And Evan—okay, I’m the least proud of Evan. He was a full inch shorter than me. And it shouldn’t have bothered me; I know it shouldn’t have. And it didn’t … for nine full days. But by day ten, all I could think about was our prom pictures. About dancing with him in two-inch heels. If I’d be able to see the top of his head, and if he’d have to stretch up on his toes to kiss me. If I’d have to wear flats to our hypothetical wedding someday. They were all little things—things that didn’t matter for ten whole days—things that wouldn’t matter anytime soon. But things I couldn’t let go of. Things I couldn’t imagine overlooking for months or years. And so what was the point? Best to end things before they got too serious; before I screwed it up too badly and it felt like an actual loss.

“They were heartbroken, probably,” Asher says as our shoulders bump roughly and my foot slips off of the step and into the lumpy grass, throwing me off balance. He grabs me by the elbow and pulls me straight. I shake him away and he snickers.

“Devastated,” I say.

“I imagine.” His voice is level, serious. Mocking.

“I would bet you imagine a lot of things about me.”

He lets out a little grunt but I can tell he wants to laugh. “This is probably our last summer, Chipmunk.”

“Don’t call me that.” I practically growl the words.

“But it’s so cute.” I can hear the mock pout in his voice, can see his lake-blue puppy dog eyes, even without looking at him. I will never forgive my father for letting that nickname slip in front of Asher.

“I’m going to destroy you,” I say with a smile. “You’ll be calling me something very different by the end of the summer.”

“Sounds dirty,” he says, and I let out an irritated grunt. “Looking forward to it … Chipmunk.” There’s a smile in his voice.

As we descend onto the wooden deck, we both abandon our illusion of normalcy and race for the chair. It’s sitting along the far side of the square deck, its soft, thick cushion the lone pop of color in a string of hard, white, plastic lounge chairs. The unicorn chair, as I like to call it. The one comfy, padded lounge chair. A mystical, magical chair amongst a sea of cheap plastic ones. I hip-check Asher and twist toward it, but he lunges from behind me, throwing an arm around my waist.

“Let me go,” I grunt, trying to pull away, my feet kicking at his ankles. But he pulls me tight to his chest and twists us. And then I’m falling. I’m free falling, until I’m in his lap, on top of the lounge chair. I twist this way and that.