Dylan carries around one of the famous little blue bags while we wander around the rest of the mall together.

Audrey is much more patient with me when we make our return to the bookstore. She follows Dylan around, judging all the books by their covers. I end up buying the creative writing book I eyeballed earlier, then she drags us both back to the make-up store so she can compare two kinds of mascara.

While she’s talking to a sales associate, who is complimenting her skin endlessly, Dylan finally faces me head on.

“What’s happening with this?” he asks, eyeing the braid that’s getting looser each time I fidget with it.

I wander through the aisles. “Audrey did it to me,” I say. “Said it would make things more manageable.”

“Just to be clear,” Dylan says. “You’re taking hair advice from your sister.”

Audrey’s emerald green hair fades with each wash, so it’s kind of murky at the moment. I’d look like an Oompa Loompa with that color, but on Audrey, it kind of works.

I frown at his insult.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with it on her, but again, I think we’ve established that her style is far different than yours,” he clarifies.

It makes me smile with relief.

Audrey saunters back over to us with a devilish grin on her face. “I managed to get three testers out of that associate without buying anything,” she says excitedly.

She insists that we celebrate her victory with milkshakes, even though she had one for lunch.

Dylan, of course, refuses to let either of us pay. We sit back in the cafeteria, and the conversation is surprisingly easy.

I send a silent thank you to Mrs. Archer, wherever she is, for giving Dylan the ability to hold a polite conversation with just about anyone. I’m sure hers is well practiced over years of dining with people she knows from business situations, but Dylan actually seems to be enjoying himself.

He asks Audrey a number of questions about school and what her life is like on the other side of the state. She tries to pry out of him where he’s going next fall, but he expertly pivots the conversation back to her before she even realizes what is happening.

Watching him work is kind of an art.

And I’m enjoying admiring it.

After we’re all sugared up and full, Dylan insists on walking us back to Audrey’s car.

She pulls him into a quick hug and beelines for the driver’s seat, graciously giving us a moment to ourselves.

“Thanks for the milkshakes, Archer.”

“It’s only fair that I repay you for all the sugar you’ve been gifting me these past few weeks,” he says.

“Is that how it’s going to be?” I ask. “Both of us trying to one-up the other and refusing to admit that it’s just nice to do things for each other?”

“Maybe.”

His hands are back in his pockets, and I follow his eyes across the parking lot to the spot where his lips were on mine. That night seems like years ago at this point, but as soon as I recall the memory, it seems very fresh.

I don’t dwell on it too often because I think we were different people in that situation, testing the limits of each other. I wouldn’t say we’ve figured everything out since then, but it feels evolved somehow.

But now, standing here with him, the suppression of that moment is lifted, and I can’t think of anything other than how it felt when his lips were on mine.

My hand on his chest.

His lips on my neck.

The low moan in his throat.

I feel the redness creep up on my neck and cheeks. “Well, I guess I’ll see you around, then?”

“Sure,” he says.

There’s a hollowness in his voice that makes me desperate to know if he was just thinking about the same things I was.

I chicken out from any physical contact and stutter-step over to the passenger’s seat.

I’m thankful for the fact that Audrey seems to be lost in her own head while she drives because I’m floored by the flood of everything that is Dylan Archer and our kiss. And the fact that I didn’t realize how much I missed seeing him every day until just now.

Abruptly, Audrey turns down the music.

“I thought you and James…” She sighs. “I thought you had a grand plan where you died sitting on a porch hand in hand after celebrating a hundred joint birthdays together.”

I keep my gaze fixed out the window.

If I close my eyes, I can still see them—the life events and decisions that would lead to my death. It’s like I’m taking steps along a path, focusing so strictly on getting to the end of it that I’m completely missing all the other stones I’m stepping on to get there.

For so long, I’ve been dwelling on an end that’s so far away, along with the problems and worries that don’t even exist yet, when I should have been grasping what was in front of me and enjoying the start of something special.

“I guess things really do change,” she breathes before she turns the music back up.

16

“Apparently it’s not even mono,” Kyle groans. “But she’s not coming back soon, and we’re screwed.”

We’re two weeks back into school after spring break, and each day has been busier than the last. I miss the long days with Audrey and the mostly nothingness that filled them, but in some ways, it feels good to be back and managing my schedule and schoolwork.

There are some loose ends that need to be tied up, and a major one is putting the final touches on the yearbook before we send it off.

It’s just Kyle and me left for the day. We’re both huddled over my laptop and making a list of pages that need correcting and spaces we need photos.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Let me ask the front office if we can have some budget to bring in a professional.”

“You think it’s worth all the hoops of getting written permission and having them vet people to roam the halls and shoot candids?”

“Why don’t you just have students send in their own photos?” Brandon says from the doorway. “We all have thousands of pictures and selfies on our phone. Why not take advantage of it?”

I watch him pull up a chair and kick his feet up on the tabletop, like some sort of CEO who just sauntered in to solve all our problems.

To be fair, he kind of just did.

“That’s actually genius, Brandon,” I say.

“More than just a pretty face with a multimillionaire best friend,” he says with a smirk.

I roll my eyes. “Okay, let’s talk logistics.”

Kyle sets up an email address for submissions and then together we draft a note for the front office to distribute to teachers and to the student body. Brandon suggests we make flyers as a reminder, and we make good progress on those until he interrupts us, reminding Kyle they have dinner reservations.

I finish up the flyer without him, and I check my email once more for good measure before I shut down for the night. It’s mostly junk and messages from the PTA, but occasionally I’ll get something from the dean or one of the school board members.

“Oh my god,” I say, nearly falling out of my chair when I see the unread message in my inbox.

My heart pounds as I click the message and digest the words inside it.