Maybe talking to Shannon is exactly what I need. She may give way too much advice, and sometimes it’s downright bad, but not always. Sometimes it’s exactly what I need to hear, enough that I hear it even when she’s thousands of miles away. I light up my phone to check the time and do a quick calculation to see if it’s too late to call.

It’s about one in the morning in Paris, which is sort of on the border of acceptable, but what would I say? Hey, Shan—I’ve been hooking up with this girl and I’m confused about what it means? How would she know, without knowing Jasmine?

Maybe imaginary Shannon’s advice is right, though. Sometimes “just” is exactly that. Jasmine and I are just having fun. It’s not even like things are happening intentionally; they just happen when we’re doing other things. What could be more “just” than that?

Satisfied, I do one last touch-up of my makeup, take a selfie, and pick up the newest Clementine Walker book. Who needs tough love when you can escape into pure fluff?

Half an hour later, the boil is in full swing, and guests are swarming the gingham-covered tables piled high with jumbo shrimp, crawfish, sausage, crab, and corn. The air smells salty and briny and spicy and sweet, and my mouth is watering, even though I’m secretly scared of the crawfish and their freaky heads.

“Are you coming or what?” Jasmine calls from the table where she’s sitting with Keisha, Brea, Derek, and Owen, glass bottles of colorful wine coolers dotting the cloth in front of them. “Where have you been?”

I’d gotten too wrapped up in my book, which is embarrassing since I’d already read it once this summer. I only looked up from it because Gia FaceTimed me from cheer camp, which she does every week to show me what I’m missing by dropping off the squad, and by the time we hung up, everyone was here and the food was out of the pots and on the table.

“Friend called” is all I offer as I grab a plate and sit my butt in one of the white plastic chairs, my eyes roving hungrily over the selection. Sausage is an easy choice—you don’t grow up the granddaughter of Tolya Bogdan without kolbasa being one of your major food groups. I glance at my mom and see she had the same idea. Declan is sitting next to her and laughing as he gestures to the other food.

“You’re missing some damn good crawfish,” says Keisha, plucking one from the pile and cracking it open so quickly I can’t even see how she’s doing it. “They don’t make ’em like this in DC. Best part of coming here for the summers.”