It’s a crazy thing to say. Way too early. He barely knows me. And yet, I know that he’s telling the truth. I know it because I feel it too.
It defies explanation, but isn’t that the point? Sullivan brings out things in me that I didn’t know existed. Dreams about the future in which I’m not alone, adventures that include him. My world has expanded to embrace someone other than just myself, and it’s more than lust, different from friendship. Even as I look at him in the pale moonlight, I know that I’ll say goodbye to Ashley if I have to. My heart will break over it, but I don’t want to give this up. I can’t. I don’t know where we’re going, but I want to find out.
I put my head in my hands and whisper: “What have we done?”
“Nothing.” Sullivan tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “We haven’t done anything wrong.”
“I’m leaving for college in August,” I protest, letting that reality sink in. “Then what?”
I half expect Sullivan to beg me to stay, to tell me that I can study online or delay my freshman year so that we have more time to figure out what exactly is happening between us. But he doesn’t. He says, “I’ve always liked Iowa City.”
I’m stunned. “You’d come?”
“Maybe.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He considers. “People do long-distance relationships all the time. They work.”
“What if I don’t want to do a long-distance relationship?” The thought of not being able to see him when I want, of forfeiting nights like this, is agonizing.
Sullivan shrugs. “If it doesn’t work, we’ll find another way.”
“I don’t want to stay in Jericho.”
“Who said I did?”
I think of his family, the over two thousand acres of the Tate Family Farms consortium of land and cattle, development and real estate. Sullivan is not just the baby of the family, he’s the favorite, and an heir to what feels like half the county. I have a hard time believing his parents would just let him leave. Never mind his brothers.
“Jericho is in your blood,” I tell him.
“Then it’s in yours, too.”
“It’s not the same and you know it.” I twist away from him, ostensibly to stretch out a kink in my back, but when I’m done, the distance between us is greater than it was before. I sigh. “We’re a regular Romeo and Juliet.”
“Come on.” I can hear the eye roll in his voice as I’m looking at the stars. He edges closer and wraps his legs around me so I have no choice but to lean into his chest. Sullivan ducks his head and begins trailing a line of kisses along my bare neck, but he’s not trying to distract me—he’s laying claim. “One day at a time, okay? But know this, Juniper Grace: you’re mine.”
Yes, I think. And it’s the most absurd, unexpected, and frightening thing imaginable. I don’t know how it happened, but it did. I’m in love.
* * *
The morning of the Fourth of July always begins with a pancake breakfast in the park. Hope Reformed rents giant electric griddles and greases the surfaces with bacon fat before spooning on homemade batter that bubbles up and makes the whole park smell like a bakery. If you’re early, the first few pancakes are crisped at the edges with drippings from all the bacon, and you can forgo syrup entirely because they’re so delicious plain.
I can hear Jonathan get up in the morning to help Law with chores, so I drag myself out of bed even though I could sleep in. I know they’ll drive into town when they’re done, and I want to join them. Not just because this is probably my last Fourth of July in Jericho, but also because I’m hoping Jonathan will let something slip.
He’s been distracted lately, and careless. When he goes out with the Tate brothers, he doesn’t bother to lie about it anymore, and he seems to have accepted that Sullivan and I are friends. Well, it’s less acceptance than resignation, but he no longer lectures me to stay away from Sullivan. I’m grateful that he has no idea about the real nature of our relationship.
Since I’m up and dressed, I head out to the chicken coop to collect the eggs and feed and water the hens. It’s hot, and they’ve been laying less than usual lately, which means I only find six eggs, even though we have ten layers. But there’s enough for an omelet or to boil for the potato salad my mom will make for the picnic later today.
By the time I’ve set the eggs on the counter in the kitchen and washed my hands, Mom is up, too. It’s not quite seven o’clock, but we head out to the porch to wait for Jonathan and Law anyway. We’ll be just in time to be among the first people at the pancake breakfast, and somehow, that feels appropriate for my last Fourth of July at home.