I tried Oscar on the kitchen landline, but it only rang once before going to voicemail. I put the cordless phone on the counter. Then I picked it up and dialed again, heading out to the porch, as if that might improve my luck.

It did. He picked up this time. “Hey gorgeous, how’s it going? Are you tan yet?”

“Hi, um, sort of. You’ll see. Listen—I just caught your interview. Have you seen it?” I bit my lip, heart pounding, waiting for his reaction.

“I have.”

He fell silent. I gripped the porch swing chain.

“Sorry, crossing the street. Yeah, it was pretty dope! Good exposure, right?”

I let out a relieved sigh. He sounded happy. But the slant of that interview, the way they’d packaged him—was it my place to even bring it up?

“Listen, I’m heading into rehearsal . . .” His voice got muffled. “Yo Sammy . . . mfff . . .” He laughed, so he must have been making a joke with someone he was passing. “I might not be able to talk tonight, so could we pick this up tomorrow? Hope you’re having a great time.”

“I miss you,” I said, my voice raw.

“Yeah.” I could hear him drawing a long breath. “You too. I’ll see you.”

And click.

He was fine. It should have been a relief. I should have been celebrating with a lemonade already, instead of clinging to the back of the swing, my eyes shifting between Gramps weeding in the garden and the gray crosshatch mesh of the porch screen penning me in.

That boy in the interview wasn’t Oscar. Neither was the boy on the phone.

One more week.

34.

poolside. Home stretch. Three days left. I could do this. I was on paperback number five, our environmentalist heroine finally having sex with the developer she’d sparred with for most of the book—but my mind kept drifting to another bedroom, my mouth on Oscar’s shoulder, his hands in my hair . . .

Holy hell, it was hot out here. Even a splash in the pool didn’t help. I wrapped a towel under my armpits and started up to the porch to see if there was sweet tea in the fridge.

He’s busy. I’ve left him two voicemails, that’s plenty. He’ll call me back.

He will.

Peace. Quiet. Find your Zen, dammit.

Grandma Jean was in the sitting room, talking to someone in a clipped tone. I sprinted for the kitchen before I could be spotted half-dressed. Halfway into the fridge, reaching for the plastic pitcher, I heard the visitor answer—and the sound of her voice, plummy, low, sent me staggering into the kitchen island.

Oh my God, how—?

I ran so fast, my towel dropped, tangling around my ankles, discarded entirely by the time I reached the sitting room.

Mom rose from the sofa with a delighted laugh. “Look at you! You’re a Sports Illustrated cover!”