By the time the party dies down and cleanup begins, I feel like a beached whale, but it’s worth it. This might be the most fun I’ve had the entire summer. I miss my friends, but the ones I’ve made here are so awesome, it’s impossible to wish I’d chosen cheer camp with Gia, or be jealous of Shannon’s trip to Paris or Kiki’s to Japan, and I’m certainly no longer wishing I were dusting off shelves at the Book and Bean.

Keisha and Owen even stay to help clean up. Keisha and I are clearing glasses and cans from the table when she says, “You two are cute.”

I cock my head. “Who two?”

Her eyebrow rises all the way up. “Seriously?”

A billion crawfish slosh in my stomach, swimming in apple-flavored wine cooler. I don’t know why, but I want to hear her say it out loud, maybe so I can stop feeling delusional. But I already played clueless, and to acknowledge that I know who she’s referring to is to acknowledge that I see something too. Which is not an option. I shrug instead.

She rolls her eyes, but lets it go. She’s certainly had enough annoying experience with people trying to pair her up. “Do you think you’ll come back next summer? Or is this a one-time thing for you and your mom?”

It hadn’t occurred to me that we might never do this again. But then, I haven’t really given much thought to this ending, life going back to the status quo. It’s too hard to imagine waking up in a home that isn’t filled with the sound of Jasmine tunelessly humming her favorite indie rock songs, or going to parties where no one’s taking bets on how many drinks it’ll take Owen to challenge someone to a dance-off. (He always loses. He’s a horrible dancer, whereas Jack’s classically trained in ballet, Brea’s so flexible her body moves like liquid, and Keisha’s number one goal after declaring a computer science major her sophomore year is to join the Georgetown step team.)

Could I be part of this group for real? I think I’d like to be. I love my friends at home—how much fun we have and how much we push each other and are there for each other—but here I feel like … I get to be and do other things. I don’t have to know exactly who I am and what I want. I’m a summer girl, living my highlight reel. Maybe I don’t want anything realer than that.

But, much like I didn’t have a choice this summer, I won’t next time either.

“Depends on my mom’s job,” I say, already afraid to get too attached to the idea. “But I’d like to. I like hanging out with you guys.”