“Georgia.” Josie’s love for her sister is apparent in the way she says her name, like it’s precious. Like she’s precious. Understandably so, after the accident BookshopGirl told me about.

“And you?” she asks. “Any brothers or sisters?”

“Three brothers; I’m the baby.”

“Ahhh,” she says, as if that explains something—but I know enough about birth order to know I’m not as outgoing or free spirited as youngest children tend to be.

On the other hand, I would have known Josie was the oldest even without my conversations with BookshopGirl. She’s a textbook firstborn—a hardworking, high-achieving perfectionist who believes it’s her duty to take care of her sibling.

Again, I feel that reluctant squeeze of sympathy. I still can’t believe her mother left her sister alone, forcing Josie to leave school. Even worse, it sounds like that was a pattern their whole lives. It’s hard to imagine a parent doing that. Mine have always been there for me, even if I sometimes wish my mom would back off a little.

“So, what’d you do before working at the Tab?” I ask. “Where’d you go to college?”

And just like that, Josie shuts down, her body stiffening, her expression flattening. I curse myself for bringing up a taboo topic and putting an end to our conversational volley. It had been going pretty well.

She answers, a single word, devoid of emotion: “Emerson.”

I can tell she’s bracing herself for the inevitable next questions: what did you major in or when did you graduate. But I’m not going there.

Before I can think of a way to pivot, Josie says, “I love this song,” and turns up the radio.

She doesn’t seem like the type to love Flo Rida, but I let it go.

—

An hour and twenty minutes later, I’m waiting in the lobby of the Star Inn, my foot tapping with nerves and impatience. We’re late.

As soon as we arrived, Josie went upstairs to change in her room, which is actually my room. The hotel was full when I called, so I gave her mine. I changed in the lobby bathroom, and I’ll crash at my parents’ after the party. My complicated feelings can’t handle an “only one bed” situation.

I’m checking my watch for the twentieth time when the elevator dings, and I look up.

“Wow,” I accidentally say out loud.

Josie’s hair, freed from that constricting bun, cascades in waves down to her lower back. She’s wearing a dark blue dress that hugs her curves in all the right places. The full skirt looks made for twirling on the dance floor, and the halter top dips low enough to reveal more than a hint of her cleavage.

My mouth goes dry, and I get a flash of myself loosening the tie behind her neck, watching the dress fall to the floor.