“I have a surprise for you that you might, like, really, really hate me for.”

“What is it? A summer job with Pentz Homes?”

“No.”

“A gift certificate to Crossways Tavern?”

She laughs a little. “I’m just going to tell you.” She takes a deep breath, holds it, and exhales and shakes her head. “I can’t. Come on.” She takes me by the elbow and leads me around the house. At the last minute, she stops and turns around.

“Serena,” she starts. “I just want you to know that if you do hate me, it’s okay. I understand. I still, like, love you.” She puts her arms around me while I stand there stiffly. She turns away from me, and I follow her into the backyard. The party is what I would expect—Scot’s clients, the school board, people from the church, all with swarms of children, who have fanned out all over the semibuilt homes of the development. The volleyball net is up. Scot is burning steaks on the grill.

I turn to Allegra. “What is it?”

“Over there by the punch,” she says.

“All I see over by the punch are people.”

“Keep looking.”

I notice a guy who stands a little apart, ill at ease, like he doesn’t know anybody, surveying the crowd between the top of a plastic glass of beer and the brim of a dirty green ball cap. He has a big pewter belt buckle, the kind nobody I know wears, and one thumb hooked in his watch pocket. In my memory, riding high in that Kenworth, he looks like a movie star. He doesn’t look like a movie star at Versailles. He looks like a trucker. It’s Bo.

“Jesus Christ.” I look at my sister. “What did you do?”

“I called his number.” Her face is white. “The one in your notebook. But I didn’t think he was gonna come.”

“Jesus Christ.” I grab Allegra’s arm. All the blood rushes to my head. “What did you do?” I whisper.

“Omigod,” she babbles. “I am so, so sorry. I should never have—”

Bo sees me.

“Jesus Christ,” I say a final time.

He walks over. I cross my arms and watch his feet approach. They stop about three inches in front of mine. I can’t look at him.

“Your sister called and told me everything that went down,” he says. “So I came.”

I forgot about his voice. All the times I thought about him, I tried to remember his face, or his hands, or how he walked, but not his voice. That place that I thought was impenetrable, that nothing would ever reach again, his voice slices right into the middle of it. I watch as big wet splotches start to fall on the dusty toes of his boots. I wrap my arms tighter around myself. I still can’t look at him.