“Dammit. You’re right. How’d I miss that?”

“Probably because you were more focused on his abs than the swimming pool atop old sea turtle habitats.”

Sloane rolls her eyes, then swipes right. “Well, maybe he has an eight-pack now.”

“Or he’s over thirty,” I say before I go back to staring out the window.

Under thirty and employed are Sloane’s two requirements when it comes to men. She views online dating as the highest form of entertainment. She’s tried to get me to sign up for it countless times by telling me it’s the only way to meet someone these days, but I guess unrequited feelings didn’t completely destroy the hopeless romantic in me. I’m still clinging to the fantasy of meeting a decent guy without the aid of computer code and carefully curated photos.

The Prius stops outside my childhood home ten minutes later. It’s a white-shingled ranch my parents bought when they got married. They’ve hung on to it as the value of the neighborhood skyrocketed, resulting in the surrounding properties being torn down and larger homes being built in the sought-after location close to Edgefield Park. My parents’ place has two bathrooms and three bedrooms. The Phillipses’ house next door comically towers over it with its three stories, screened porch, upper balcony, and four-car garage. The only feature my parents’ house has that theirs doesn’t is a pool.

Our lot is large—mostly thanks to the fact that the house’s square footage is a small fraction of the neighbors’—and my mom is an avid swimmer. The installation was a fifteenth wedding anniversary gift to her from my dad. I wonder what he has planned for their thirtieth, which is what we’re celebrating today.

Sloane and I walk up the driveway and toward the backyard. Excitement fizzes in my stomach at the number of cars and the commotion coming from the backyard. I haven’t been home since Christmas, and that was a short visit. Even worse than the excitement is the anticipation.

It doesn’t matter if he’s here.

I’m not great at lying to myself. But I have perfected bored nonchalance when it comes to Gray. Even Sloane has stopped winking at me when his name comes up, and she can read me like a book most of the time.