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Ten Years Earlier…

I glance over at my best friend, Claire, and for the first time since we embarked on this walk through our neighborhood to go down to the local park—something we do almost every evening when the sun is setting—she looks sad.

We were laughing just moments ago, but the vibe has definitely shifted.

I know why. It’s due to the elephant in the room we’ve yet to discuss—her dad.

Last night, Barnes Weller made his annual pilgrimage from Los Angeles to Phoenix—in his private jet, of course—to take his only child out to dinner for her seventeenth birthday. Claire hasn’t said anything about where they went or what they did, just that she’s tired today since she got in really late last night.

Nudging her arm with my elbow, I ask, “Are you okay?”

Staring straight ahead to the park we just reached, she nods once. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

We start down a trail, and she looks over and smiles. But that smile doesn’t reach her pretty hazel eyes.

Softly, I say, “Do you want to talk about it?”

She knows I’m well-aware her sudden change in mood has to do with her annoying dad.

Sighing, Claire kicks away a dried-up chunk of desert foliage that’s in our path.

After a few seconds, she says, “There’s not too much to discuss, Easton. Dad came in like his usual whirlwind self, picked me up in some stupid stretch limo, and then rushed us back to the airport. We flew up to Las Vegas in his jet, had dinner at a fancy restaurant, and then he brought me back. That’s it. End of story.”

I don’t ask for details.

I know it hurts her that she only sees her father once a year, on her birthday. They text and talk on the phone here and there other times, but that’s not the same, and it’s not even all that often.

Barnes claims he’s busy, busy, busy—his words to her, not mine—running his multimillion-dollar aeronautics company.

He started that venture after he divorced Claire’s mom.

And then it really took off, no pun intended.

The long and short of it is that business is his real baby, not his daughter.

I think Claire knows that in her heart, which totally sucks.

I’ve never met the dick, but I don’t like him for that reason alone. I hate seeing my friend sad.

And sad is what he always seems to make her.

We’re both quiet as we round a curve in the trail. Up ahead is a huge saguaro cactus with a funny bend in one of its arms that makes it resemble a person waving. A long time ago, we named him Stan.

There’s a small picnic table next to the cactus that looks like it’s been there forever and probably has. It was once dark wood, I’m sure. But it’s been sun bleached to hell and back and is now gray.

Jerking my chin to the table, I ask Claire, “Do you want to take a break and sit next to Stan for a while?”

We sometimes do this, so it’s not out of the ordinary.

“Sure,” she replies.

We sit across from each other, under the watchful eye of Stan.

Claire’s long hair has been up in a high ponytail held by some elastic band thingy— hell, I don’t know what they’re called— but she’s now sliding it off and fluffing out her chestnut-brown locks, making the reddish highlights much more obvious in the sun.

I guess I’m staring, seeing as she catches me and stops mid-fluff.

“What?” she asks as she slips the band thingy over her hand and up to her wrist.

I shake my head. “Nothing.”

Hell, I can’t tell her I was just thinking about how beautiful she is, and how when she does that thing with her hair, my breath always catches in my throat.

See, we’re just friends. We have been since she and her mom moved into our middle-class neighborhood five years ago when we were both twelve.

Secretly, I’m glad her dad didn’t start his company until after the divorce. Otherwise, he’d probably be paying a hell of a lot more in alimony and child support. Claire and her mom would surely be living in some mansion somewhere.

Then I wouldn’t know her.

Hell, I would’ve never even met her.

We wouldn’t go to the same high school, where we share a lot of the same classes. Nor would we have started riding our bikes together two days after she moved in.

That’s actually how we met.

We clicked right away. Maybe because we’re both only children, I don’t know.

Anyway, had we not met, we wouldn’t be able to hang at each other’s houses and do our homework together. Although, some days we slack on the schoolwork and watch stupid shows on TV instead.

I like those times best.

Anytime Claire’s laughing and having fun, I feel so happy.

Isn’t that dumb?

Oh well, whatever.

I guess what I’m trying to say is if Claire hadn’t moved into my neighborhood, we wouldn’t be the best friends that we are. Nor would we be taking late-summer walks like this one and sharing our lives.

Since I’m worried Claire may catch on to my sappy reminiscing— and why am I doing this anyway?— I clear my throat and say, “Man, I can’t believe school starts next week. Summer went way too fast.”

“I know,” Claire agrees. “But this year should be fun. We’re finally seniors.”

“Right?”

She goes on. “It feels like the last three years kind of dragged. But I bet this one flies by.”

Her pretty eyes meet mine, and I swear, even from across the table, I can see the cool flecks of gold and green in them.

Or maybe it’s just me thinking they’re visible, because I know they’re there.

Okay, time for a subject change.

“And then it’s off to college,” I say, excitement building in my voice. “I know I tell you all the time, but, man, I can’t wait to play hockey at Boston College.”

It’s true. I am fucking beyond pumped for this opportunity. I want to shine as a forward on their team. Hopefully, I’ll make some good contributions and an NHL team will take notice of me.

Then the sky’s the limit.

Claire knows my dream is to play on a professional hockey team.

Smiling, she says, “After you graduate from college, next up is the big leagues.”

I blow out a breath. “Damn, I sure hope so.”

“It’ll happen,” she assures me with another sweet smile.

I am so ready to go to college right now.

But there is one thing I’ll miss—Claire.

With that in mind, I say, “You’ll have to come visit me in Boston.”

“I will,” she replies. “Plus, I’m sure we’ll hang out when you come home on breaks.”

Claire is planning to stay here in Phoenix and attend Arizona State. I’m happy about that, because I’d hate to lose touch with her.

“For sure,” I agree with a solid nod.

Sighing, she says softly, “Still, I’ll miss you, Easton.”

A pang of sadness hits my heart.

Running my fingers through my hair, I reply, “I know. I’m going to miss you too. Like, a fucking lot.”

As the sun sizzles down into the horizon beyond us, painting the desert in shades of red, pink, and orange, Claire whispers, “You’re my very best friend, Easton.”

Her hands are on the table, and I place one of mine over hers.

Squeezing gently, I tell her, “You’re mine too.”

Flipping her hand over and entwining her fingers with mine, she says, “Can I ask you for something huge?”

We’ve never held hands like this, and I like it more than I should. It makes me want to touch her in other ways.

I quickly remind myself that we’re just friends, and friends can hold hands without it having to mean anything more than mere affection.

“You can ask me anything,” I reply, my voice kind of cracking. “You know that, Claire.”

“Okay, here goes…” She blows out a breath, then says, “So, last night, my dad gave me the conditions in regard to when I can access my trust fund.”

“Okayyy,” I reply, confused as to where this could be heading.

I mean, I know her dad created a trust fund for her a while ago, but it’s not like she talks about it very often. In fact, I think it only ever came up when she first told me about it, and that was ages ago.

Squeezing our intertwined hands, she blurts out in a rush, “Anyway, I get access to it when I turn twenty-seven. That’s ten years from now. But there is one condition my dad put into place.”

“What’s the condition?” I ask, truly curious.

“I have to be married to get the money.”

“Wait, what?” I laugh. “That’s crazy. Like some fucking medieval shit or whatever.”

“It is,” she agrees, sighing. “But what can I do? Anyway, are you ready for my question part?”

I shrug. “Yeah, sure.”

Her eyes meet mine and holding my gaze, she says, “If neither of us is married by that time, will you marry me, Easton?”

The amount of caring I feel for this girl is so strong that, with no hesitation whatsoever, I answer with what my heart is screaming for me to say: “Yes, I will.”