She tips back her head and laughs, no covering her mouth this time, and then I laugh, too, and it’s the kind of laughing that takes you by surprise, the kind of laughing you do not because the thing that got you started is particularly funny, but because you’re in the presence of someone else’s laughter, because there’s a point at which the laughter itself becomes funny.

Lark lifts a hand and sweeps it, palm out, in a big arc in front of her face, as if she’s revealing a marquee. She says “MEN” again, like she’s announcing a big show, and it’s somehow the funniest thing. I see it

made of lightbulbs, and I laugh harder; I think of the whole thing flaming to life in a blaze of glory. I hold up a fist, making the popping noise I imagine as my fingers burst open, each bulb—well, except maybe one, one very special bulb—burning out in a loud, disappointing flare, and what’s funnier is that I think Lark gets it, and she leans forward with her laughter, clutching at her sides, and we laugh and laugh, and I guess that’s why I don’t hear it when the door opens.

I guess that’s why I miss Sibby coming home.

Chapter 15

Chapter 15

“Holy shit.”

I’m almost positive it’s not what Sibby would intend to say upon meeting one of the idols of our childhood, but one look at her standing in the doorway tells me that Sibby is probably not in the best space to be intentional. I’ve lived through enough returns-from-the-Hamptons to know Sibby is probably coming off a stressful few days with the Whalens, since Tilda only likes the pool, the kids only like the beach, and Mr. Whalen only likes himself and his laptop. Even in her shock I can see that Sibby’s come home having had it; she’s got at least two stains on her T-shirt, her sunglasses are the only thing keeping her curls in any semblance of order, and that usually sharp black wing on her left eyelid has seen better days.

“Sib,” I say, standing from my spot on the couch. “Hey, welcome back.”

Instead of acknowledging my greeting, Sibby stares at Lark, her mouth ajar. For a second her gaze bounces purposefully around the room, as if maybe she’s wondering if there’s a pop-up tent somewhere in here. It’s awkward, but I sympathize. At least I had advance warning about meeting her.

“This is Lark Tannen-Fisher,” I add, ridiculously. “She’s—”

“Princess Freddie,” Sibby says, which is . . . you know, definitely not what I was planning to say.

Lark winces.

“I mean,” Sibby says, “that was our favorite movie.”

I look back at Sibby, surprised. Nothing has been “our” favorite anything in a long time. But I’m pretty sure she’s still in an everything-I-say-is-unintentional space.