Chapter One

Ice cream makes everything better, doesn’t it?

Well. Maybe not everything. But it comes damn close. Of this I’m convinced.

“Doing okay?” my best friend since high school, Adley Purcell, asks me as she finishes cleaning one of her ice cream-making machines. Her family has always run Get the Scoop, an artisan ice cream shop that her grandfather opened when he and her grandma came over from the Philippines with Adley’s mom—before artisan was even a thing. Last year, her grandpa retired, and Adley bought him out and took over, which means she works herself to death six days a week. She and I are tight, always have been, even before we knew that we both liked girls.

I nod as I spoon mint chip ice cream into my mouth, letting the cool freshness of it sit on my tongue for a second or two before I swallow. It’s the last of today’s stock and it’s friggin’ delicious. Adley will make more tomorrow.

“Doing okay.”

“Good.” Adley drapes her towel over her shoulder and blows at a hunk of her wavy dark hair—which has escaped not only from her ponytail, but also from her hat—only to have it fall right back where it had been, hanging in front of her eye. Then she whips herself up a milkshake using almond milk and chocolate almond ice cream, tosses in a little Frangelico from the not-so-secret bottle she keeps in the fridge, and voilà! instant frozen alcoholic shake. She takes the stool across from me at the little counter in the back of the shop, sets her forearms on the table, and looks me dead in the eye.

“Uh-oh. That’s a serious stare,” I say, half jokingly, ’cause when Adley gives me that look, shit is about to get real. “Are we about to have a serious discussion?”

“Enough already.” Her dark brows meet in a V above her nose, a signal that she is not messing around. “It was one thing to mourn the death of your relationship. I get that. It took a while. I get that, too. But Penelope announcing her engagement doesn’t warrant any sadness from you. You deserve better.”

I sigh. Not in annoyance, but in resignation. She’s right. Adley is a wise woman, and this is a no-brainer. Still, it’s hard. Not to mention fucking embarrassing. I’d been with Pen for three years. I’d moved into her house. We were happy, or so I thought, and I wanted more. I wanted a commitment, something that symbolized our dedication to each other.

I should’ve kept my mouth shut because asking for a commitment was the beginning of the end, ironically enough. Long story short, we broke up, she kicked me out, I moved in with my grandmother, and barely a year later, Pen became engaged to another woman. Fucking engaged. So, clearly, she was fine with commitment. She just hadn’t wanted to commit to me. That hurt. And was mortifying. And now, I feel like I can’t show my face around town anymore. Which is ridiculous, but still. Emotions are tough to argue with.

“You need to get out there, get out of your grandma’s house, do something. Play softball. Join a bowling league. A book club. Go out to dinner. Something.” Adley takes a swig of her shake, and her voice gets softer. “I worry about you.”

“I know.” And I do. Between Adley and my grandmother and my work friends, I don’t go a day without somebody gently suggesting I do something besides go home to my cats—well, Grandma’s cats—and watch Netflix. And not just Netflix. Sappy, romantic Netflix. I’ve blown through all the sugary series with familiar tropes—big city girl comes home to small town, high school reunion leads to a second chance at love, some things are more important than my job—some multiple times. I know I’m in danger of becoming one with the couch, so maybe it is time to start listening to my friends. “Well,” I say to Adley, “I do have something I’m rolling around in my head.”

“Tell me.” Adley has big, dark eyes and they focus on me. Everything about her is gorgeously brown, being half Filipino. Her hair, her eyes, her skin. She is tall and stunning to look at, and standing next to her can be rough, given how I have average light hair, average blue eyes, average pale skin, and am of average height. I grab her shake and take a sip of it before I give her my news.

“You know how Bash is getting married, right?”

“You mean Bash the Dreamy?”

I laugh at the nickname she gave him the first time they met, when Adley had marveled over how precisely he was put together. Sebastian Larue is one of my coworkers and also one of my closest friends. “Well, he wants to take dance lessons to surprise Lydia for their wedding, and he asked me to go with him, be his partner. He said it would help him and also get me out and about.” I make the air quotes that Bash had made when suggesting the lessons to me. “It’s a twelve-week course.”

“That’s fantastic,” Adley says with a clap of her hands, and her eyes light up, and her smile gets wide, and it’s clear she’s thrilled by the idea of me attempting to dance and making a fool of myself, likely in front of several other people. “You’re gonna do it, yes?”

“I mean, I tried to decline, but he played the I Helped You Move Out of Your Ex’s card, and what could I say to that?”

“He’s not wrong.”

“I know. So I said yes, way against my better judgment.” I eat the last spoonful of my ice cream and take my dish to the stainless steel industrial sink to rinse it, then set it on the counter to be sent through the enormous dishwasher. I turn back to my bestie. “I’m gonna be a disaster, you know that, right? I have no rhythm. Bash is going to be sorry he asked me.”

“No, he’s not.” Adley is still smiling. “You’re gonna have fun, and he’s gonna learn to dance and surprise his bride, and it’s gonna be great all the way around. I just know it.” She slurps up the last of her shake. “Also, you do have rhythm. You’re gonna be great. Plus, you’re doing your friend a favor. That’s a good thing. And you’re doing something, and that’s a better thing.”

“I live to make you happy.” I shoot for sarcasm, but it comes out lighter, and that’s probably better. I clear my throat and exhale a resigned breath. She’s right—Adley often is when it comes to giving advice to others—and I probably need to stop fighting it. I decide a change of subject is in order. “Any new flavors on the horizon? It’s spring.” I gesture toward the freezer. Adley is fabulous at coming up with new and creative flavors of ice cream, not to mention sundaes and desserts with unique names and even more amazing flavor combinations.

“A couple, yeah. Still in the early stages. A couple new flavors and two new dessert ideas. Gotta keep things fresh so those customers keep coming back, you know?”

I wish I had a quarter of her creative energy. “Well, you know I’m here anytime you need a taste tester.” I raise my hand and give it a little wave, just to punctuate my words.

“You’ll be the first one I call,” she says and gives me a smile. Let me just say that having a best friend who literally makes ice cream for a living does not suck.

v

I’m a hairstylist. I love hair. I love new styles and colors and everything about the science behind hair. It has always fascinated me, even as a little girl. All my dolls and Barbies had funky hairstyles because I was always trying out new things on them, cutting or curling or coloring.

That being said, Sylvia’s, the salon where I currently work, isn’t really on the cutting edge of hair fashion. Pun intended. But it’s a job and I do okay there and I’m close with the stylists whose chairs are near mine. Bash is to my left. Demi works to his left. We are like the Sarcastic Three Musketeers, and one day, we’re gonna leave Sylvia and her ridiculous profit split and open our own salon together.

One day.

It’s Tuesday morning, and I have three grannies lined up in a row on my schedule. I don’t call them that out of disrespect. That’s just how we classify our senior clients who, to be honest, are much of our bread and butter because they come weekly. A wash, set, and blow-dry is basic and easy and the basis of my income. And my grandma sends me all her friends, so my schedule is pretty full most days. For that, I’m thankful.

I’m rolling Mrs. D’Angelo’s hair, which is a beautiful silvery white, when Bash comes in to start his day. I can see her watching him in the mirror, like pretty much any straight woman with a pulse does…along with a surprising number of men. People always assume Bash is gay—he’s a hairstylist, first of all, and that comes with a stereotype for men. Secondly, he’s gorgeously put together—tall and lean, with broad shoulders, chestnut-brown hair, and a beard that is so precisely trimmed, it looks almost drawn on to his face. He’s like a Disney cartoon prince. And he’s mostly oblivious to the attention, which is one of the many reasons I love the guy. He’s actually bi, but I never offer that up. It’s not my news to share. And he’s totally devoted to Lydia, who might actually be the sweetest woman to walk the earth. I wouldn’t be surprised.

“Good morning, Mrs. D,” he says to my client, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “You’re looking fabulous today.”

Mrs. D’Angelo blushes, honest-to-God blushes, and it’s adorable. I half expect her to titter in delight as well, but she just smiles and says hello back. I get her all set and sit her under a dryer, and then I shampoo my next client, Mrs. Haverstein. I get her settled in my chair and comb her hair out. It’s not quite as silvery as Mrs. D’Angelo’s, but it’s a rich salt-and-pepper. Bash has a handsome blond man in his chair and is shaving the back of his neck with an electric razor.

“You all ready for tonight?” he asks.

“Since I will never be ready to dance in front of strangers, no,” I say. “I am not ready for tonight. But I’ll be there.”

Mrs. Haverstein meets my eyes in the mirror and raises her almost nonexistent brows in question.

“Bash is making me take dance lessons with him,” I tell her with a teasing eye roll.

“Ooh,” she says, drawing the word out. “That sounds like so much fun. I used to love to dance.”

“It will be fun,” Bash agrees and gives her a smile that makes her blush, too. Man, I need him to teach me that. “I’m getting married in the fall, and I want to surprise my fiancée by actually knowing how to dance when we take the floor for the first time as man and wife.”

I see the blond man’s face clearly fall and have to roll my lips in and bite down on them to keep from laughing. Poor dude.

“It will be fun for you,” I say. “You actually have rhythm. And also a right and a left foot.”

He shakes his head, but with a smile, because this has been my argument since he first brought it up. He’s not letting me slide on it, though. “Nope. You’re gonna be great. I bet you twenty bucks.”

“You’re my witness, Mrs. H. When he’s too embarrassed to show his face anywhere because his dance partner is a catastrophe, feel free to bring up this conversation. Okay?”

She’s laughing openly now, her blue eyes crinkled at the corners. She’s a super nice lady that I’ve known since I was in high school because she used to bowl with my grandma and grandpa. Holding up her hands in surrender, she tells me she’s going to reserve judgment.

The morning flies by, as Tuesday mornings usually do, and Demi finally shows up at twelve thirty for her first client, just as I return from my lunch break in the back room. While I have a clientele that skews a little older and, therefore, prefers to come in the morning, Demi’s clients tend to be younger and edgier. And night owls. Her days rarely start before noon.

Today, she’s wearing skintight black pants with rips in the knees. Her very shiny, very black hair is shaved close on one side and flops over on the other, and she’s traded the diamond stud in her nose for a silver ring. Her eyeliner is heavy, and her Doc Martens are probably ten years old and they look it, but somehow, Demi always manages to take a bunch of worn-slash-old-slash-sloppy things and make them work. I could give her a couple plastic bags, two rubber bands, and some duct tape and she’d make it look cool. She has fashion sense to spare. I wish she’d spare some for me. I need help. A glance at my jeans and simple purple button-down shirt reminds me of this. I prefer to buy my clothes directly off the mannequin, if at all possible, because then I can be sure at least one other person in the world thinks it all goes together—the person who dressed the mannequin. When I shop online, I tend to buy the entire outfit the model is wearing, just to be safe. I can’t accessorize to save my damn life.

“DeBashtie,” is the first thing Demi says once she’s at her station, and she keeps her voice low. Bash and I look at each other, and I tip my head to the left, while he tips his the other way. “It’s a combination of all our names. Demi, Bash, Scottie.” She accents the included syllables.

“Shockingly, I don’t hate it,” he says.

“Me, neither,” I agree.

“Add it to the list?” she asks, looking pleased with herself, and we both nod. She pulls out her phone and punches buttons.

Every few days, one of us suggests a name for the salon we plan to own together. Any of us is allowed to veto, and anything we all like goes on a list. My last suggestion was Snips. I was vetoed in about three seconds flat.

My next client is the first one of the day who’s under sixty years old, and she begins my afternoon. By the time I’m pulling the smock off my last client, it’s nearing five thirty and Bash is looking kind of giddy.

“It’s almost time,” he says, his eyes sparkling.

“I swear, you’re like a little kid around this dance class. I don’t know when I’ve seen you this excited about something.” It’s cute, I have to admit, even if I’ve had butterflies bouncing around in my stomach for the past hour. I’m not sure why I’m so nervous. I have nothing to be nervous about. It’s not like I’m going to a room filled with professional dancers and I’m going to look stupid. It’ll probably be a class of people who also don’t know how to dance, thus the class-taking. Logically, I know this. But it doesn’t matter. I’m still a ball of nerves.

“Got your clothes?” Bash asks. “I’m gonna go change.”

“Okay. I’ll change after you.”

There’s only one bathroom in the salon, so I wait until he comes back out, and then I head in with my bag. I was told to dress comfortably, so it’s easy to move around, and I packed some leggings and a tank, all close-fitting. It would be just my luck to get the hem of my pants or the sleeve of my shirt stuck on something and make a spectacle of myself. Trust me, it could happen. So I made sure to pack clothes that stay tight against me. I lace up my sneakers, and I’m good to go.

We drive separately, as the dance studio is halfway home for both of us, but we live in opposite directions. It takes me three tries to get my eleven-year-old Ford started, but I manage to get there on time and slide my car into the spot next to Bash’s at Ms. Tina’s School of Dance. He’s leaning against his Charger, feet crossed at the ankle, waiting for me. I gesture with my chin to the small building. “I hope you’re ready to have your friend embarrass the crap out of you.”

He ignores my shitty self-talk, and he’s still grinning like a little kid on Christmas morning. “Ready?” he asks as I slam my door shut and lock my car.

No, I’m not ready. I’m not even a little ready. I’m worried about embarrassing myself. Worse, I’m worried about embarrassing him. I give him a look that must show my near panic because he throws an arm over my shoulders.

“We’re just gonna have fun. That’s it. Okay? Relax.”

I inhale deeply, let it out slowly, and realize he’s right. No need to be nervous. No reason to worry. We’re just going to have fun. I nod once. “Okay. Let’s do the thing.”

Chapter Two

Ms. Tina Alvarez must drink a ton of caffeine. It’s my first thought as she buzzes around like a hummingbird on cocaine, flitting about the room, smiling, touching shoulders, laughing. She’s petite, in a flowy red dress and heels, and she walks toe-heel, as if she’s constantly on a stage. Her eyes are bright. Her smile is wide. Her voice is cheerful, but not annoyingly so. It’s hard to guess her age, and I suspect she’s likely older than she seems, but she looks like she could be anywhere from her midforties to her late sixties. Also, I like her immediately. She’s got an energy about her that makes me want to smile.

The room is a good size, not too big, but not too close. The mirrors all along two of the walls help make it look bigger. The floor is shiny and gray, and there’s a small cart with a laptop on it that I can only assume is where the quiet Latin music is coming from, piped through to speakers mounted near the ceiling in the four corners of the room. The studio walks a nice line between super fancy and completely affordable. I don’t feel like I don’t belong there, which surprises me.

“Welcome, welcome,” Ms. Tina says once she finally makes her way back to the front of the room. “I will be your dance instructor for the next twelve weeks, and I’m so happy you’re all here.”

I look around at the other five pairs of students, and I’m surprised by the variety. There are folks older than me, folks younger than me, a same-sex couple, people of color. We’re a definite melting pot, and I am so here for it.

Ms. Tina gives us her own background, how she’s been dancing since she was ten, that she traveled with a dance troupe for several years, was a dancer in three different Broadway shows over the course of seven years, how she auditioned for the Rockettes but, sadly, didn’t make the cut, and how she ultimately ended up back home in Northwood fifteen years ago to be closer to her children and grandkids and open her own dance studio.

“I’ve been teaching ever since, and even after all this time, nothing brings me more joy. I hope to instill that joy of dancing in you.” She moves to the laptop and hits a button that cuts off the music. “We’re going to be learning some basic dance moves, but mostly focusing on salsa. You’ll be able to use what you learn here for any number of dance styles. That’s the beauty of it. Now, you’re all here for your own reasons, so why don’t we go around the room and you introduce yourselves and tell us what you’re hoping to gain from being here?”

I listen raptly as the couples introduce themselves. Neil and Jillian are a white couple that look to be in their late fifties, and they’ve both recently retired and are looking to stay active. “I agreed to learn to play golf,” Jillian says with a gently teasing eye roll. “But only in exchange for Neil taking dance lessons with me.”

“Seemed fair,” Neil says with a shrug, his hand on his substantial belly.

Jamal and Kevin I’d put in their forties, maybe. Jamal is Black and very tall. Kevin is white and a good six inches shorter. They’re headed on their first cruise in the fall, and they want to be able to dance the nights away.

Regina and Dale are both Black and probably in their thirties, and they’re in the same boat as Bash and me. “We’re getting married in September,” Regina says, “and I want us to be able to dazzle on the dance floor.” Dale gives her a squeeze and kisses her temple.

Davis and Linda are a white couple and look to be the oldest of the group, maybe in their late sixties. Davis makes a face that seems to be a mix of a grin and a grimace as he says, “I had a knee replacement last year and Linda here is doing what she can to keep me active. So here we are.”

Pete and Katrina are a white couple in their twenties, both perpetually smiley from what I can tell in the fifteen minutes I’ve been around them. They hold hands and lean in to each other as if they’re afraid to not be touching in some way. It’s super cute and also makes me want to roll my eyes. They’ve been together for only six months and decided to try something different.

Then it’s our turn.

“Hi, I’m Sebastian—my friends call me Bash—and this is my good friend Scottie. I’m getting married in December, and I want to surprise my fiancée by not making a fool of myself—or her—during our first dance as husband and wife.”

“And Scottie, she is not your fiancée?” Ms. Tina asks.

I shake my head. “No, I’m just a really, really good friend, clearly.” A soft chuckle moves around the room.

Ms. Tina claps her hands together. “Well. Wonderful. I love that you all have different reasons for taking a dance class. As you know, this is a twelve-week course. We’ll be touching on simple moves as well as specific ones. My focus is on salsa. By the time twelve weeks have passed, you will have all the basics you need to be confident on the dance floor. We end all classes with a recital here in class. Totally optional, of course. And there’s a competition in September where all the dance studios in the area send one couple to represent their school. Always fun to watch. Does anybody have any questions before we get started?”

We do some stretches to begin with, and then Bash and I spend the next forty minutes laughing our asses off as we fumble, trip, and step on each other’s feet.

“Oh my God, I’m doomed,” he says at one point, through his laughter.

Ms. Tina shuts that right down. “No, no. No such thing. You are not doomed. You are laughing, and that’s a good thing. We will whip you right into shape. Don’t worry.” She floats on to Regina and Dale, who already look like they’ve been dancing together for decades.

“I hate them,” Bash whispers as he bumps me with a hip.

“They look fantastic, don’t they?” I rub his arm absently. “We’ll get there. We’re not supposed to be awesome the first class.”

He nods as we watch Ms. Tina move Regina’s hand higher on Dale’s shoulder. They move so smoothly, like they’re gliding. How they ended up in a beginner dance class, I have no idea, but I decide right then that I love watching them.

“I think I gotta call shenanigans here,” Bash says good-naturedly, and a ripple of soft laughter runs through the room. Seems we’re not the only ones watching.

“They’re damn good,” Davis says, and the rest of us have stopped to watch as Regina and Dale float along.

“We can all get there.” I say it out loud, but I’m more telling myself that. Ms. Tina hears me, though, and points in my direction.

“That. Right there. That’s the attitude I want.” She’s smiling at me, and I feel like the kid in kindergarten who just got a gold star. I feel my face get warm.

Not long after that, class is over, and I think we’re all a little shocked by how quickly it went. We gather our things and file out of the studio.

“That was fun,” Bash says, and I nod my agreement.

“Not gonna lie, I didn’t hate it,” I agree, and I’m kind of surprised. I mean, I’m still super self-conscious about dancing in front of people, but the fact that many others in the class felt the same way makes me less so. If that makes sense.

We reach our cars in the parking lot, and we wave to various other class members as we all get ready to head home.

“Will you wait until I’m sure my car starts?” I ask Bash.

He nods and stands next to his driver’s side door until my car’s engine sputters to life on the third try.

“Third time’s the charm,” Bash says as he pulls his door open. “See you tomorrow.”

I’m so relieved I didn’t despise class, and I’m thinking about that as I drive home. I’m not a person who dances, outside of my own bedroom by myself. Unless I’ve had a lot to drink, I tend to stand on the sidelines and watch the people who actually have rhythm of some kind.

I pull my car into the driveway behind my grandma’s pristine and shining white Toyota Camry. Yes, this is where I live right now. With my grandmother. It’s not ideal: thirty-four-year-old single lesbian residing with her grandmother, who arguably has a fuller social calendar than she does. But it works for both of us. And also, that’s what I get for moving into my girlfriend’s house after dating her for less than six months. Granted, the relationship lasted for almost three years, but when it ended, I was the one who had to move. Torn between renting an apartment and buying an actual house, my grandmother asked me if I wanted to come live with her. Since my grandfather passed away a couple years ago, she’s been alone in a fairly sizable house that she doesn’t want to leave. She also doesn’t want to be—her words here—an old woman rattling around in a big, empty house. And I adore my grandmother. She’s my favorite person in the whole wide world. Saying no to her is impossible.

So here I am.

“It’s me,” I call out as I enter through the side door. I always worry I’m going to scare her, so I announce myself every time I come home.

“We’re in the living room,” she calls back, and I follow her voice to find her in her favorite recliner watching NCIS. She hits the remote to pause the show and smiles at me.

“Are you watching your boyfriend Mark Harmon again?” I ask as I bend to kiss her cheek. She has Salt, her white cat, curled up in her lap looking happier than any cat has a right to look, and I give him a stroke. His cranky counterpart, Pepper, is around here somewhere. “Where’s your bitchy sister?” I ask him as I squat down to kiss his head.

Grandma feigns a horrified gasp. “Don’t you talk about her that way. She’s just misunderstood.”

“She’s bitchy.”

“And she’s a little bitchy.”

I laugh softly and sit down on the couch.

“How was dance class? You’re here, so that means you didn’t die.” Grandma grins at me, and even sitting in her chair in the evening, watching TV, she looks classy and put together, dressed in a smart outfit of slacks and a colorful print top in blues and yellows. She used to have me color her hair but decided once my grandpa had passed that she wanted to go “au naturel,” as she put it. And now she has a head of gorgeous silvery-white hair that, instead of making her look older, just makes her look even more sophisticated. She never leaves the house without makeup on. She has her nails done every other week, and she always smells like J’adore, the perfume she began wearing a few years ago when Charlize Theron started doing the commercials. “Why shouldn’t I smell as sexy as Charlize?” was her reasoning, and who could argue with that? Now I can’t smell that perfume without thinking of my grandma.

She’s hipper than I will ever be.

“You’re right. I did not die. In fact, I might have had a good time. Might have.”

“I told you.”

“You did. You were right. As usual. Which is not to say I won’t die at some point. Because the way Bash and I were stepping all over each other? We could be in for some serious bodily injury.”

Grandma laughs, a sound I love more than just about anything. I’m the grandchild who’s the comic relief. I always have been. So anytime I can make her laugh makes me feel like I’m fulfilling my given role. “I made pork chops for dinner and saved you a plate,” she tells me. “In the fridge. Just heat it up.”

“You’re the best.” I push to my feet and head for the kitchen.

“Don’t you forget it.” I hear the TV start back up again. And not for the first time, any shame I might feel about being a grown-ass adult who lives with her grandma flies right out the window. Because no, I won’t stay forever. Of course I won’t. I do want my own place. My own stuff. I want to choose furniture and paint colors and art for the walls and not always feel like I’m incidental in somebody else’s space.

But for now? I kinda love living here.

v

It’s Saturday in early May, and I’m meeting my mom for lunch. Since tomorrow is Mother’s Day and she’s going to her husband’s parents’ house for the day, this is when I get to see her. I normally work on Saturdays and have Sunday and Monday as my weekend, but I took the day off to have lunch with my mom. Yeah, I know. It’s a long story.

The day is lovely, a sunny spring day, not typical for upstate New York. No, typical in the spring is rain and weirdly warm or unseasonably cool temperatures because Mother Nature is clearly going through some things these past few years and is all over the place, but yeah, climate change is a hoax and don’t even get me started.

I’m sitting in Jolie’s, a popular diner in Jefferson Square that my mom loves, and when she walks through the front door with both my half sister and half brother, I am thrilled and disappointed at the same time. I adore my half siblings. I have four of them, total. My mom has Jordana, who’s thirteen, and Kai, who’s ten. My dad also has two more kids. I’m an only child, in that I’m the only offspring my parents had together, but I’m also the oldest of five kids. Oldest by a lot.

“Hi, sweetheart,” my mom says as she bends to kiss my cheek.

“Hey there. Happy Mother’s Day a day early.” She smiles at me and takes the chair across from me as Jordana and Kai both hug me. “I didn’t expect to see you weirdos,” I say to them.

My mother shakes her head, blows out a breath, and motions for the waitress, then orders sodas for the kids and a white wine for herself. “Kai was supposed to have a playdate, and that fell through. Jordie’s cheer practice got canceled at the last minute.” She grimaced. “Sorry about that.”

“No worries,” I say as I reach toward Kai and rub my hand over his head. He pretends to dodge me, but doesn’t really. He’s such a cute kid. I love that my siblings look sort of like me, but also not. Jordana and I both have our mom’s blue eyes and Kai’s are hazel, but they both have Stephan’s—their dad—darker hair and complexion.

“We can’t stay too long, honey,” my mom says as our drinks arrive. “Sam and Jojo are coming over tonight, and I need to get groceries for dinner and clean my house.” She smiles, firmly expecting me to understand. And I do. She has more important things in her life than her oldest daughter. She has for a long time now. She has no idea that when she says something like how she has limited time for her visit with me, it makes me feel like I’m something on her to-do list to be checked off. Story of my life.

I take a good look at her. My mom is pretty. I’ve always thought so. She’s about five foot six with light brown hair that she wears in a long bob and tucks behind her ears. It makes her look younger than her fifty-five years. She’s a stylish dresser, and today, she’s wearing dark jeans and a simple white button-down shirt to which she’s added gold hoop earrings, a simple gold necklace with a J and a K dangling from it—no S, though—and kitten heels. I actually thought having kids in her forties would age her quicker, but it seems to have had the opposite effect. She looks younger than her age, vibrant, happy. She smiles a lot more, revealing the same high cheekbones I have, and her eyes sparkle. I try not to think about how that wasn’t the case until my siblings came along, but I’m an adult now, and I do understand that she was unhappy with my father and not with me. She split up with my father, not me. But still…

I shake off the uneasiness that often creeps in when I wander down that path, and we spend the next hour chatting about Jordana’s cheer squad and how Kai is going to try out for lacrosse. He also plays trumpet in the school band, and Jordana sings and hopes to try out for the junior high musical this year, which I’m told is Godspell. And seriously, does every school in America do Godspell? Mine did. Before I know it, my mom is dabbing her napkin at her mouth, and then she sets it next to her plate, a clear indication that she’s done. She checks her phone for the time, then looks at me with an apologetic smile. My time is up. I realize it sadly, as I have since I was twenty-one and my mom told me she was pregnant with Jordie. Kai came along three years after that, and then my father and his new wife announced they were pregnant and my two other half brothers were born, and honestly, my entire twenties were spent welcoming new siblings to the family—families—and realizing that I would never have my parents’ full attention ever again.

Which sucks, even well into my thirties.

I mean, it’s fine. I’m thirty-four years old, what do I need my parents’ attention for, right?

I stay sitting at the table in Jolie’s for several moments after I’ve hugged my brother and sister and mom and watched them leave for the next adventure in their day. I take a sip of my water as it occurs to me that not once did my mother ask a single thing about my life. She did ask how Grandma was—Grandma’s my dad’s mom, but she always liked my mother—but we talked about the kids, their schoolwork, their extracurricular activities, the things they’re planning to do during the upcoming summer, none of which include me, and then they were off.

The familiar stab pokes me in the chest. You’d think I’d be used to this by now, but it stings every time. Every single damn time. I have four siblings but am an only child. And wow, sometimes I really feel that.

The waitress asks if she can get me anything else, and when I say no, she slides the check onto the table with an apologetic smile.

I pay it, leave a nice tip, and decide to go bug Adley for a while.

v

Saturday afternoons are busy at Get the Scoop, especially once it starts to get warm out. I have always been a person who can and will eat ice cream all year long. Rainy and cold out? Give me ice cream. A blizzard? I’ll take a cone, thank you. Hurricane on its way? Why yes, a banana split would be lovely. But the majority of folks associate ice cream with warm weather, and I suppose I can accept that.

Because of my BFF status, I get to enter through the back door if I want to, and I do today. It’s not a huge place, but it’s bustling. Three employees are working out front, which I can see through the big window-sized opening that allows you to look from the back room—where the magic happens, as I like to say—into the service area. There are six or eight people in line, and a few kids are bopping around the shop, shouting for parents to Watch me! as kids tend to do.

Adley looks tired, but I know she often works later than she intends to, to the detriment of her sleep.

“Hey,” she says, and smiles and looks happy to see me. I kiss her cheek as she asks, “It’s Saturday. Why aren’t you at work?” Then she blinks at me for a moment. “It is Saturday, right?”

I laugh softly as I shrug. “It is. I just had lunch with my mom for Mother’s Day.”

“Oh,” she says, and she draws the word out, so I know she gets it. “Where’d you go? How was it?” Adley has a tall stand in a corner with her laptop on it, and she places orders, answers emails, checks inventory, and monitors sales all from that spot, rather than having an office of some kind, because Get the Scoop isn’t all that big. She’s looking at the screen as she talks to me.

“Jolie’s. Packed. Jordie and Kai were there, too.”

Adley stops typing and turns to look at me. Here’s the thing about Adley: When she looks at you? She looks at you. Like, you can feel her probing around in your brain, flipping through your thoughts like they’re folders in a filing cabinet. I’ve never in my life been able to hide a thing from her. Not one thing. “I’m sorry, boo.” Then she sighs loudly and turns back to her screen. “Your mom never seems to get that you’d like time, just the two of you. Want me to smack her around a little bit?”

“Would you?” I grin at her and run my hand down her arm. Adley always has my back. Always. “What’s new in ice cream land?” I ask, itching to change the subject. It’s not like my Mommy issues are new.

Adley’s face lights up, and I know I’ve asked the right question. If there’s one thing she loves, it’s creating new ice cream flavors and then trying them out on me. “I’m so glad you asked. Sit.” She indicates a stool near the wall, grabs a couple small bowls, and scoops a little bit of ice cream out of a couple tubs. Then she hands one to me with a spoon and waits. This is how we do it. I take a bite and tell her what I taste, and then she knows if her flavor combinations are working.

I taste the first one. Roll it around in my mouth. It’s a blast of apple, but also something warm and comforting. “Apples and cinnamon…” I take another small taste. “Sugar…brown sugar…” Adley’s watching me carefully. She never gives me a hint. She’s very patient. I take my time before finally looking at her. “Candy Apple?”

Her smile grows wide.

“Point for me. Next.” She slides the next bowl to me, and we do this four more times. I get Island Tropics—well, not the name, but all the flavors of coconut, pineapple, and mango—Black Forest, and Lucky Charms. Though she can’t call it that without risking getting sued by General Mills, so she’s still working on that. I fumble on Snickerdoodle, but Adley thinks it’s because the flavors aren’t quite right yet.

Spending time with her and sampling ice cream turns out to be just what I needed, and by the time I leave Get the Scoop, I feel much better about things in general.

I was hoping to have dinner with Grandma tonight, but when I get home, her car is gone and there’s a note on the kitchen table for me.

Scottie—

Having dinner out with the girls. Made a pie. In the fridge. Don’t forget to feed the babies!

Love, G

My grandma has a smartphone, and she knows how to use it. Uses it often, in fact. But she told me once that there’s something about the feel of pen and paper that she enjoys more than poking at letters on a screen. Plus, she’s got the most beautiful handwriting, all full of swoops and fancy. I put the note down, and out of nowhere, Pepper appears, like because I’m in the kitchen, I must be there to feed her.

“It’s not dinnertime yet, Peps. But you’re so pretty, so I’ll give you treats.”

As if the T-word was a trigger, Salt appears, and now I’ve got two furry things twining around my feet while I get their treat bag out. I toss a couple treats one way and then a couple the other. If I don’t spread them out, Pepper will eat them all, piggy that she is, and poor Salty will get none. While they are clearly named because of their colors, I tell Grandma all the time that Pepper is the one who should be named Salt because she is, in fact, very salty. The saltiest.

I cut myself a slice of pie—strawberry rhubarb, which might be my all-time favorite—and take my plate into the living room, trying not to dwell on the fact that my seventy-seven-year-old grandmother has a more active social life than I do. As I grab the remote to see what’s on, my phone pings with a text notification. I look, expecting to see Bash or Demi or Adley. Or even one of my parents. But it’s none of those people.

Have you unblocked me yet?

Fuuuuuuuck.

It’s Pen. Or Penelope Powell, as it says on her birth certificate. And no sooner does my brain register her name than my heart starts to pound. My armpits sweat. My stomach churns, and I’m certain I can feel the one bite of strawberry rhubarb sitting in it like a hunk of hot coal. How does she do that? How does one simple text from her have such a visceral effect on me? Initially, I changed her name to a simple emoji of a broken heart, so that’s what’s displayed at the top of my screen. Then I blocked her. I’ve had her blocked for months now. Not because she tried hard to talk to me. She didn’t, I can only assume because she was busy with her fiancée. Ugh. That word feels like slime in my mouth, and I want to spit it across the room. But in a moment of what I thought at the time was maturity, strength, power, I unblocked her. Just last week. Not expecting to ever hear from her again, of course.

And now here she fucking is. Being all smarmy and acting like she knew exactly when I unblocked her.

God, did she know?

I give my head a shake and I scoff—which scares Salt off the couch—because of course she doesn’t know. Of course she doesn’t know. She’s not psychic. None of my close friends are tight with her, and besides, I didn’t tell any of them I unblocked her because they’d have given me looks. And talks. And there would’ve been eye rolling and head shaking, and who needs that bullshit, really? Not me.

I stare at the screen and am almost about to start typing when I see Pepper across the room. She’s standing in the doorway of the living room, and she’s staring at me. Just…staring. And probably judging, if we’re being honest here. But then I think about what a badass cat she is, how she lives life on her own terms and doesn’t let anybody boss her around, and I shock myself by setting the phone down.

“No. She can wait. And maybe I won’t answer at all. Right, Peps?”

The cat blinks her big yellow eyes at me. Once. Slowly. Then she turns and walks away, and I’m not quite sure if she’s impressed with me or finds me pathetic. It’s confusing.

I eat my pie, which takes about eight minutes, and that’s how long I make Pen wait for a response. A whole eight minutes before I pick up the phone again.

So. Yeah. Pathetic it is.

Chapter Three

When I walk into the salon the following Tuesday, I’m surprised to see Demi already at her chair and buzzing the back of a man’s neck with her electric razor. There’s something about the way she’s touching him, though. An intimacy, almost. I glance at Bash, and he rolls his lips in and bites down, gives me an almost imperceptible nod.

“Hair to Dye For,” I say to them. “With dye spelled D-Y-E.”

“Veto,” Bash and Demi say at the same time and without missing a beat.

I sigh dramatically, even though I knew they’d hate it. I’ve decided that’s all I’m offering now for names—ridiculous suggestions—since they veto anything I come up with anyway, and their suggestions are always better.

Demi finishes up with her client, and I see that he’s tall with dark hair, a heavy shadow on his face even though he’s clean-shaven, and a silver hoop piercing his eyebrow. Demi walks him to the front desk where he pays, then walks him to the door. Bash and I are both watching from our respective chairs as she gives the guy a kiss on the lips and watches him go. She turns back to us, and neither Bash nor I pretend we weren’t just gawking.

“And who was that tall, dark, handsome man that was able to get you into the salon before noon?” I ask. Mrs. D’Angelo is in my chair again and watching our conversation in the mirror.

“That, my friends, was Micah. Isn’t he dreamy?” Demi does a little spin when she reaches her chair and sighs like a Disney Princess who’s just met the guy she thinks she’s in love with. Of course we, the audience, know she’s a hundred percent wrong about that. Even Mrs. D’Angelo looks down at her hands with an almost imperceptible smile and gives her head a subtle shake.

Bash and I finish our clients at roughly the same time, and when he’s finished cashing his out and comes back to his chair, I try to act completely nonchalant as I say, “So, guess who texted me this weekend.”

“Your mom,” Bash says. “No. Your dad. No, wait. A new client. No. Jennifer Lopez.”

A blink at him. “Listen, if JLo texted me over the weekend, trust me, I would not have waited until Tuesday to tell you.”

“Pen.” Demi doesn’t look my way when she says it, just heads to the waiting area to grab her next client. But Bash turns to look at her, then back to me, and I nod.

“Yep.”

“Oh God, the she-devil of Northwood? WTF?” Bash gives his head a shake, his eyebrows dip down into a V above his nose, I can see his jaw tense, and all those reactions make me love him even more than I already do. He’s like the big brother I never had, and he always wants to protect me. Pen breaking up with me was actually really hard on Bash. “What did she want?” he finally asks.

“To know if I’d unblocked her yet.” I say it without censoring myself and wince internally when I hear my own voice.

“You unblocked her?” Bash’s eyes go wide. “Why? Why would you do that?”

“Ease up, B,” Demi says as her next client, a blond woman in her thirties, sits. She unfurls the cape and drapes it over her. “She probably had a moment of strength and thought she was past the whole thing.” She uses the pedal on her chair to crank it up a little higher. “After all, the opposite of love isn’t hate. It’s apathy.”

“Damn right it is,” the woman in the chair says.

“Did you text her back?” Bash asks. “Tell me you didn’t text her back.”

“I did,” I say. “But not right away.” I don’t tell him that I waited less than ten minutes. That tidbit will be just mine.

“Good. Make her wait. Or better yet, don’t text her back at all.”

“Have you even met our friend Scottie?” Demi asks him. “She’s the nicest person we know. Polite. Never rude. And not texting back would be rude.”

Ugh. I hate how well they know me. I mean, I love it, but I also hate it.

“What did she want?” Bash asks, not looking at me. He and I both have empty chairs, and he grabs the nearby broom to sweep around his station.

“To see how I was doing? I guess?”

Bash snorts. “I bet. Isn’t she engaged? I wonder how her fiancée would feel if she knew her betrothed was texting with her ex.” He looks up at me, the broom stopping midsweep. “She’d hate it, you know.”

I nod. Bash is annoyed, and I know it’s at me for responding. And I don’t want to admit that Demi is right about the whole rude thing. My parents may be wrapped up in their own little worlds right now, but they raised me with manners. As did my grandma. I am polite to a fault. I would rather have somebody walk all over me than stand up for myself and be loud in public where everybody can see. It’s a problem. I know.

My next client arrives, and I make small talk with her even as my brain is whirring. Why did Pen text me? Because it wasn’t actually clear at the time. She said she’d been thinking about me, so thought she’d shoot me a text just to say hi and was surprised when I responded. I always did like when I could surprise her, since one of her criticisms of me was that I’m too predictable. Not spontaneous enough. She asked about my grandma, which was one thing I will always give her credit for—she was always unfailingly kind to Grandma. I made sure to space my responses out, not to respond immediately—though, as with the first text, I didn’t wait all that long—and I answered all her questions. One thing I’m proud of is that I didn’t ask her any questions about her or her life or anything like that. Because a) I don’t want to know, really and b) I hope her world is crashing down around her ears, but I’d never say that out loud to her. If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all, am I right?

The day goes on in a flurry, and before I know it, it’s four thirty, and Bash is closing up his station, cleaning, and putting things away. I give him a questioning look because it’s early. Dance class isn’t until six.

“These shoes are killing me,” he says, and we both glance down at the shiny new loafers he’s got on. “I’ll never make it through dance class in these. I’m done with clients, so I’m gonna run home and change and I’ll meet you at the studio. Okay?”

“Sure.”

I slide my car into a spot in the parking lot of the dance studio at five fifty-nine because it wouldn’t start. Again. I really need to get a new car, but I just haven’t been able to find the energy for a car dealer. I left my dad a message two weeks ago about going with me, but he hasn’t called me back yet. Typical.

I lock my car and hurry inside and everybody is there…except Bash. For a second or two, I’m relieved that I beat him, but after fifteen minutes go by and we’re all doing warm-up stretches and I still haven’t heard from him, I start to get worried.

“And where is your handsome dance partner tonight?” Ms. Tina asks me.

“That is a very good question,” I say.

“No matter. You will dance with me until he arrives.”

To say that those words cranked my nerves up into holy shit territory would be a colossal understatement. We are just finishing our stretches when Bash shows up. I see him in the doorway, and his apology is written in his eyes. He sets his stuff down and crosses the room to me, limping slightly, before I have to dance with Ms. Tina.

“Where have you been?” I whisper.

“Sorry,” he whispers back. “I couldn’t find my other shoe. Lydia cleaned last night, and I have no idea how she managed to put one shoe away and not the other, but it took me forever to find it. Under the couch.” He rolls his eyes to punctuate how ridiculous he thinks that location was. “Then I was late, and I hurried, and I missed the bottom two steps and ended up in a heap on the landing. My foot is killing me.”

“Well, I almost had to dance with the teacher.”

He clenches his teeth and makes a yikes face, and I laugh softly as Ms. Tina calls the class to the center of the room to go over today’s class.

We learn the box step, which I’m shocked to say I pick up quicker than Bash does. I joke that maybe I should be the one leading, but when I step on his foot, he winces in pain, and I feel terrible. Ms. Tina chuckles at us and says it won’t be the last time one of us steps on the other, and from the combination of laughs, winces, and irritated scolding that ripples through the room for the entire hour, I know she’s right.

By the time class is over, Bash is glad, and I have had more fun than I expected to.

“Maybe you should have that looked at,” I say to him as we gather our things.

He shrugs. “Nah. I’m sure I just bruised it when I fell. Probably gonna be sore for a couple days.”

We head out to the parking lot. Bash is a little slower than usual, I notice, but I walk with him, and by the time he’s in his car, I’m no longer worried. “Tell Lydia I said hi,” I say as I give him a quick wave and head to my own car. Vehicles are filing out of the parking lot, and across the pavement, I catch a glimpse of a woman. And okay, I’m going to be completely honest here, she catches my eye because she’s super hot. I’m not proud of that fact because I’m not in the habit of objectifying women, but it’s the truth. I can’t see a ton of detail because she’s literally across the entire parking lot, but she’s dressed in black leggings, a red sweatshirt with a wide neck that’s sliding partway off one shoulder, and black Nikes with a white swoosh. As I watch, she reaches up to pull the elastic out of her ponytail, and waves of dark, dark hair come tumbling down over her shoulders.

My mouth actually goes dry.

I’ve only read about that in books, your mouth going dry, but it totally happens, and I grab my water bottle from the bag on my shoulder and take a swig as I keep staring. Suddenly, she glances over her shoulder, and I think our eyes meet, but I’m too far away to be sure. What I do know is that if I don’t move in the next second and a half, it’ll be crystal clear that I’ve been gawking at her like some creeper. I shake myself into action, force my body to move, to open my car door, to actually get in. Once in the driver’s seat and having slammed the door behind me, I exhale loudly and hope the woman didn’t notice me. I hear her ignition turn over and watch in my rearview mirror as she drives out of the lot in what I see now is a black Nissan SUV and doesn’t give me a second glance.

Okay. Whew.

My phone pings a text notification before I can shift into gear, and it’s Adley asking if I want to taste test for her. Since she’s talking about ice cream and since I’m no fool, I tell her I’ll be right over.