Chapter 13
Lily
The lawn chairs had been pulled into a loose circle under the string lights, laughter already bubbling. Rachel patted the empty seat between her and Sarah. “Here, Harper. You’re officially drafted.”
I didn’t hesitate. I sashayed in like I’d been doing this for years, iced tea in one hand, smile in full effect—hoping no one noticed how much harder it was to play the part when I knew Ethan was watching for the cracks.
By the time I sat, the group was already mid-story, everyone talking over each other in the easy rhythm of people who’d grown up side by side.
“…and then,” Matt was saying, grinning at Ethan, “you should’ve seen his hair. The entire top went neon orange.”
Ben choked on his beer. “Oh God—are we telling the bleach story?”
Ethan groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Do we have to—”
Rachel nearly toppled out of her chair, laughing. “Johnny Lawrence! Sweep the leg!” She shot to her feet, miming a crane kick, and the whole circle dissolved.
“Hang on,” I said, eyebrows climbing. “You dumped drugstore bleach on your head to look like the villain from Karate Kid? Not Daniel LaRusso, the actual hero?”
Ben slapped the arm of his chair. “See? Even the new girl knows you had it backwards!”
“Traitor,” Ethan muttered, ears turning pink. “It was supposed to be blonde. Not… whatever it was.”
“Please,” Sarah said, clutching her stomach. “It wasn’t Johnny Lawrence. It was straight-up Carrot Top. Tell me I’m wrong.”
The laughter doubled, spilling into the humid night.
Ethan slammed his beer on the ground. “I had chlorine in my hair from the pool. It wasn’t my fault.”
“Sure, sure,” Nate drawled. “Classic Calloway move. Blame the pool.”
For them, these stories were home turf, looping back like favorite songs. For me, laughter was survival—my way of pretending I belonged. Smile big, laugh loud, slip into the current. It usually worked. Tonight, it almost felt real. Almost.
Ben tipped his chair back, groaning. “Man, I needed this. Monday it’s back to teenagers who think Y equals MX plus B is a boy band.”
Maggie laughed. “Don’t act like you don’t love it. Half the time you’re drawing plays on the chalkboard instead of equations.”
“Hey, football is math,” Ben said, jabbing his beer in the air. “Angles, velocity, geometry—it all counts. The problem is my players are better at running into each other than running the drills.”
Rachel snorted into her wine. “That explains why the Jackets haven’t seen a playoff game since… what, ’85?”
“’87,” Nate corrected, smirking. “The year you and Ben got voted ‘cutest couple’ in the yearbook.”
“Oh no,” I said, delighted. “High school romance? Please tell me there are photos.”
Rachel rolled her eyes so hard I thought she might strain something, but a faint blush crept up her neck. “Don’t start, Sullivan. It was one prom date, not a marriage license.”
Sarah grinned. “And now you’re both still single. Maybe the yearbook was trying to tell you something.”
For a split second, Rachel and Ben glanced at each other—quick, almost defensive, but with a flash of something unspoken in the space between them.
Ben sat forward, shaking his head. “Not happening. Rachel’s my best friend.
Besides, I don’t have time for romance. I’ve got enough to deal with.
Prom is in a few weeks, and I’m still short on chaperones.
Do you know how hard it is to convince adults to babysit a bunch of hormone-fueled juniors hopped up on Surge and Pixy Stix? ”
Rachel smirked. “Gee, I can’t imagine why no one’s jumping at the chance.”
Maggie held up both hands. “Don’t even look at me. I’ll bake, but I’m not standing guard at the punch bowl.”
Sarah groaned. “I did my time. One more round of watching love-drunk teenagers grinding to Boyz II Men, and I’ll need therapy.”
Laughter rippled again, everyone joining in.
Everyone except Ethan. His gaze flicked my way, lingering a beat too long, his eyes dark beneath those lashes.
When our gazes locked, something electric passed between us, and I felt heat creep up my neck.
He shifted in his seat, leaning forward slightly, as if the space between us had suddenly become too much to bear.
Thankfully, Matt pushed up from his chair, clapping his hands like a coach calling time-out.
“Alright, enough shop talk. You all know the rules—cookout’s not official until somebody humiliates themselves in Pictionary.
” He disappeared toward the garage, and when he came back, he was lugging a battered easel with a giant pad of paper strapped to it, a box of fat markers bouncing under his arm.
Ben cracked his knuckles. “Oh, this is gonna be a bloodbath. Guys versus girls, same as always.”
Rachel made a face. “You’re really going to make poor Lily suffer through your caveman drawings?”
“Alright, what’s the wager this time?” Maggie asked, adjusting her lawn chair closer to the easel. “Because I’m not playing just for bragging rights. I want something worth humiliating you boys over.”
Ben leaned forward, eyes glinting with mischief. “How about this: if the guys win, you ladies are officially signed up to chaperone Prom. No excuses. No fake babysitting emergencies.”
Maggie crossed her arms, chin tilting up. “Fine. But if we win, the four of you are climbing up on the picnic table in front of everyone downtown and performing the entire Yellow Jackets fight song. Choreography included.”
Ben smirked, lifting his beer. “Hope you girls like suffering, because prom duty is brutal.”
I crossed one leg over the other, flashing a grin. I couldn’t help but jump in, the words tumbling out before I could stop myself. “Good, because I don’t plan on suffering. I plan on winning. Somebody better tell these gentlemen to start practicing their sad little fight song.”
“Ooooh,” Rachel crowed, smacking the arm of her chair. “She’s already calling the shots.”
Ben said, raising his beer. “May the best team win.”
Rachel leaned across me and clinked her glass against his. “Oh, we will.”
This was exactly what I needed. Laughter to drown out the memories I didn’t want creeping in.
So I leaned into the chatter, into the bets and the dares and the promises of humiliation. I could play this part—the bold one, the life of the party—long enough to forget the weight pressing at the edges, the ache of never being anyone’s first choice.
Because if I kept them laughing, maybe I could believe I belonged. Because beneath it all, that’s what I wanted—what I’d always wanted. Just to belong, to be chosen, to matter to someone. And maybe, just for tonight, I wouldn’t have to be alone.