All of her. Every part of her looks good. I cross the room to her, palming her cheek and placing a small kiss on her ruby-painted lips.

“You’re beautiful.”

“So are you,” she says with a wink, cupping my biceps in my shirt. “Who knew you boys cleaned up so well?”

Duke slips his shoes on and does a little tap dance. “I could get used to these.”

“Not much use on rafting trips,” I say.

The corner of his mouth lifts. “But I feel like Gene Kelly.”

“Who?”

Meg and Duke roll their eyes at each other as if to commiserate about how uncultured I am. I don’t mind. Duke takes Meg’s hand and spins her out so her fringe flares again, her wings on full display due to the sheer back piece covering her shoulders.

They are every bit Meg … whimsical and powerful, delicate and bold, fluttering and steadfast. They make me ache.

“Self-control,” I say quickly.

“Hmm?” Meg says, twirling to face me. Duke smirks over her shoulder.

I roll my eyes, rubbing absently at my chest. “The fruits of the spirit. I bet you were self-control. Though I have no idea how you would dress like that.”

Meg laughs. “Oh. Right. Yep. You guessed it. My mom made me this costume that looked like a giant game of Operation, except the patient was me and I was completely dressed. There were all these ‘temptations’”—she surrounds the final word in air quotes—“like lying to get chocolate and eating too much candy and not brushing my teeth. It was terrible. I had to carry around a buzzer and buzz anyone who tried to touch the costume or give me candy. Everyone thought it was hilarious.”

Duke and I stare at her. Finally, Duke flops back on the couch. “Fuck. I need a drink after that. That sounds terrible. To be fair, though, David would probably love that.” I mouth the word dad to Meg, whose mouth forms a silent oh. Duke fumbles around in his bag, pulling out a bottle of something clear and a Gatorade. “Anyone else need one?”

“No, thanks,” I say.

“What is it?” asks Meg.

“Vodka and fruit punch Gatorade.”

Meg shrugs, and Duke pours them each a small glass. Meg takes one sip and grimaces. “Is it supposed to burn?”

Duke drinks his in one gulp. “If it’s done right, yes.”

Meg puts the glass down on the table in front of her and looks at me. “You don’t drink?”

I shake my head. “Not really. I did one time. It wasn’t my thing.”

“Micah doesn’t like to let loose,” Duke says, pouring another glass. This time more vodka than fruit punch.

“Type A, remember?” I say, pointing to myself.

Meg grins. “It’s your fruit of the spirit!”

“Usually, though that dress has me thinking otherwise.”

Meg’s face turns pink. “Really?”

“Uh, yeah. Which is another good reason to stay very sober.”