Prologue #2
I blame it on too many funnel cakes and french fries and the fact that Tyler Hansley is literally the only person on earth who can make me do things I would never ordinarily do.
I hated every single second of it, and the picture currently sitting in my lap in a wooden frame covered in tiny painted Kennywood landmarks is the picture taken of us by the park’s strategically placed cameras while the car hurtled through the one hundred ninety-seven-foot corkscrew.
Tyler’s mouth is open wide in glee, and I’m clutching my safety harness for dear life, my hair flying everywhere, skin tinged green, and the look on my face giving absolutely no fucking way.
I had no idea he bought the picture, and I’m already thinking of the perfect place on my shelf to put it.
“Goddammit, Ty, you’re absolutely killing birthday night this year.”
“I know,” he says smugly, and I roll my eyes, regretting the compliment immediately because I love him, but sometimes I forget it’s my job to keep this golden boy quarterback humble. “My turn.”
I hand him his present, and he immediately slides his finger under the tape, carefully removing the wrapping paper and setting it aside before opening the box and looking down at the frame inside.
“Soph,” he breathes, his tone drenched in emotion. And when he looks up at me, I see that same emotion painted all over his face. “This is…wow.”
I shrug, even though my heart squeezes at his expression.
I also chose pictures from last summer—ones taken at his grandparents’ lake house in Western Maryland where we go for two weeks every summer with a big group of family and friends who might as well be family, including Tyler’s grandparents who are basically my grandparents too, our two families, and our moms’ other two best friends and their families.
The frame I gave Tyler holds four pictures.
In the first one, Tyler and I are standing on the edge of the dock, holding hands, our backs to the camera.
The second one was taken right after we jumped off the dock—we’re mid-air, hands still clasped and stretched up over our heads, feet hovering above the water.
In the third, we’re laughing our heads off while treading water in the lake, faces tipped up to the sky.
The fourth one is my favorite. We’re back on the dock, one brightly colored beach towel wrapped around both our shoulders, heads close together and lips tipped up into smiles.
It’s golden hour, both of us bathed in a soft glow, and the lake is a deep blue, sparkling under the late-afternoon sun.
It’s the kind of moment that makes you wish summer lasted forever—a perfect slice of time and two best friends, captured for forever.
Our friend Maddy took the pictures, and as soon as she showed them to me, I knew they would be the ones I chose for our annual birthday picture exchange.
Tyler reaches out a hand and laces our fingers together. “Thank you,” he says, his voice uncharacteristically serious. “I love it so much.”
I clear my throat, those pesky emotions once again shoving their way to the surface. “I wanted it to be special. In case this is our last year of birthday night.”
Tyler furrows his brows in confusion. “Why would this be our last year?”
I shrug again. Evidently that’s my move tonight for trying to make light of things that are actually a Very Big Deal.
“We’re seniors. We’re graduating in six weeks.
Next April I’ll be in Boston, and you’ll be in California living your very best starting quarterback life.
It’s not like we can meet in your backyard to celebrate our birthdays when we’re living an entire country apart. Everything is changing.”
The truth of those words lands right in the pit of my stomach, and suddenly, my eyes are burning again. This time I do a shitty job of hiding it, and Tyler sees it all, squeezing my hand that’s still clasped in his.
“Not this,” Tyler says seriously. “Some things will change, but this?” He waves his free hand between us. “Us? That will never, ever change. Let’s make a pact.”
“A pact?” I ask, still working on shoving down my ridiculously oversized emotions.
He nods animatedly. “A pact.” He glances at his watch then back up at me.
“It’s eleven fifty-nine. The last minute of your birthday and almost the first minute of mine.
From now on, eleven fifty-nine on the night of April tenth is our most sacred time.
And in our most sacred place at our most sacred time, on our eighteenth birthdays, our pact is this.
No matter what’s going on in our lives, we promise always to come back here for birthday night. Every year. No exceptions.”
I roll my eyes. “Seriously? That can’t possibly work. You’ll be an entire country away doing college football star things on the next four April tenths.”
Tyler shakes his head. “Football season is long over in April. I’ll fly home for birthday night.”
I study him, my brain working double time. “One day you’ll be playing in the NFL in an as yet to be determined city, and I’ll have an actual job that’s probably not here.”
He waves that away. “Again, no football in April. And jobs have vacation days. You’ll use one of those for this.”
“Your parents might sell this house.”
At that, Tyler just laughs. “We’re literally sitting on the spot where my dad proposed to my mom.
They got married in this backyard, and I wouldn’t be surprised if my dad figures out a way for them to be buried here when they die.
He is the most sentimental human on the planet, and the way he loves my mom is bananas. They’re never selling this house.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “One day we might be married to other people. You don’t think it’s weird for a married person to drop everything to celebrate their birthday with a person of the opposite gender who they aren’t married to?”
He blows a raspberry and then scrunches up his nose as if the thought is positively outlandish. “I would never be married to anyone who doesn’t understand that you’re my number one.”
That seems farfetched to me and not at all how marriage works, but I stay quiet because the thought of Tyler not being my best friend one day—of losing what we have—is too painful for words. Instead, I just nod.
He beams at me, blue eyes sparkling under the night sky. “So, it’s settled. No matter where we are or what we’re doing, we always meet back here for birthday night. Every year, no matter what.”
My analytical brain—the one that made me valedictorian of the senior class and got me admitted early to MIT—whirls with a thousand different reasons why this plan won’t work, but not for the first time, I tell it to shut the fuck up.
Because I want it to be exactly as easy as Tyler makes it out to be.
The two of us against the world. Best friends.
The way it’s always been and the way I hope it always will be.
So, I push every other thought away and say the thing I know will make him smile.
I always want Tyler to smile.
“Forevs, Harry?” At my words, a dazzling grin spreads over his face, just like I predicted it would. It fills my chest with warmth and also, for some reason, makes it ache.
“Forevs, Sal.”