My heart started beating hard as I turned around to find him standing a few feet away. By himself, no sign of Mia anywhere, and a voice in the back of my mind wondered if he’d ditched her. But I knew Mia well enough to know she couldn’t be far. When she liked a guy, she made damn sure not to let him stray from her sight for too long. And it was very clear she liked Brody. A lot.

“Hi, Brody,” I said, managing to sound like I was completely unaffected.

He wore the expensive pair of dark jeans I knew he’d gotten for his birthday back in early March and the same vintage brown leather distressed jacket that made him look impossibly hot, with a black sweater and a red-and-black-checked scarf. It was a good look on most guys but felt borderline unfair on him.

“Uh, can I talk to you for a sec?”

He jerked his head away from the line where four people were behind me and two in front, all of whom were now watching us with almost as much interest as they had in ordering the holiday snacks. Such was small-town life.

“Yeah, okay.”

I exited the line and together we walked farther into Partridge Park. Near the very same picnic table where we’d broken up six months ago. Great. Nice memory.

We stopped and faced each other. Awkwardness hung between us like the third musketeer.

“Hey,” he started.

“We covered that part,” I reminded him.

“Oh, yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck, which I knew to be a total tell. “How are ya doin’?”

“Fine.”

“Yeah?”

It’s entirely possible I may have rolled my eyes. “I’m fan-freakin’-tastic, Brody. What do you want me to say?” I could feel myself scowling at him and his pretty face grew pinched.

“I don’t know,” he answered, in such a way that was both defensive and unwittingly vulnerable and I felt like I’d swatted a kitten. (To be clear, I do not swat kittens.)

“What did you want to talk about?”

“I mean, I guess . . .” He shrugged both shoulders. “I texted you.”

“I know.”

“A buncha times.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t text back.”

“I know.”

“Are you, like, mad at me?”

“Why would I be mad at you?” I asked, even as the thought bubble above my head unspooled a long scroll’s worth of options.

He kicked the dirt with his black Doc Martens. “Because of me and Mia, you know.”

“Well, I know now. After I saw you both.”

“Yeah. She showed me the picture you sent.”

“Maybe she can put it in a scrapbook. You know how she loves scrapbooking.”

He frowned. “Yeah.”

Oh my God, did Mia love scrapbooking. Anyone in Mia’s orbit had been the recipient of at least one scrapbook at some point. I had eight, one for each year we knew each other. They were very thorough.