“No. He’s . . .” I swallow. I gave up on trying to define whatever Mo and I are ages ago, but now that he’s leaving, I’ve got this desperate need for someone to understand why it’s so terrible. Mo’s more than just some boyfriend. “It’s hard to explain. He’s my best friend. And he’s not my boyfriend, but . . .” I stop myself before I say but I love him.

“I got it.”

He doesn’t get it. I’m an idiot. Nobody gets it. “My parents, friends, boyfriends I’ve had—they all think we’ve got some secret thing going on.”

“Are they right?”

“No. But . . .” After the last week of dying for Reed to just look me in the eye, I’m suddenly wishing his gaze wasn’t so intense. The brown is warmer today, the amber flecks brighter. Like sparks. “Mo helped me get through a hard time. He’s like my brother. My really sarcastic, pissed-off brother.”

Reed says nothing, but his eyes become so suddenly sympathetic I have to look away. Sympathy might kill me today.

“So why is Vicky inviting me to her baby shower when we’ve never even met?” I ask.

“She’s not. I am. Apparently you aren’t supposed to throw a baby shower for yourself, so Vicky put me in charge of the party.”

Not what I was expecting. I frown at the yellow envelope still in my hand, then tap the ducky sticker. “Nice touch.”

“Vicky took me off invitation duty when I suggested doing it by email, but the rest of the party is my baby.”

“Yeah? What’re you planning?”

“She nixed the keg and the strippers, so I don’t know. Maybe we’ll have a bonfire and torch some furniture.”

I give an uneasy laugh. I don’t know him well enough to really tell, but he doesn’t sound like he’s kidding. Mo’s sarcasm is louder than a foghorn. This is dangerously dry.

“Annie, I’m joking.”

“I knew that.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Okay, so I didn’t,” I admit. “You’re hard to read.”

“Not once you get to know me. And it was worth it for the look on your face.”

“I don’t think there was a look on my face,” I say.

“There’s always a look on your face.”

I’m not sure what this means. I want to think about the possibilities for a while, but he doesn’t stop to let me.

“We’ll barbecue in my grandmother’s backyard and probably play something civilized like croquet or horseshoes. Acceptable?”

“Perfectly.” I place the invitation on the lip of the counter so it hangs between us. “When is it?”

“Sunday night. Soup wants everyone from work to be able to come.”

“This Sunday?”

He nods.

“I’m supposed to go into Louisville with my dad,” I say. “I don’t know when we’ll be getting back.”

The back door squeals behind me, and eau de nicotine-and-hairspray fills the room. Reed takes a tiny step away from me.

“Damn rain,” Flora mutters as she walks by. She doesn’t look at me, which means she’s still thinking about Lena. I want to tell her she needs to smoke something stronger than a Marlboro Light for that, but the door chime sounds and a group of drenched kids rush in, giggling and dripping all over the place.

Flora takes the first order, and Reed begins to move away when something comes over me. Desperation. I don’t want him to walk away yet. Without thinking, I reach out and place my hand on his forearm. It’s warm and smooth. The muscle beneath my fingers tenses. What am I doing? It was supposed to be a friendly gesture, but now there’s a current running between his skin and my fingertips, and I can’t pull my eyes from my white hand on his tan forearm.

“Uh, thanks for cheering me up,” I say, attempting to sound casual.

He stares at my hand. “You’re welcome.”

I should let go of him now, but I don’t want to break the current or lose the smell of rainwater and oranges. I want to hold on to his calm. I’m still frozen when he takes his free hand and lifts my fingers from his arm in a movement so achingly slow that it takes me a moment to realize what he’s doing. He’s freeing himself. Now it’s too late to pull my hand away, and the humiliation is already singeing my whole body.

I want to die.

But he doesn’t let go. He turns it palm up, takes the envelope from the counter, and puts it in my open hand. “Come.”

I nod.

He lets go of me. My heart is racing so fast I could collapse, but he doesn’t notice. He’s already taking the next order. Trembling, I slip the envelope into my apron pocket and get back to work.

^*^*^*

Unbelievably, I manage to serve custard beside him. My heartbeat doesn’t slow, and the rain doesn’t stop, but business picks up anyway, though I have no clue who I’m serving. Some kids. An elderly couple. My middle school band teacher, whose name it takes me half a minute to remember, and his wife. Some more kids. Then Soup stops by to “make sure you guys haven’t burnt the joint down yet” and tinker with the still-broken Relic and finicky ice machine. He wishes us a happy weekend, then leaves with miscellaneous ice machine parts and a peanut butter milk shake.

The whole time I can feel Reed from across the room, an actual vibration when he’s closer. Twice our bare arms brush and I hold my breath.

When it is that the rain finally stops I don’t know, but when I step outside to haul trash to the Dumpster with Flora, it’s magically silent. The night is moonless. The poststorm air is sweet and still.

We take two bags each. She makes her way around glassy puddles, and I walk through them, then I walk her to her rusted Cavalier. We’re open for another hour, but the shop isn’t busy, so she’s casino-bound. I’m staying till close.

“Where’s your car?” Flora asks as she digs through her purse for keys. Reed’s is the only other vehicle in the lot.

“My friend dropped me off.”

She turns toward me with her mouth hanging open like a big saggy fish. “Are you crazy?”

I flinch. That word. Nobody ever says it to my face. Once you’ve spent time in a mental institution, people are careful about phrases like that. It takes a moment to realize what she assumes. “Oh. No. I’m not walking.”

She looks like she doesn’t know whether to believe me or not. And sad. She looks sad again.

“My friend’s picking me up,” I say, surprised by the tremble in my voice. “I would never walk that road.”

A few more seconds of silence pass between us before her face softens.

“Of course not, sugar. I just thought . . .” She lowers her eyes, embarrassed. “I don’t know what I thought.”

I do. She thought I was insane. She thought I was trying to relive my dead sister’s life, that in the weirdest and unhealthiest of ways, I was trying to be her, even walk the road she was stolen from. That would be crazy. “I don’t think I’m her,” I say.

“Of course not.”

“And I’m not trying to be her.”

“Okay,” she says. We stand in awkward silence.

“I should get back in there,” I say finally. “Reed’s all alone.”

Flora gives me a half grin. “Ha.”

“What?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Do I look blind to you?”

I sigh and stare into the oak trees behind her. “There’s nothing going on. He’s nice and all, but I don’t really know him that well.” I’m trying to sound casual, but my voice is too high.

“Nice and all,” she grunts, and raises an eyebrow. “I love you, sugar, but you might be an idiot if you think the way he’s looking at you is nice and all.”

I step back.

“Now be good,” she says and gets into her car.

I walk back across the parking lot, jingling my bracelets and thinking about being good—whether she’s talking about Lena or Reed or scooping custard. I’m always good. I have to be. It’s the thing I have going for me.

Reed is serving a middle-aged man and his son when I come in. I watch him for a moment, hoping he won’t turn around and see me. I replay the moment from earlier, and my arm burns where he held it.

The man pays, and before I can pretend to be doing something, Reed turns around.

“You’re back. Thought maybe you’d decided to go play the slots with Flora.”

“No, I’m not lucky.”

“Or twenty-one,” he says.

“Right,” I say. “It stopped raining.”

He gives me a funny glance. “A while ago, I think.”

“Oh. I guess I just didn’t notice.”

He walks over to the broken Relic, picks up the screwdriver Soup left on the counter, and starts fiddling with it. “You live in your own world, don’t you?” he says.

“What do you mean?” He says it like it’s not an insult, but I’ve heard too many versions of the same comment to take it any other way. Spacey, dazed, out of it—this is how people see me. I should be used to it.

“I mean you seem like you’re thinking hard about things that aren’t in this room.”

I don’t know what to say. It is, by far, the nicest interpretation of what Mo calls Annie’s Planet. “I guess so. Drives my mom crazy.”

“You said your mom teaches literature, right? That must make you a bookworm.”

That makes me a disappointment. “She used to teach,” I say. “But I’m more into painting than reading.”

“I’m guessing not the type of painting I’m into these days.” He holds up his arms and I see the pale-yellow flecks of paint. They’re on his jeans too.

“I’ve never painted the outside of a house,” I say. “But I’m painting a mural right now.”

He stops tinkering with the Relic and turns to me. “Really? Where?”

I’m suddenly shy, wishing I hadn’t started. It sounds so juvenile—painting pretty pictures on my walls. “My room.”

“What of ?”

“Um. The ocean.”

He puts the screwdriver down and waits for more.