Up onstage, someone was handing Lily a towel. It took me a second to realize that the person in question was Walker.

He was laughing.

“Sawyer.” My mom nudged me. “Your phone.”

I made a concerted effort to stop watching Walker and Lily and turned my attention to my own text messages. In quick succession, I received three.

@) - -‘ - , - - -

~ ~ ~ ~ ~8<

Look to your left.

That didn’t seem like much of a challenge to me. Then I looked to my left. Through the slight crowd that the pie-eating contest had attracted, I saw someone milling on the outskirts.

Nick.

My phone buzzed again: a fourth text. Your challenge, should you choose to accept it: spend the afternoon with him.

Nick was wearing a navy swimsuit with a ratty red T-shirt. As I approached, he crossed his arms, the shirt pulling against his biceps and shoulders.

Not that I noticed.

“Hi,” I said. He didn’t say hello back, so I filled the silence. “I always wondered what a grudge personified would look like.”

That almost got a smile out of him. “You the reason I got invited to this thing?”

“That would be the secret society that’s trying to torture me with your presence.”

It felt good to be too honest with someone.

“You’re really not great with apologies,” Nick commented.

“I already apologized,” I replied. When he didn’t seem to know what I was talking about, I elaborated. “Via text.”

Texts that he hadn’t returned.

“I don’t text,” Nick said.

“You make phone calls,” I said, reading between the lines. “Like a civilized person.”

This time, the edges of his lips did tilt up, ever so slightly. “I didn’t come here to do this with you,” he said.

“And yet,” I replied, casting a look at the Fourth of July Wonderland all around us, “you still need the connections. And the reputation.”

He grimaced. “Damned debutante ball.”

I said what he hadn’t. “Damned debutantes.”

That seemed to penetrate, in a way that nothing else I’d said had. “I really did think you were different,” he told me quietly.

That hurt, but I didn’t let it sting for long. “What kind of person would I be if I prided myself on being different from other girls?”

He studied me for a moment—blatantly, intently. “I wasn’t talking about girls. I was talking about . . .” He looked around at the pockets of people all around us. The tennis and sand volleyball courts. The immaculate, sprawling lawn. “All of this.”

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” I asked him. “Being one of them?”

“I’m not.” His reply was immediate. The elaboration took longer. “And neither are you.”

And just like that, I was forgiven.

“Last time I saw you,” Nick said, “you were making noises about that body. What do they call her?”