“I heard on the radio that they’re expecting something like forty thousand people. It’s going to be such a blast.” She sounds wistful.

“Maybe you can still get tickets.” It’s within driving distance, if grounded does indeed mean no trips on the family airplane. (Wait, they can’t really have an airplane, can they?)

Tinsley sighs. “I think I’ve kind of pushed my mother to the limit this summer.”

The Spitfire’s engine is running, so this isn’t meant to be a long goodbye. I lean over and give her a quick kiss. “Thanks for the movie. Sorry the rest of the night didn’t work out.”

Tinsley reaches up and strokes my hair the way a mother might. “I wouldn’t worry, Lucas. Something tells me it’s not a permanent condition.”

I can’t help smiling. “You know, in some ways you’re a pretty amazing person.”

“Just in some ways?” she teases.

A moment later, I’m watching the Spitfire’s taillights grow small and dim in the dark. Tinsley insists that she doesn’t want to be tied down, but sometimes I wonder if she really means it. It does feel like we have a real connection. I briefly flirt with the notion of pursuing her in a more meaningful way, but the kind of deep yearning I feel for Robin isn’t there with Tinsley. She’s smart, perceptive, and exotic, but also, something tells me, capable of being dangerously fickle and capricious. It’s moments like this when I miss Robin — with her even keel and thoughtfulness — the most.

I noiselessly let myself into the house, take off my boots, and tiptoe down the hall past Mom’s bedroom. For the first time in years, I hear typing from inside.

Tuesday, August 5

“Come, come!” Milton’s father herds us into the kitchen. It’s Milton’s birthday, and Arno, Tinsley, and I have come over to help him celebrate. Not that I’m in a celebratory mood, but I’m game for anything that distracts from the thought of what Robin’s up to with the moose herder.

Milton’s parents have accents. They were both born in Austria. A lot of families in our neighborhood have put additions on their houses since moving here in the late 1940s and early 1950s. My parents added the attic gym, third and fourth bedrooms, playroom, and fallout shelter. Arno’s parents expanded their kitchen and garage. But Milton’s house is still mint 1948. So are Milton’s parents. Mr. Fischer is an electronics engineer and amateur inventor whose glasses have thick black frames, whose shirts have short sleeves, and whose pants have cuffs. His mom is a physics professor at Adelphi and wears pointy horn-rim glasses and pleated dresses with petticoats rustling underneath.