“Marcy texted me saying they were almost here,” I lied, patting him on the back. “Don’t worry.”

I scanned the crowded house that all but throbbed along with the beat of the music. I saw Jonas and Sam casually talking to Summer, which made me instantly anxious.

“Kurt,” Blake casually said, walking over.

“Harley,” I replied. “Where’s the Joker?”

She looked pretty phenomenal as Harley Quinn.

“He was talking to someone dressed as the guy from A Clockwork Orange,” she said. “Jonas?”

“Yeah, he’s a friend of mine.”

“I like your friends. You must miss Magnolia.”

“Not really. I mean, I miss them, but I’m actually happy at Grant,” I said, earning myself the biggest of grins.

When I first met Blake, I’d thought her optimistic approach toward life was borderline infuriating. Yet, I quickly realized there wasn’t a single thing she said she didn’t absolutely, 100 percent believe in. Not only that, she was nothing if not honest—and bright.

“Summer was telling Sam and me about your brother,” she said, straightforward as always.

That was another thing I liked about Blake. Bullshit was something she simply refused to engage in.

“Liam?” I said.

“I like that name. Do you happen to have a photo?”

“Uh, yeah. I have some on my phone.” I grabbed it and went through my gallery until I found a photo of Liam that he used as his Facebook profile picture.

“Huh,” she said after I gave her my phone. “His eyes.”

I waited for her to mention how we had the same eyes. It was the first thing everyone always noticed, ever since we were little. Liam hated it; I absolutely reveled in it, growing up. Being compared to him was like the highest form of compliment.

“Was he a good older brother?” she asked instead, reaching down her dress into a hidden compartment from which she pulled her phone.

“The best,” I told her.

For a moment, I thought she hadn’t heard me. Not only was the music too loud, but she seemed so focused on the screen of her phone I was afraid she might’ve lost interest in our conversation—a thought I felt bad for having the very moment she looked up at me.

“She was mine.” She held her phone up and handed it to me with the utmost care.

On it, a girl in her late teens smiled in the same absurdly frank way Blake always did. She had short black hair with bangs and eyes so green they were almost transparent.

“I…I didn’t— She’s lovely, Blake.” I glanced at her and then back the screen.

“Rose,” she almost sang, ignoring the fact I seemed to have gone speechless.

Or maybe because she saw that I had been rendered speechless.

“She would’ve been twenty-three,” she continued. “No doubt, a famous artist by now.”

I smiled, unable to avert my eyes from the screen.