Page 41 of The Summer We Made Promises (The Destin Diaries #3)

You know how sometimes you get an idea in your head and you just know that it’s going to be magic? Not maybe. Not possibly. Just straight-up, stars-aligning, Disney-movie magic?

Well. That’s what I thought today would be. I’ve been planning it all week in my head. My Sunset Picnic Idea. Capital letters and everything. Summer is coming to an end (SADNESS!) and this would be the most perfect way to say goodbye to it.

I thought, wouldn’t it be so cute if all the summer kids—me, Tessa, Kate, Eli, Peter ( ), even Crista, I guess—went down to the beach at golden hour and had a sunset picnic together?

Like, with snacks and music and one of those giant patchwork quilts Aunt Jo Ellen keeps in the linen closet that smells like dryer sheets?

So I told everyone. Three days ago. I made invitations, too. “ Thursday evening. Beach picnic. Bring a blanket and your fun self!”

Kate said she’d come. Tessa said she’d totally be there. Eli gave a thumbs-up. Even Jo Ellen said it was a cute idea and offered to get juice boxes and cut-up watermelon for us. Peter just ignored it, but I knew he’d come with everyone else.

So I packed snacks. Not just random boring ones, either.

I made PB&J tea sandwiches and washed strawberries with lemon so they’d taste fresher.

I packed them in the green cooler and stuck a little Polaroid camera inside just in case I wanted to take cute friendship pictures for the scrapbook I haven’t started yet.

I wore my new sundress, the pink one with the eyelet lace straps that Mom said makes me look “way too grown-up.”

But then, last minute, no one could come.

Kate felt bad, but she forgot she had to catch up on her summer reading for English class in the fall.

Tessa fell asleep on the couch with a wicked sunburn.

Eli went off with his other stupid summer friends like Dustin Mathers.

And Crista was in hours-long time out for some bad thing she’d done that didn’t fly with Mom.

I was so sad, I decided to just go have my picnic alone in a classic pity party.

Just me and the beach. And the snacks. And the sign I dragged down from the kitchen and propped up in the sand like a sad little billboard of rejection.

Then—

PETER.

I heard someone jogging down the stairs from the deck and when I turned around, it was him.

“I come bearing drinks,” he said. “Did I miss everyone or…?”

Imagine me trying to look casual while I was actually two seconds away from crying into a peanut butter sandwich.

I admitted they all bailed.

Peter looked at me for a long second, then dropped down onto the quilt like it was exactly where he meant to be all along.

He cracked open a root beer like he was Tom Cruise and it was real beer.

Then he said…“Their loss.”

MY HEART

I didn’t know what to say. I was embarrassed. And a little heartbroken. And a lot humiliated. But he just sat there with me and ate strawberries. Took a bite of one of my dumb sandwiches and said it was “delicious, with a surprise jelly twist, but where’s the crust?”

We watched the sun go down together, just the two of us, and he didn’t say anything cheesy or awkward. He just sat there with me like it wasn’t weird or sad at all and we talked about school and stuff.

I told him he didn’t have to come.

And he said, “Sure I did. You asked.”

And that right there? That’s Peter. He always shows up.

When it was all done, he said, “You know, Viv, this was actually pretty great. Sunset. Sandwiches. No Eli telling the same dumb joke five times. I’d say it was perfect.”

PERFECT.

Then he winked—ACTUALLY WINKED—and said, “Let me know when the next picnic is. I’ll be the first to RSVP.”

And then he was gone. He carried the cooler upstairs and went inside. Like it was nothing.

But it wasn’t nothing to me.

I think maybe—I don’t know—I think maybe reliability is actually the dreamiest thing there is. Not flowers or mixtapes or boys who play guitar. But boys who show up with root beer and call your sandwiches delicious and treat you like you matter.

Peter McCarthy showed up tonight. For me.

And it might’ve been the smallest thing in the world. But it felt like everything.

Love,

Viv

P.S. I really hope he meant it when he said he'd come to the next picnic. Maybe next time I’ll actually plan it just for him. Not that I’d ever admit it.