Page 13

Thirteen

By early July, the sun was blazing, but I was out in our front field doing stickwork drills.

Arthur and Francine were keeping to the shade, the two dogs sprawled out on the porch.

The Cheval Collective didn’t have any meetings in the barn office today; otherwise, I knew Dad would insist I put on actual clothes.

The last thing he would’ve wanted was for prospective clients to drive up and see me in nothing but a sports bra and spandex.

Although I thought my white PENN FIELD HOCKEY baseball hat was an especially nice touch.

It had been included in my WELCOME TO THE QUAKERS!

gift basket I’d received several weeks after committing.

The card had been signed by everyone on the team.

I just have to get in , I kept telling myself like an incantation.

Straight As, awesome application, early acceptance letter.

But it was also summer, and I was having a lot of fun.

Last night, I’d gone into Philadelphia with Davis and Natalie to see Phoebe Bridgers.

“I’m a third wheel!” Davis announced after the concert.

“I’m officially a third wheel.”

“Yes.” Natalie playfully kissed his cheek.

He was giving her a piggyback ride while she and I sang “Moon Song” in our raspy, worn-out voices.

I couldn’t stop laughing, amazed that she and I had become such fast friends.

“You are.” She turned to me.

“Now we need to find a fourth.”

“I know, I know,” I told her.

“I’m working on it.”

“But are you?” she teased.

“ Actually ?”

I comically threw up my arms. Natalie was hardcore shipping Connor and me; I’d brought him as my plus-one to her birthday party a few weeks ago, because I’d been nervous about not knowing anyone.

“I can feel the sparks between you two,” she’d said that night (slightly sloshed).

“Go for it, Mads!”

I admit I now wanted to, but I wasn’t sure how to go for it.

How did one ask their best friend out?

And what would happen to our relationship if Connor said no?

“He won’t,” Austin kept telling me.

“Trust me, Mads, I’ve known him since he was a toddler.”

“Same here,” I pointed out.

“Nope, this is different,” my brother said.

“I’m older, and a guy.”

I’d rolled my eyes.

“So what, are you saying he’s always been secretly pining for me?”

“No.” Austin was blunt.

“Definitely not.”

He cracked up at the way my face dropped over FaceTime.

I hadn’t wanted the answer to be yes , per se, but doesn’t every girl fantasize—even just briefly—that someone is secretly in love with her?

At some point?

“But I am saying that I think there’s always been something there ,” he continued.

“You two have been tight for over a decade, but you’re also both complete knuckleheads who won’t quit goofing around to see it. If one of you finally opens your eyes and makes a move, the other will get quickly with the program.”

“How romantic,” I said, straight-faced.

“C’mon, it is!” Austin chuckled again.

“Mads, he’s your best friend. Wouldn’t it be awesome if your best friend became your favorite person?”

His last two words made something twist in my chest. Favorite person , Austin Fisher-Michaels’s synonym for soulmate .

I suddenly remembered talking to Samira back in April, while hiding in the bridal salon’s bathroom.

“It could be nice to be with your best friend,” she’d mused.

“The person you never stop laughing with, the person who always has your back, the person who knows you inside and out…”

But what happens if we end up like you and Samira, Austin?

I thought. You were best friends before you became more, and look what happened after you did.

She wasn’t your favorite person forever.

And I felt like Austin and Samira were the exception to the rule.

Most exes never stayed friends afterward.

I couldn’t bear to lose Connor entirely.

I’d almost mentioned that during Austin’s and my FaceTime call, but I ended up keeping my lips zipped after Austin told me that I’d never know with Connor unless I tried.

It was amazing how he could read my mind sometimes.

We hung up after he added that texting Connor some version of Do you want to start going out?

was lazy.

(And last resort–sounding , per Katie’s unsolicited opinion.)

I had to make a flashy move.

God, what should that be?

I wondered as I hit a reverse shot.

Embarrassingly, I missed the net and the ball flew far into the meadow.

“Dammit,” I muttered, grabbing another neon yellow sphere from my ball bucket.

A line of fiery sweat trickled down my back.

But it turned ice-cold when I heard the hum of a car coming up the driveway.

Arthur and Francine started barking, but I hesitated to turn around, suddenly wishing I’d listened to Dad and put on his definition of actual clothes .

My workout gear…

Well, I suddenly felt flat-out naked.

The dogs’ upbeat woofs meant the arrival was someone they knew.

I internally counted to three before turning to see a slate-colored Acura that I knew Marco had affectionately nicknamed the “Bumper Car” due to its various dents.

Sure enough, there was the bright orange PRINCETON decal on the rear window, and I felt my ribs twinge when the driver door opened and Marco slid out; we hadn’t seen each other since my campus visit over two months ago.

He looked like summer in a blue EVERTON Premier League T-shirt and fraying green shorts with flip-flops and a deep tan from soccer training.

But he wasn’t wearing his glasses, and I wondered why.

I liked them.

“Hey!” he called out, raising his arm in a wave.

I waved back with my field hockey stick.

He took that as permission to approach the field.

“Hi,” I said, avoiding eye contact when he reached me.

I spoke to his favorite soccer team’s crest on his chest.

“Are you okay?” Marco asked.

My pulse thudded, but I forced my chin upward and we locked eyes.

His irises could only be described as perfectly toasted marshmallows, a sweet golden-brown color.

“Hi,” I heard myself repeat.

“Hi,” he repeated back.

“It’s been a while.”

“Yeah,” I said lamely, then straightened my shoulders.

“Two months.”

Marco’s lips curved up in a sly smile.

“I know. I also counted.”

“You didn’t answer my text,” I added as if he weren’t already aware.

“Not true.” He shook his head.

“I didn’t answer right away . The end of the semester was ruthless, and you also made a pretty”—he searched for the right word—“ bold suggestion.”

I didn’t answer.

Get out of that situationship, Marco.

She’s the worst.

An anxious ripple went up my spine, wondering if they were still together.

“I’ve been trying to text you for weeks,” Marco continued, “but all my messages weren’t delivered.” He hummed.

“Am I having technical issues?”

I shook my head.

“No.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“No?”

“No.” I rolled my eyes.

“I deleted your number.”

“Huh.” He folded his arms over his chest. “You did, did you?”

“Yes,” I lied.

“Well, that doesn’t exactly explain why the messages failed to send. You’d just receive them from an unknown contact.” He paused for a beat.

“You blocked me.”

“You flatter yourself.” I tried to keep casual, but my voice told the truth, its octave skyrocketing up into the heavens.

Marco gave me a crooked, almost amused look.

“Was it really necessary to jump to that extreme?”

Yes, it was.

Because for some reason, I hadn’t been able to deal with his radio silence in our chat.

It gave me agita whenever I looked at it, which was weirdly a lot.

And so I’d deleted our thread, but that hadn’t been enough, either.

I didn’t trust myself not to open a new message and apologize to him.

Because in all honesty, even if it made me sound immature, I still believed I deserved the apology.

We stood there in silence for a few moments before Marco let me get away with silently pleading the fifth.

“I had some free time today,” he said, “and since I had no way of contacting you, I thought I’d stop over.”

“I’m touched.” I put my hand to my heart.

“You could’ve slid into my DMs. I didn’t block you on Instagram.”

“I’m not sure I follow you on Instagram,” he replied just as dryly.

I knew he was kidding; his lips were twitching in a smile.

“And that’s not my style anyway.”

“Seriously?” I started dribbling the field hockey ball at my foot with my stick.

“You’re telling me you didn’t DM”—a sour taste filled my mouth before I said her name—“Shelly after hooking up with her at some party or whatever?”

“No,” Marco said lightly.

“I met her at an athletic department event and asked for her number.” He paused.

“You really think I’m an asshole, don’t you?”

I shrugged.

“More of a dickhead.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Assholes are aware they’re jerks,” I said.

“Dickheads mostly have no idea how they come off; they’re dumb.”

Marco chuckled.

“Okay, I’ll accept the title.”

“You might aspire to rid yourself of it,” I mumbled.

It went silent between us for a few moments before Marco spoke.

“We’re not together anymore. Things ended during exams. Shelly wanted to be more than what we were, but I’m not in the right headspace for a serious girlfriend.”

All I did was nod, heart quickening.

“She ultimatum-ed me,” he added.

“ Ultimatum-ed is not a verb,” I said.

“It’s not even a word.”

“Well, I think it should be,” he replied, but slowly—like he was focused on something else.

He wasn’t looking me in the eye anymore, his gaze traveling from my head to my toes.

The beads of sweat on my upper lip began to sting.

“Do you want to play?” I asked, my body humming—telling me I needed to move; I needed to play.

“I’ll grab my extra stick?”

Five minutes later, Marco had kicked off his flip-flops and pulled off his T-shirt so he didn’t sweat through it.

Two years ago, my high school field hockey team rolled our eyes at the girls who’d hang out in the bleachers after school, all to catch a glimpse of Marco’s invincible abs at soccer practice.

It should’ve been a ticketed event , I thought, blood thickening in my veins.

Marco’s stickwork wasn’t disastrous by any means, but by the time I’d scored my fifth goal in a row, he abandoned any semblance of rules entirely.

“Obstruction!” I called when he stopped and stood in my path, blatantly preventing me from dribbling farther down the field.

“Major obstruction!”

“I didn’t hear a whistle. The refs think it’s fair.” He gestured to the porch, where Arthur and Francine were once again passed out asleep.

I couldn’t help but let out a laugh.

“Move.”

He didn’t, standing as strong and steady as a stone statue, so I backed up a bit and swerved to dodge him…

But before I could, his arm swung out and wrapped itself around my waist. It was sticky with sweat, but warm from the sun.

I wanted to protest when he hoisted me up over his shoulder, but any and all words stayed on the tip of my tongue.

I clung to him, feeling his back muscles flex under his smooth skin.

Afraid of falling, my heart bounced with my body as he attempted to run toward the goal, knocking the ball forward with his free hand.

“This…doesn’t…count,” I managed to say right before he scored, but he took me on a victory lap anyway.

“Field hockey,” he declared once he’d slowed to a stop, “is an amazing sport.”

“That,” I said, my limbs entirely entwined around his upper body, holding on for dear life, “was not field hockey.”

Marco laughed, his heartbeat hammering against my thigh.

Despite the heat, a sharp shiver shot through me.

“Then I guess we’ve developed some sort of hybrid,” he said breathlessly.

“We can workshop names later.”

“Sure.” I sighed, eyes closed and my cheek resting against his back.

“May I please be released now?”

“You were never being held captive,” Marco said, but when he started to flip me over his back, I yelped and clung to him like a koala all over again.

He didn’t say anything, but I could almost see the corners of his mouth tip up in a smile.

“Put me down,” I commanded.

“Or you can forget about being offered lemonade.”

“Lemonade?” he asked as he worked on ungluing my forearm from his collarbone.

“Are we talking Minute Maid? Or homemade?”

I snorted.

“Do you even know my parents?”

Da made the best freshly squeezed lemonade, usually for Dad’s signature blackberry whiskey lemonade cocktail.

In response, Marco promptly placed me back on the ground, but I still felt the heat radiating between us.

“Would you like to stay for dinner?” I blurted.

“Da’s doing shish kebabs on the grill, and Samira is in town.” I gestured toward the McCallisters’ house, obscured by acreage and tall pine trees.

“Connor and his family are coming over too…” I trailed off, shifting from one foot to the other.

“I mean, no pressure. I get it if you already have plans.”

Marco smiled and shook his head.

“I have no plans.” He took a step closer and teasingly zapped my waist.

Paralyzed by the strange electric current, I just barely heard him add:

“And I’d cancel them if I did.”

***

Marco sucked down three glasses of Da’s lemonade before he told me that he should head home to shower before dinner.

“I’m really sorry, Mads,” he said before climbing into the Bumper Car.

“I shouldn’t have left TI with Shelly that night when I suspected you’d be left alone, and I shouldn’t have later apologized on her behalf. That was up to her to do, not me.”

I smirked.

“I’ll die if I hold my breath for that. I blocked her number, too.”

Marco chuckled.

“Are we okay?”

“Yes.” I nodded.

“We’re okay.”

And truthfully, we were, but that didn’t mean my family was one hundred percent forgiving.

I texted the Fisher-Michaels group chat—named Good Genes —that I’d invited Marco to tonight’s cookout, and Austin was the first to respond: I thought we were Mad Mads at him.

Me too , Dad seconded.

Me three , Da said. (And didn’t you block his number?

Or was that all talk?)

I lovingly rolled my eyes.

They were ganging up on me.

We WERE , I typed, but he came over today to repent.

Although Dad got straight to the point that evening.

“Marco álvarez,” he said after picking Samira up at the train station.

“You let our underage daughter’s glorified tour guide abandon her at her first college party.”

“First?” I asked.

Dad gave me a look. “I’m sure this was the first of many, Mads.”

Da further embarrassed Marco, adding, “All to get some action.” He glanced between the two of us, eyes narrowed inquisitively.

“Do the kids still say that these days?”

“Yes, I did.” Marco flushed.

“It was far from my finest hour, and I’m truly sorry.” He shifted from one foot to the other.

“I’ve regretted it every day since then, but I thought it was better if someone else apologized first.”

“Mmm,” my parents hummed, knowing he meant Shelly.

“I procrastinated doing it myself,” Marco continued.

“And by the time I finally got the guts, your daughter had taken drastic measures to make sure she wouldn’t read it. I am, to quote Mads, a ‘dickhead.’”

“Duh, but thank you for walking her to Katie’s house,” Austin said, walking into the kitchen out of nowhere.

He had an overnight bag slung over his shoulder and haphazardly deposited it on the floor so he could hug Samira.

I watched her squeeze him back tightly, as if they were reuniting after being kept apart for years.

“Katie make a detour to visit the horses?” Da carefully ventured several seconds later.

“No,” Austin said. “She bailed.” He ran a hand through his hair.

“We kind of got in a fight.”

About what?

I wondered, but Dad put his hand over my mouth before I could ask.

“So, I’m gonna stay here tonight.” Austin gestured to his discarded duffel.

“If that’s alright.”

“Of course it’s alright,” Da replied, with Dad adding, “You do still have our house listed as your permanent address.”

I tried not to giggle.

It was true; Austin got more mail than I did.

Capital One was practically begging my brother to apply for a credit card with them.

Austin half smiled. “When are the McCallisters coming over?”

“Anytime now,” Da said, then turned to Marco.

“Would you mind helping me finish prepping the appetizers?”

“Just tell me what to do, Chef,” Marco answered, and once he followed Da into the kitchen—his famous watermelon salad with feta, blueberries, and mint was on the menu—and after Samira and Dad disappeared to ready the bar, I hauled ass upstairs to Austin’s room.

“Hey,” I said, walking through his open door in time to catch him collapse face down on his bed.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he said into his pillow.

“Fine.”

I waited.

My brother groaned. “Katie is so ridiculous sometimes.”

Well, yeah , I thought, then asked what happened.

“We had a tasting at Bedens Brook this afternoon,” he said.

“You know, for the wedding food.”

“A wedding should definitely have some,” I remarked.

Austin laughed, but it sounded forced.

“It’s customary for the country club to cater receptions, but Katie hated everything. Literally, everything . The hors d’oeuvres, salads, entrées…” He trailed off and shook his head.

“She didn’t even try hiding it, either. She kept flipping her hair.”

I nodded, having noticed Katie did that when unimpressed.

“What did you think about the food?”

“I thought it was pretty good,” Austin said.

“Better than most of the weddings I’ve been to, actually.” He shrugged.

“Honestly, I don’t expect a dinner for two hundred to be the most magical meal of my life.”

My pulse jumped.

“Two hundred?”

Austin didn’t appear to hear me.

“Now Katie and her parents want to hire outside caterers.”

“Uh, is that allowed?”

“Not technically, but the Gallants are going to make it allowed,” he said.

“Katie’s mom already has a list of potential prospects, and of course the álvarez family is at the top even though they are invited to the wedding.”

Marco’s invited?

I thought.

Austin sighed.

“I’m embarrassed, Mads. Commissioning the cake from a specialty bakery is one thing, but I think it’s an insult to Bedens Brook if we don’t serve their food. I mean, this is already going to be beyond expensive, but why are we even having the reception there if we’re not taking advantage of that?” He grumbled.

“She’s the one who wanted the full-on country club wedding.”

I bit my lip.

“I’m guessing you aired these grievances to her?”

“Yep.” He inhaled, then exhaled.

“She asked me why I cared so much. I’m only the groom—which I guess means my only part in this whole thing is showing up for the ceremony—and it’s not like I’m footing the final bill, so what does it matter to me?”

“Oh my god.” I didn’t want to believe it.

“Talk about a bridezilla!”

My brother didn’t say anything.

I took that to mean he didn’t disagree with me.

“Austin, that’s terrible,” I said.

“Terrible, and super unfair. You should…”

Break up with her , the voice in the back of my head whispered.

“Please don’t tell Dad and Da,” he murmured after a moment.

“I’m going to tell them we argued about whether or not we should go to Katie’s business school friend’s wedding in October. They aren’t that close, and it’s in Cabo.”

“But—”

“I’ve never really felt the need to visit Cabo,” he said.

“I wouldn’t be lying.”

“You wouldn’t be telling the truth, either,” I quickly countered.

Austin’s eyes were heavy with exhaustion.

“Mads…”

“Where are you?!” someone shouted from downstairs.

It was Liam, Connor’s thirteen-year-old brother.

The McCallisters had arrived.

“I need you to back me up! Lauren doesn’t think Shawn Mendes is hot!”

“Uh…” Austin’s brow furrowed.

“Who’s Lauren?”

“Someone from school.” I tried not to wince.

“Lauren Bitterman plays lacrosse.”

“Okay, cool,” he said slowly, still confused.

“But why is Lauren Bitterman here ?”

I groaned.

“I’m assuming because she’s finally clawed her way into Connor’s heart.”

Once again, it appeared I wasn’t enough for him.

***

We ate outside on the front porch, crowded together around the glass-topped table.

Da’s food was incredible, and our ceaseless laughter drifted up into the twilit sky.

Austin and Samira were the first to call it a night.

“We’re going to Fable,” they announced after we’d devoured the decadent olive oil and salted chocolate brownies Samira had made.

“You’re never going to get a table…” Marco warned.

Fable was his family’s whimsical dessert and cocktail lounge.

It was almost like a speakeasy in the sense that there was no sign of its existence beyond a brassy gold plaque with a quill on it.

Seconds after knocking on the nondescript front door of a side-street rowhouse, the host opened one of the wooden panes and asked for your name.

Inside, it was like a magical library with gleaming wood walls, flickering candles, cozy velvet and leather chairs, and bookcases upon bookcases.

There was always a waitlist.

“Then we’ll squeeze in at the bar,” Austin responded.

His eyes darted to Samira.

“I need a nightcap.”

“The seasonal mocktails are very popular,” Marco noted.

“I recommend the s’more martini. It’s mixed with a liquor substitute.”

“A s’more martini ?” Connor and I said simultaneously, and I felt myself flush as he asked: “How can that possibly taste good?”

“Because I invented it,” Marco said.

My parents and the McCallisters laughed, the sound crackling like a campfire.

I rolled my eyes when Marco smiled smugly and straightened up in his seat.

“Boom, toasted ,” Mr. McCallister said with a wink.

“Oh, jeez, Dad…” Connor groaned as Da and Mr. McCallister shared a fist bump for a Dad Joke well-done.

Marco and I went to hang out in what my family called the “Garden” after the McCallisters headed home (Connor and Lauren hand in hand!).

Years ago, Da and Austin had ambitiously planted a large vegetable patch, which was now flanked by flourishing herb and flower gardens.

Dad had been the architect of a split-rail fence complete with wire mesh, in order to keep deer and other critters from trespassing.

It outlined a square, and in the center of the Garden was a brick patio with an inlaid koi pond and wrought-iron summer furniture.

After slipping through the garden gate, I flicked on the market lights I’d strung up overhead and then flung myself onto the couch’s red cushions.

“Graceful,” Marco commented.

“And beautiful,” I quipped.

“You can’t forget beautiful.”

She is beauty and she is grace , I remembered him joking after I’d tripped down the stairs at Austin and Katie’s engagement party.

Ugh, Katie .

I couldn’t even think about her right now, because if I did, I’d either focus on the off chance that she and Austin might not recover from this fight and I would get Austin back…

or we’d get Austin back, but he’d be devastated without Katie.

Why was there this tug-of-war?

“Did you have fun?” I asked Marco after he’d settled in the chair across from me.

Because I’d barely spent any time with him tonight.

He’d cooked dinner with Da and then talked about everything under the sun with Dad during appetizers.

He and Samira had even been whispering back and forth earlier.

“Yes.” Marco grinned.

“A lot of fun.”

“Good,” I said, grinning back.

“I think it’s safe to say that if you showed up out of the blue, no one would be particularly mad about it.”

“Well, your dad—Harry—and I did talk about me working here,” Marco replied.

“Every now and again, I need a change of scenery to write.”

“Wait, write ?” I asked.

“I’m working at Ember he genuinely liked having a girlfriend and Lauren had been campaigning for months.

Why had I procrastinated so long about asking him out?

Connor wasn’t expecting me to, he had no idea it was coming—or, supposed to come.

Why the hell had I thought he would wait for me to get my shit together?

“It’s too late,” I whispered, to both Marco and the moon.

“I’m too late.”

“Maybe,” Marco whispered back.

“Maybe not.”

“Listen, I’m not going to break them up,” I said.

“I would never do that to Connor.”

“I wasn’t remotely suggesting that,” Marco replied.

“And I’m a bit insulted you thought otherwise.”

I laughed.

“You’re right; I’m not that sweet to you.”

“Nah, you are.” Marco grinned.

“You’re just more of a sweet tart than a sweetheart.”

“Connor goes for sweethearts,” I grumbled.

Because Lauren Bitterman?

She might’ve gotten on my nerves, but everyone at school thought she was nice.

Like Connor, she’d unanimously been voted next spring’s lacrosse captain.

“Connor’s only seventeen,” Marco said.

“He doesn’t know anything.”

“Oh, and you do?” I asked airily.

“Has Princeton already taught you everything?”

“Not everything ,” he answered, tossing the throw pillow back at me.

I hugged it to my chest after catching it.

“But yes, sweet tart, I like to think I know some stuff.”

“Like what?” I teased, but when he only winked at me, I felt the sudden and strange urge to hide my face in the pillow and scream.

He was exasperating.