She’s gasping through laughter as she recounts the rescue. So there he was, in his old man button-down shirt, his fishing hat … just dangling in the water, clothes and all. He couldn’t get into the boat either, we had to sort of slow-drag him to shore with a tow rope. Never stopped smiling. Tipped me five bucks when we got back to the lot. I swear that guy had the time of his life. Jaz is a theater major and it shows—she tells a story with her entire body.

In one graceful movement, Aiden turns my way and throws his leg over the canoe so that he’s facing me, straddling it. He puts his fist in the air in front of me, but he isn’t saying anything, he’s just looking at me expectantly, like he’s waiting for something.

“What’s up?”

“Rock-paper-scissors me.”

“For what?”

“For my epic art adventure.” He raises his brows at me, and there’s a hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “This is our thing now, right? Letting chance decide?”

Our thing? My stomach flutters at the thought that we’re already sharing some sort of secret.

“Fate.” I can’t help but laugh at him throwing this back at me.

“Is it the same thing?”

I feel like it is. Like whatever fate is, it’s decided by chance. Or that chance follows along with fate’s plans. Something like that. “I don’t know.” I shift nervously on the canoe. “I thought you preferred coin tosses though,” I tease.

He pats his pockets. “I’m all out. You?”

“Ditto.”

“Rock, paper, scissors it is.” He shakes his fist in front of me. “I’m willing to take the chance if you are.”

“You seem awfully confident. It might not go your way.”

“Lady luck owes me,” he says.

“Me too.”

My eyes meet Aiden’s and we pump our fists in the air three times, and let luck and chance and fate decide.

In the light of day, kissing Aiden and agreeing to go on his “epic art adventure” feels less like fate, and more like setting myself up for failure. He still hasn’t told me what this epic art adventure actually entails, and I’m not entirely convinced it’s a real thing.

Emma is sitting on the floor next to me, leaning against my bed. She’s still dressed in her Cherry Pit uniform—the ridiculous, ruffly red dress and white apron with a giant red cherry emblazoned on it—and her long legs are crossed at the ankles. Her ruffled white socks peek out from her white patent shoes. They look like an adult version of what I wore when I was five. Working at The Pit has done wonders for Emma’s personal style.

I knock her foot with mine. “Did you have to buy these?”