“Jules.” I try to spin and escape her touch. “Stop it.”

“The bow,” she says, nosing her way back in. “You did it wrong. And your hair, Bea. Just a little beach-wave spray and—”

“I think,” Jamie cuts in, eyes glued to mine, “Bea looks spectacular just how she is.” Then he steps forward and takes my hand, pulling me away from my sister. “Let’s go.”

Jules gapes as he leads me out of the store and into the evening air. The sun settles against the horizon and drips down every surface in a dozen dreamy watercolor shades of coral, peach, and tangerine.

“Wow.” I stop to watch the sunset because I simply can’t miss nature’s finest work. Jamie seems content to watch the sunset, too. He’s quiet beside me, gaze narrowed against the sharp low light, and when the wind picks up, he shuts his eyes, as if drinking in the moment. When he opens them, he offers me one of his gentlemanly nods, then turns us to walk.

I notice he’s still holding my hand, that his fingertips aren’t cracked, and his knuckles are less red. He used the salve I gave him. I try not to think about why that makes the tiny pilot light inside me burn brighter.

“Nicely done back there,” I tell him. “Thanks.”

“She mothers you, doesn’t she?”

I glance around as we walk. I have no idea where we’re going, but Jamie seems to, so I amble along. “Yes. She’s older.”

He does a double take. “What? You’re twins.”

“Twelve minutes. Could be twelve years for how she sees it.”

He rolls his eyes. “Sibling dynamics.”

I don’t know about Jamie’s place among his siblings, just that he has three of them, which he told me the night of the platypus pants and PMS essentials. Jamie and I ate cupcakes, then, while he cooked, shared a few details to be sure we could pass muster around the meddlers at the bowling alley. I would have stayed and learned more, but then I realized he was making pasta primavera, which is, you might say, a bit of a problem food for me, given nearly all vegetables are my textural nightmare. So I pled cramps and fatigue and made an early exit.

I knew enough to get by on our first outing in front of others, and it’s probably enough still. But even though I probably don’t need to know more about Jamie . . . I want to.

“What’s your place in the Westenberg clan?” I ask.