In fact, the only words we exchange the entire drive are the directions I give to Ollie’s.
When we arrive at Ollie’s, a whoosh of relief escapes me. Maybe things will be better once we’re around everyone else. Being alone in a vehicle with someone you don’t know all that well is awkward, after all.
The low pitch of Renner’s laugh carries across Ollie’s sprawling waterfront yard. I squeeze my eyes shut as I adjust my dress at the end of the long gravel driveway.
Just ignore him like you always have. Don’t let him ruin yet another monumental high school event.
Unfortunately, Renner is the first person I see as Clay and I enter the yard.
His charcoal suit is perfectly tailored, fitting nicely along his broad shoulders. The warm summer breeze pushes his hair slightly askew, like a SoCal surfer dude. But it’s his dazzling smile that makes my stomach roll.
His eyes quite literally crinkle at the edges. I imagine them bursting with cartoon hearts as he admires Andie, who’s striking pose after pose for the professional photographer. A ping of envy hits me as I take in Andie’s long, flowing, bright-orange two-piece that accentuates her fit body, making her runway-ready legs appear even longer. While most of the girls have opted for curled updos, she has a sleek, pin-straight ponytail, softened with newly trimmed curtain bangs that fall on either side of her face. She’s a vision, even next to Kassie, who looks like an ice queen in a silver-blue, crystal-adorned gown, half updo, and lush stick-on lashes. And I’m a stubby toad compared to them both.
I guess I’ve always been a little jealous of Andie, even before this whole Renner debacle. While Kassie has always been my best friend, she’s never made that distinction between me and her other friends. Whenever we’re in photos together, she always calls us both “besties.” And in birthday posts, she calls me “one of” her favorite people. She’s political, I’ll give her that.
After Clay ditches me to play beer pong with the guys, I take refuge in Ollie’s kitchen, helping his dad prepare appetizers. His dad is a sweet, soft-spoken man who takes every opportunity to lament about how music “just isn’t the same these days.”
He’s chattering away about how the Red Hot Chili Peppers should be required listening in American high schools when Nori summons me outside to take group photos. Despite her gorgeous gown, the first thing I notice are her bangs. They hang just above her brows, slightly uneven on the left.
“You. Look. Hot,” Nori whispers, arm linked with mine as we head toward the photo area.
“I look straight from the Shire. But you look amazing. And you . . . you cut your bangs,” I say, reaching to adjust a strand before the photographer snaps an unflattering pic.
“I know. I didn’t want to. But then I felt like I shouldn’t mess around with fate, you know?” While I’ve explained to her multiple times that my “time travel” was just my overactive imagination, she’s still convinced it was some strange cosmic event.
“So you cut them anyways?”
“I had no choice. Haven’t you seen those time-travel movies? If you try to screw with the outcome, you always wind up drastically screwing up your life,” she says through a smile. “You said I seemed happy in the future, so the last thing I need to do is not cut my bangs and end up destitute on the streets or something.”
I consider explaining Uncle Larry’s reverse grandfather paradox to her, but that’s a lot to digest as we take prom photos. So I just nod. “Fair enough.”
Group photos are a whole new brand of chaos. There are variations of pairings, poses, full group photos, girls’ shots, guys’ shots, et cetera. An argument even breaks out over who gets to be in the center of the group shots and who gets stuck on the end. （Spoiler alert, I voluntarily go to the end to avoid controversy.） And when it’s our turn for couples’ photos, the photographer decides Clay and I need a lesson on “natural smiling.”
When we pile into the limo, Clay sits with the guys in the back. Kassie and Andie are taking selfies near the front. The only open seat is smack dab in the middle. Right next to Renner. Of course.
He stiffens when I plop next to him, eager to rest my poor feet. “Feet still hurt?”
“How’d you guess?” I groan.
Renner digs into his pocket and pulls out a handful of Band-Aids as the limo pulls out of Ollie’s driveway. “Need one?”
I give him a wary look, half-mad at myself for not packing extras. “Why do you have a pocket full of Band-Aids?”