“Okay.” She stands and dusts off her hands, crosses her arms over her chest. “I know you used to spend summers at your mom’s friend’s house in the Finger Lakes, and that’s where you had your first kiss. I know the only two things guaranteed to make you cry are dogs dying in movies and the smell of salami and eggs, the second because it’s the only thing your shitty father ever made right. And I know you’re writing a romance novel in that notebook you keep under your pillow, even though you won’t let anyone read it. How am I doing?”

“Not bad,” I concede, giving my sternum a quick press with my palm to try and break up the weirdness building beneath it. “But I know you too. I know you’ve tried exactly six times to replicate your steta’s kibbeh recipe, and that it’s what you’d choose as your last meal on death row. I know your name was one of your parents’ biggest fights, because your mom wanted to name you after said grandmother and your father straight-up refused. I know you still sleep with a stuffed panda oh-so-cleverly named Panda. And I know you’re scared of waterskiing but don’t want anyone to know, because you don’t like people knowing you have any fears at all.”

Her eyes widen. “I am not—”

“Yeah, you are.”

She exhales. “Yeah, I am. How the hell did you know that?”

I watch you. I can’t freaking stop watching you. Wanna know some more things I know? That you have a lightning bolt of beauty marks on the back of your left thigh. That nothing tastes better than sparkling apple cider on your tongue in the hot tub. That every time I hear you reading French aloud to practice for the AP exam, I have to take a cold shower.

“Just very brilliant,” I say with a shrug.

She snorts. “Apparently. Come on, let’s go husk the corn.”

I jump at the chance to clear my head of the thoughts I definitely shouldn’t be having and follow her into the kitchen, where green piles await us on the center island’s concrete countertop. We immediately get to attacking it, yanking down the leaves and stringy silks and snapping them off at the base. Before long there’s a huge pile of garbage heaped in front of us on the counter, but it smells so sweet and delicious, I want to dive right in.

“You look like you wanna go to town on that,” Jasmine says dryly as we scoop up the mess. “Just remember, it’s still raw.”

“Okay, but I’m starving,” I grumble.

“We’re doing guacamole next.” She opens the fridge and pulls out a bunch of herbs while I grab the avocados. “I promise not to tell if you sneak an avocado or twelve.”