decor boutiques filled with snarky hand towels about loving wine, our arms uselessly folded over our heads in lieu of umbrellas.
“Maybe we should go back to the house and chill,” Cleo suggests after one particularly loud crack of thunder and jarringly close bolt of lightning.
“What? No!” Sabrina cries.
Kimmy squints at the roiling sky. “I don’t think this rain’s going to let up.”
“Then we’ll go to a Roxy double feature,” Sabrina says.
“Do you even know what’s playing?” Cleo asks.
The Roxy has only two screens. At night, each is devoted to a new release, but in summer, the matinees are reserved for double features of movies set in Maine. Ninety percent of these are Stephen King adaptations, which works for Sabrina but is less than ideal for Cleo.
“Who cares what’s playing?” Sabrina says. “We always used to do this when we got rained out. It’s tradition.”
We follow her down the block toward the bored teen in the ticket booth out front.
Cleo eyes the marquee skeptically. “Salem’s Lot and Return to Salem’s Lot. Weren’t those miniseries?”
“Um, no,” Sabrina says. “Salem’s Lot was a two-part miniseries, and Return was a feature, and combined, they are glorious. You’re gonna love it.”
“I’m not sure I’m up for four hours of vampires?” Cleo says.
Kimmy pokes her ribs. “What if they glitter, though?”
“Oh, come on, Cleo,” Sabrina says. “Don’t be a wet blanket.”
“Please don’t call me that,” Cleo says.
Sabrina lifts her hands in supplication. “I’m just saying, this is the last time we’ll ever get to do one of these.”
I glance between them. We’re headed for a standoff. “Maybe you just come for the first movie,” I suggest.
“Miniseries,” Cleo reminds me.
“And then you can go to the Warm Cup and we’ll meet you after?”
Kimmy touches Cleo’s elbow. “I’ll go back to the house with you if you want, babe.”
Cleo’s delicate point of a chin lifts. “No, it’s okay. I don’t want to miss out. I’ll come to the first movie.”
Sabrina squeals, wheeling back to face the booth. “Tickets on me!”
At some point in the last thirty seconds, the attendant has donned a top hat, and it takes Sabrina a beat to remember what she’s even doing, face-to-face with this somber freckly teenager in Victorian headwear. “Six for the double feature?” she says.
“Yes, milady,” the teenager says.
On our way inside, Wyn hangs back. “You don’t have to do that, you know.”