“I thought your mom talked about doing a brunch this year.” Anna knew this would never happen, but sometimes it seemed only fair to torture Eleanor since she was always torturing her and Alexander. Well, she couldn’t speak for her boyfriend, because he never complained about Eleanor. “She’s my sister, Anna,” was his refrain on the few occasions when she let her annoyance with Eleanor show. “Family is family.”

“No way, Sunday birthday brunches sound like something old people do. Plus, there’s always too much syrup around a brunch for me to ever relax. You know how much I detest—”

“Sticky things, yes, I know. Have you talked to Alexander about doing it this Sunday night already?”

“I’ve left him several messages about it, three today, even. But he still hasn’t called me back. I know you two talk every night, so I was kinda sorta hopin-n-prayin you’d talk to him for me. He’ll do it if you ask him since he lurrrves you. Please, Annie-pie, Ellie’s asking so very nicely.”

Anna agreed, giving in to avoid the headache she now felt radiating up her neck, and reminding Eleanor that Alexander said no to her plenty. She knew he’d be annoyed at her for getting involved when he was probably avoiding Eleanor’s call on purpose, but she just didn’t have the patience for Eleanor’s whining right now. The headache crept behind her jaw, making her ears hurt. Less than two hours ago she had been so calm and centered, cantering with Marc Antony, who had jumped particularly well during her riding lesson this afternoon.

Her memory traveled back to when she left Staugas Farms and was at a four-way stop across from a guy on a motorcycle dressed all in black with a red racing stripe on his tinted helmet. Seeing a motorcycle while driving always made her nervous, so she paid special attention to the red shiny bike before her. Her mom called them “donorcycles” and refused to let Steven get one, even though he had begged for an entire year. He gave up after he got his driver’s license, though Anna knew her brother rode his friend Kaedon’s bike at their house in the Catskills.

She had been surprised to learn on Valentine’s Day that Vronsky’s mother even allowed him to ride one, and without a proper license, which, even though he had just turned sixteen, he still hadn’t bothered to get. (In France when Geneviève was growing up every fourteen-year-old had a moped.) Ah, there it was! These days every single thought she had seemed to lead right back to Vronsky. The sleek Ducati bike made her nervous, bringing up thoughts of a motorcycle accident, which made her think of how terrible it’d be if Vronsky ever crashed his motorcycle.