Page 45 of Dream On, Ramona Riley

Ramona turned slowly and glared. “This from the grown woman wearing Olive’s Halloween costume from when she was eleven.”

“Oh my god, is that what it’s from?” April said, looking down at the puffy nylon. “I just found it in a box in the basement and immediately thought,Yes.”

“It’s mine,” Olive said. She was tapping away at her phone, sitting cross-legged on one of the bright orange chairs in their lane. “I got sick at your house after eating too many SweeTARTS and took it off there. I can’t believe you saved it.”

“You’re precious in all ways, Olive Rebecca,” April said.

Olive’s fingers froze for a second, then she stood and tucked her phone into her bag before grabbing Marley’s hand and marching the two of them toward the arcade without another word. Ramona watched her go, her own stomach tightening. Rebecca, while Olive’s middle name, was also their mother’s name. Not a word uttered too often in the Riley house.

“Sorry,” April mouthed at Ramona.

She waved her friend off—not her fault, but the ghost of her mother entering the scene wasn’t exactly helping her mood.

“Dylan, you’re up,” April said.

“Right, yeah,” Dylan said, standing up from where she’d been sitting behind the computer, then heading to the ball return. She paused when she passed Ramona, set a gentle hand on her arm.

“You okay?” she asked softly.

Ramona’s stomach went from tightly packed earth to an undulating ocean.

“Fine,” she said brusquely.

She didn’t mean to.

She knew she needed to let it go, this Cherry-Lolli-Dolly thing. It wasn’t Dylan’s fault they’d never exchanged real names, or that Ramona had told her she was on vacation too, or that Ramona looked quite different eighteen years ago. Or that Ramona was forgettable, unmemorable, a wisp of an event in the realm of Dylan Monroe’s extensive and exciting life. Or that she was now descending into self-pity, which she very rarely allowed herself to do and never led anywhere productive, and only made her feel crabbier because she couldn’t get over herself.

She plopped into a chair, folded her arms, and then unfolded them because she knew she looked like a petulant child. Also, because Dylan was watching her, her mouth slightly turned down, her bright pink bowling ball in her hands.

“You sure you’re okay?” Dylan asked.

Ramona forced a smile. “Totally. See if you can get another strike.”

Dylan didn’t look convinced, but she turned away anyway, sent the ball down the glossy lane with a fervor matched only by the town’s local bowling league team, the Clover Lanies, and knocked down eight pins in a seven-ten split.

“Damn,” she said, but she was grinning, then scurried over to the ball return to try for a spare.

“You need a drink?” April asked from where she was now sitting at the computer.

“How many can you carry at one time?” Ramona asked.

April just laughed. “Margarita?”

“Extra salt.”

“Got it.”

April kissed Ramona on the top of her head as she passed, and Ramona took several deep breaths while Dylan waited for the pins to reset, trying not to notice how cute she looked in her bowling shoes and retro dress.

Because she did look cute.

Gorgeous and cute all at once, which was a dangerous combination, one that made Ramona feel even smaller, even more forgettable, and even more—

“Ramona, hey.”

A deep voice.

Familiar and husky. A voice that when growled into Ramona’s ear, all breathy and pleading, almost always led to very exciting things.