“Shit, my bad. So I’m right?” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “It is one of them. You know I heard Jason left the party in a hurry Saturday.” Her brows waggled.
Pressing my lips together, I kept walking, but Mya followed. “You can talk to me, you know?” she went on, “I know what it’s like to want someone... bad for you.”
My eyes darted to hers. “I don’t...”
“Girl, it’s written all over your face every time he enters the room.”
Oh God.
The color drained from my cheeks. “Is it that obvious?”
“Seriously?” Mya’s mouth lifted in a half-grin, not that anything about this was amusing. “You’re fooling nobody but yourself.”
“Crap. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I wasn’t supposed to...” I stuffed down the words.
“Fall for him?”
“I’m not... it isn’t like that. I know it’s doomed. He’s Jason Ford for Christ’s sake. But there is something there.” Something that was proving pretty damn hard to ignore. Especially since he wasn’t making it easy to forget him.
My cell vibrated again, and Mya nudged me, urging me to look at it.
Jason: Dancing naked under the rain?
“That is Jason, right? The Jason Ford? Because damn girl, what did you do to him?”
“It’s silly really.” I didn’t return his text, giving Mya my full attention. “I created this list for senior year, kind of like a bucket list.”
“Neat.”
“You think?”
“Yeah, I mean, life is for living, right? If having a list keeps you accountable, then why not, I say.” Mya slipped her arm through mine. “So what exactly is on this list, or is it a secret?”
“I don’t go around publicizing it, if that’s what you mean.”
“It’s something for you, I dig that. But Jason knows about the list?”
“Yeah, Asher let it slip.”
“Asher?” Something flashed in her eyes. “What’s his deal anyway?”
“What do you mean?” We reached the room where book club held their weekly meetings.
“Doesn’t matter,” she backtracked. “This your stop?”
“Yeah, I pushed myself to take up a new hobby this year.”
Mya glanced at the temporary sign on the window and frowned. “And you chose book club? That doesn’t sound very bucket list.”
“Hey, it’s a start.”
“Yeah, but come on, you can do better than book club.”
Her words sank into me, cracking open every insecurity I’d ever felt about myself. All my fears about becoming my parents.
Mya was right—book club was safe. It wasn’t pushing any limits or breaking any chains. It was something my mom would have done when she was at school.
I shuddered.
“Oh dear God, I’m becoming my mother,” I grumbled, suddenly wishing I’d have signed up to wizards and muggles or JROTC.
“You want to make memories, right?” I nodded, unsure where she was going with this. “Then you need to think big. You need to think so big that when you look back at high school in twenty years’ time you can say you had zero regrets.”
“Zero regrets, I like the sound of that.” Even if it did terrify me.
“Ready to show me that list?”
Was I?
I doubted I’d ever be ready, but if I wanted senior year to be epic, maybe I needed Mya’s help more than I cared to admit.
“I’m home,” I called, dropping my keys on the sideboard and making my way into the kitchen.
“Hey, sweetheart, how was your day?”
I spent the day evading this hot guy’s text messages, overhauled my bucket list with my new friend from the city, and seriously considered cutting class. But not wanting to give my mom a heart attack, I went with, “It was the usual. You’re home early?”
“Dentist appointment. I scheduled you for next month.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
She pushed a glass of juice toward me before going back to the pan of spaghetti. It was Tuesday which meant spaghetti. Tomorrow would be pot roast, and Thursday Mom liked to live on the edge with steak and chicken fajitas.
“Me and your father were talking yesterday and thought now is a good as time as any to start contacting businesses in the city who might be able to give you an internship next summer.”
“It’s only November, Mom. Isn’t that a little premature?”
“Absolutely not. Making the right contacts now could be crucial for your future.”
“I’ll get right on that,” I murmured, tapping out a tune on the counter. “Hey, Mom.” I asked after a couple of minutes silence. “What’s the most adventurous thing you did in high school?”
She glanced over her shoulder, brows pinched with confusion. “Adventurous thing?”
“Yeah, like sneak out after dark or make out behind the bleachers.”
“Felicity Charlotte Giles, what on earth has gotten into you?” A slight pink streak appeared across her cheeks.
“It’s for a school project,” I lied. “For English.”
“A project you say, well,” she dried her hands on the towel shoved into the waistband of her pants, “Let’s see, there was that one time me and your father played hooky to go down to the lake for a picnic. We’d been dating six months and he wanted to make it special. Then there was the time we made out at the back of Mr. Kavendish’s classroom during Romeo and Juliet, that was particularly daring.”
“Rad, Mom.” I mocked, feeling my stomach sink.
“Sorry if my stories aren’t cool enough for you, baby, but we were good kids. We didn’t go looking for trouble and we were happy to live within the rules.”
I knew the story well. My parents were high school sweethearts who went on to college, graduated, and found jobs in the city. Together. Then I’d come along, their unplanned surprise, and upset all their plans. They never made me feel anything less than loved and cherished, but sometimes I wondered if their overbearing interest in my future was their response to having a child they weren’t prepared for.
“Do you ever regret only ever being with Dad?”
The lines around her eyes deepened. “The school really wants to know this stuff?”
Shrugging, I quickly fumbled for something to say. “They want us to compare senior year back in the day to senior year now, that kind of thing. They didn’t really give us set questions or anything. I just thought... well, you and Dad have been together forever. That can’t have always been easy.”
“Were we young? Of course we were. But when you know, you know, sweetheart. And I took one look at your father and knew he was the one.”
“What do you think has been your recipe for success?” Because where a lot of marriages ended in heartache, my parents had weathered the storm.
“Hmm, let’s see. Communication, never going to sleep on an argument, and routine.”
“Routine?” I squeaked. “Jesus, Mom, you make it sound so romantic.”
“Baby, your father is about as romantic as that wooden spoon.” She flicked her head to the utensil rack. “But he’s always been there for me, and that’s what really matters. I’d rather have a lifetime of your father than a few months of fire and passion.”