Because Asher’s in my brain, too. He knows I hate when my curls get like this, wild and untamable in the summer humidity. When I was younger I’d try to straighten them every morning, like I did for school, and as the day went on and the Michigan air took its toll, the curls would rise up around my face, consuming me like my very own auburn wildfire. When I was sixteen, I finally decided it wasn’t worth the effort. Wasn’t worth the snickers throughout the day, the sideways glances from him as my hair revealed its true form after a day of swimming. Who was I trying to impress, anyway? I like how easy it’s made my daily routine for two months out of the year.

My hand is going to my hair without thinking, but I catch myself, twisting a few pieces in my fingers and squinting my eyes at him, still coming down the little sidewalk, keeping pace with me. I speed up, and he matches me.

“I love that shirt,” I say, my voice level and innocent as I eye the vintage green T-shirt that stretches across his chest. “Did Jordan pick that out?” I say Jordan the way he says hair. Like it’s a weapon shooting off of my tongue.

“Jordan and I broke up.” His voice matches mine, friendly and light. We’re maybe thirty feet from where our paths will merge into one, and I squeeze the towel rolled tight under my arm. My pulse speeds up, adrenaline pooling in my veins as we partake in the world’s slowest two-person sprint. We’re just a couple of pumping arms short of looking like old people powering through the mall in their bright white sneakers. My flip-flops slap against the stone.

“Oh, did you?” My voice drips with mock innocence. Asher and Jordan broke up about a month ago. I overheard my mom talking to his in one of their weekly phone calls leading up to our joint family vacation. Poor baby, such a sweet girl, blah blah blah.

“Stalking me?” he says, his voice taking a teasing edge.

It sounds a little stalkerish that I know about Jordan. But knowledge is power, and I can’t help that my mom insists on updating me about Asher every time she talks to Sylvie. As if I didn’t have the means to contact Asher a million different ways, if I wanted to. As if we’re friends and I need to know what he’s doing the ten months out of the year I’m not being subjected to his presence. “You wish.” I roll my eyes, even though he can’t see them. “You must have been distraught, if your mom had to call mine to talk about it.”

“Devastated,” he says dramatically, not sounding it at all.

“Lucky girl,” I say.