Chapter FIFTEEN

IF SADIE’S PULLED OUT her binoculars, she’ll have something else to report to her father, because James comes home with me after school to see Dylan. When we walk in the door together, Dylan seems pleased but not too surprised to see James.

“Are you living here now?” he asks James directly, as only a seven-year-old can.

James just laughs and we all sit down for a quick catch-up on the day. Dylan reports that he played third base at recess and caught two fly balls, had a math test and got a hundred, and was given a note with heart stickers on it from the freckle-faced girl who sits behind him.

“That’s my boy,” says James proudly. “Math genius, great athlete and already the girls are after you.”

“The note wasn’t really that good,” admits Dylan. “It said ‘You stink.’ ”

James nods sagely. “That’s what a girl says when she’s seven and in love. You have to know what she really means, not just what she says.”

Dylan looks a little bewildered. “What do girls say when they’re older and like you?”

James looks at me. “Sometimes they still don’t want to admit it.”

Dylan jumps off his chair and heads toward the backyard. “I’m going to go play,” he says. “Anyone want to come?”

“In a minute,” James says. “Just let me grab something to eat.”

Dylan’s now so used to having James around that he doesn’t mind running off without him. And James is becoming so comfortable in the house that he casually goes over to the refrigerator, peruses the contents and pulls out an apple. He heads to the sink to rinse it off, then grabs a paper towel.

“Can I get anything for you?” he asks, taking a juicy bite.

What a cozy domestic scene. Is this what my life would have been like if James had never left? We’d been so happy before he disappeared to Patagonia. At least I’d thought so. But maybe if he hadn’t gone off and followed his dream, our marriage would have fallen apart anyway. He wasn’t ready to be tied down then, or to be a father. Still there’s no denying now that he’s changed.

Watching James munching his apple, I have an odd sensation we could just pick up where we left off. But it takes me a moment to realize that this house, this kitchen, this world I have now isn’t where James and I left off. This is the life I’ve made with Bradford. Instead of fantasizing about going backward, I need to figure out how Bradford and I can move forward.

Apparently, Bradford has been thinking the same thing, because our housekeeper Consuela bustles in with a FedEx box with labels on it from Hong Kong. James looks at it inquisitively, but I put it aside.

“Go ahead and open it,” he says. “I’m curious what the perfect man sends from China.”

“Me, too,” I say, excited to have a package from Bradford. And wondering why everyone’s giving me presents when it’s not even my birthday.

I tug at the string on the FedEx box, which breaks off after half an inch—and for the second time today, James comes to my rescue with his Swiss Army knife. He slices easily through the thick cardboard box, and when he hands it back, I reach inside and find a note in Bradford’s messy scrawl. Saw this and it made me think of you. Miss you. Love, Bradford.

What could have made Bradford think of me? Excited, I plunge my hands into the deep box and feel for my treasure—which seems to be large, cylindrical and cold to the touch. I wrestle it out of the packing and find myself face to face with a shiny metal pot with holes. I do a double take. A wok. How romantic.

James thinks so, too. He picks up the gift and can’t help snickering. “A wok. Way to go, Bradford. What girl could resist?”

“I think it’s very thoughtful,” I say defensively. “Bradford’s supporting my career.”

James rifles through the FedEx box. “Maybe there are some Teflon muffin tins you missed.”

I grab the box back. But it’s empty. Doesn’t matter. I’m thrilled that’s Bradford’s gone to all this trouble to send me anything. Although as long as he was shopping, I’ve heard that Hong Kong has very nice jade.

James stands up, tosses his apple core into the basket, and looks over at the well-chosen book he gave me earlier. “I’ll leave you alone now to think about Bradford and sauté some vegetables,” he says. “I’m going out to play with Dylan.”

He grabs a baseball glove and when he’s gone, I start making a salad for dinner. I don’t bother with radishes since Bradford’s the only one who likes them. I’m slicing nice ridges onto the side of the cucumber when James comes rushing back. He’s slightly breathless and lets the screen door slam behind him.

“I can’t find Dylan anywhere,” he says, beads of sweat popping out on his forehead. “He’s not in the backyard, and I checked the pool and the shed. Anyplace else he goes to play?”

“Not by himself,” I say, immediately on alert. We make a quick check of the house, but Dylan hasn’t come back inside. I call my two next-door neighbors, who haven’t seen him, and then punch in Berni’s number on the off chance Dylan has gone over to read to the babies.

“Dylan’s gone?” Berni asks, snapping to attention.

“Don’t say that!” I cry, my voice trembling. “Dylan always plays outside alone and it’s supposed to be safe here. He was running around and he was happy as a lark and then James couldn’t find him.” I’m babbling, but I can’t stop myself.

“James is there?” Berni asks. And before I can answer she says, “Put him on. Maybe he’ll be more coherent than you.” Without thinking I hand the portable phone to James, and he briefs Berni quickly on the situation.

“Sara and I are going to look for him,” he tells her. And then after a pause for Berni to speak, he says, “If you think you should, sure. And tell the guard at the gate to check all cars before anyone drives out.” Then another pause, and James adds, “I don’t mind. I don’t think it’s necessary, but I don’t mind.” He hangs up.

Berni’s on the case but I can’t even think about what she’s planning.

“My god, what should we do?” I ask James, noticing that my hand is shaking. “Dylan could be hurt. He could be lost. He could be dead.”

“And he could be playing with a puppy down the street,” says James. “Calm down.”

“Calm down?” I nearly scream. “Are you crazy? My child’s missing and I’m supposed to be calm?” I can practically feel the adrenaline coursing through my body. Right now I could go outside, pick up my car and hurl it down the block if it would help Dylan. But instead James just picks up my car keys from the table. He comes over and gives me a reassuring hug. “It’s okay. This is a safe neighborhood. Let’s drive around and see if we can spot him.”

James leads me by the hand to my Volvo and automatically gets into the driver’s seat. We tour the usually quiet streets of Hadley Farms. Lots of children are playing in yards or bicycling on the sidewalks, but none of them are Dylan. I’m suddenly wildly jealous of every mother I see whose child is happily within her view. In front of Berni’s house, I see neighbors starting to gather and Berni pointing them off in various directions. A search party? Instead of being comforted that my neighbors are rushing to help, their concern just fuels my anxiety. By now, I have enough adrenaline to toss a sixteen-wheeler.

James keeps driving slowly, craning his neck in both directions, hoping to catch sight of Dylan’s blue shirt. “Not that many places to go around here,” he observes as he peers through the windshield. I see the veins in his neck tightening, and I can tell he’s not as unruffled as he’s making himself out to be.

I try to put out of my mind every horrifying story I’ve ever read about lost children. Not Dylan. He knows all the rules. We’ve gone through the Safe on the Streets instructions a thousand times. Finally James stops the car and sits back in his seat. “Everybody’s running around looking for Dylan,” he says, staring straight ahead, “so let’s take a minute and think. Be rational. Where would a little boy go?”

I’m completely blank. We’ve already checked the soccer field and playground. And the ice-cream truck left an hour ago.

“Are there any woods around here?” James asks.

“Down back toward our house,” I say, gesturing in the general direction. “But Dylan never goes near them. Bradford tried to take him once but Dylan said he was scared.”

James turns the car around. “Let’s go check it out anyway. Boys and woods are a natural. It’s where I spent most of my time as a kid.”

“He’s not you,” I say. But then I stop. Because it’s at least half true that he is.

We park at the end of the street and venture into the cool forest, the one spot on Hadley Farms that hasn’t been paved over by developers’ plows. Old oak trees and thick pines loom overhead and our feet crunch on the fallen leaves and acorns that carpet the ground. James grabs my hand as I stumble on a tree root.

“He’s not going to be here,” I say, ready to burst into tears and angry that I’ve allowed James to drag us off the main road. Why the heck are we in a place where the only living things seem to be squirrels scampering over branches and the birds soaring overhead.

But James sees something else in the scene. He ventures forth a few feet, and looking off to his left he calls out, “Dylan!”

At first my precious son’s name just echoes hollowly in the air. Then from not too far away I hear his voice.

“I found a frog!” Dylan calls out cheerfully.

I turn abruptly as our little boy, squatting on a rock at the edge of a trickling brook a hundred feet from us, swings around, a huge smile plastered on his face.

I let go of James’s hand and rush over to my baby. When I reach him, I hug him so tightly that I almost send both of us tumbling off the rock. I want to tell him I love him. I want to tell him I’m going to kill him. I want to tell him that we were terrified and he’s never ever to do anything like this again.

But all I can say over and over again is, “My baby, my baby, are you okay?”

“I’m not a baby,” Dylan grumbles, pulling himself away from me. “I’m an explorer.” And even in the midst of my relief I can recognize that my little boy is growing up and testing his mettle. He’s ready to start having his own experiences.

James also seems to understand Dylan’s need to break free. And why wouldn’t he? A moment later he’s crouching on the rock next to him, gazing into the brook.

“Show me your frog,” James says.

Dylan gleefully jumps up, his soaking sneakers squishing underfoot, and points toward the water. “The one with the spots. Maybe it’s a poison dart frog. Like the ones you saw,” he says hopefully.

“Very cool frog,” James says solemnly. “Not a poison one, though. A very nice bullfrog.”

“I also saw a grasshopper and a snake. One of those little water snakes you showed me before that I don’t have to be afraid of,” Dylan says, as proud of himself as I’ve ever heard him. “I’m being adventurous, just like you, Daddy.”

James looks Dylan squarely in the eye. “Adventures are great,” he says. “In fact, they can be the best thing in the world. But your mom and I were worried about you. We didn’t know where you were.”

“Sorry,” Dylan says.

“Next time, tell someone where you’re going,” James says, making sure Dylan’s got the point.

“I promise,” Dylan says, standing up and brushing off his muddy jeans. “But I had fun.”

“Fun isn’t any fun if it hurts other people,” James says, looking at me now, not Dylan. “But maybe you need to be older than seven to understand that,” he continues quietly just for me to hear.

James takes both our hands to lead us from the brook, and once we’re out of the woods, he reminds me to call Berni and let her know Dylan is safe.

“Maybe you can catch her before she calls in the National Guard,” he jokes.

“How come she hasn’t brought in helicopters?” I laugh, looking up into the still blue sky. With Dylan at our side, we’re both feeling giddy again. The panic has lifted so quickly that I hardly remember that five minutes ago I would have been grateful if the entire U.S. Army had parachuted into Hadley Farms.

When we get back to the house the neighbors Berni had gathered are there to greet us.

Berni throws her arms around me and Dylan and then kisses James lightly on the cheek.

“Our hero!” she exclaims, holding onto James’s arm. “Good work.”

Everyone gathers around to listen intently as I tell the whole story of how James knew to look for Dylan in the woods. James keeps a suitably modest smile on his face, but it doesn’t escape Berni that he has exactly the right square-jawed look to play the leading man who saved the day.

“I wish I were still an agent so I could discover you,” she sighs, kissing him again and granting him her highest praise.

Not wanting to be out of the center of activity, Priscilla rushes toward Dylan in her pink slit pencil skirt and gold high-heeled mules. Perfect outfit for a search party.

“Where were you, dear child?” she asks solicitously, somehow hugging him without ever touching him.

“Following my heart, but I didn’t know my heart was at home,” Dylan intones solemnly.

There’s a surprised silence in the backyard, and then a few people chuckle. Doesn’t sound like a seven-year-old talking. Doesn’t even sound like most thirty-year-olds. But it takes me barely a moment to realize where Dylan got that lyrical line. From the corner of my eye I see James blush slightly and dip his head away. So that’s how James explained his long absence to Dylan. My ex-husband has a way with words. How nice that at least he came up with a poetic excuse.

 

Even though Dylan’s safe at home, I’m so wound up by his adventuring that I check on him every couple of hours all night long. Dylan might be ready to start testing his independence, but I’m ready to follow two paces behind him for the rest of his life. I notice that for the first time ever, he’s pushed his teddy bear Bunny to the floor. I pick up the stuffed animal and hold him for a minute, then finally tuck him into Dylan’s arms.

Kate gets to hear about the whole ordeal a couple of days later. She’s relieved that Dylan’s okay but gives me a gentle reminder that I’m going to have to face it—children grow and life changes.

“I’m not that good with change,” I tell her.

“I’ve noticed,” she says.

“By the way, how are the changes going in your life?” I ask.

“Horrible,” says Kate. “A major trauma. Mr. Rich is behaving badly.”

“Mr. Rich? Is that what you call Owen now?”

“Not to his face.” Kate laughs. “But in this case, Mr. Rich is Owen’s dog. You wouldn’t think something so small could cause so much trouble, but he’s peeing all over and tearing up the furniture. He doesn’t seem to be adapting well to the new living situation. I guess being a dog of divorce is never easy.”

“What are you going to do?”

“We’re looking for a therapist,” Kate says.

A therapist? I guess once people are putting their dogs on Atkins, it’s not such a reach to put them on an analyst’s couch. “I’d recommend family counseling,” I offer. “Or maybe group therapy. You, Owen, the dog and that Russian gymnast he wants for a threesome.”

“Forget about that,” Kate says quickly. “Owen said if I was upset, we could drop the whole thing. So we’re back to just the two of us.”

For now. Every time Owen does something wrong, Kate seems willing to give him a pass. But I have a feeling that problems like Florida State coeds and swinging Svetlanas don’t go away. Or maybe they do and Owen just brings in other girls to replace them.

But at least Kate and Owen have been honest with each other about their current trauma—Mr. Rich. Nothing as simple for them as putting a dog gate at the bottom of the stairs.

“Owen’s insisting on a Jungian therapist,” Kate tells me. “He’s opposed to a behaviorist who’ll just change the dog’s actions without dealing with the underlying psychological issues.”

“Talk therapy for a dog?” I ask. “Why don’t you just slip some Prozac into his kibble and pretend it’s a treat?”

“Outrageous. Lie to your dog once and he’ll never trust you again,” Kate says with mock righteousness.

“Then tell him the truth and let him know he has a problem,” I suggest.

Kate nixes the idea, pointing out that Mr. Rich deserves professional help. And though she hasn’t yet found a mutt miracle worker with a PhD, she has something else in mind. A doggy day spa, offering full services.

“Is Bradford’s dog free this afternoon?” Kate asks hopefully. “I think Mr. Rich would appreciate going with a friend.”

“I’ll check Pal’s schedule,” I tell Kate, who’s assuming that while Pal might be occupied with his busy social life, I of course am available.

And I am. So two hours later, Bradford’s well-behaved black lab is sitting at my feet on the corner of 16th Street and Ninth Avenue when Kate and Owen’s neurotic cockapoo comes running up. The frenetic white ball of fluff is pulling hard against his Louis Vuitton leash and tugging in so many different directions that for once Kate can’t keep her stilettos planted firmly on the ground. Of course Owen has a cockapoo—the cross between a cocker spaniel and poodle that’s the latest chi-chi breed. What’s Owen going to do next year when a new designer dog comes along? Trade in Mr. Rich for a newer model?

We head into the pale pink lobby of the French-sounding doggy day spa, Le Beastro. We’re given the day’s menu and I study it, but Kate’s already preregistered Mr. Rich for a massage and a late afternoon hot oil bath.

“You might consider doggie liposuction for Pal. I hear they’re experts at it here,” Kate says, running her fingers over what I consider his beautiful shiny flank. He’s supposed to have that little bulge, isn’t he?

“He just needs a haircut. Besides, nobody in my family is having lipo before I do,” I deadpan.

I look around the multifloored facility and realize we’re the only dog owners here. All the others have dropped their pets and gone off to work—presumably so they can earn enough money to pay for their dog’s lifestyle. But they’re missing so much. We walk down a corridor past the Doggie Hall of Fame, featuring pictures of Lassie, Rin Tin Tin, Toto, and Beethoven—the movie-star Great Dane, not the composer.

“Mr. Rich, with a little effort, you can be on that wall, too,” Kate says, bending down and trying to direct his gaze to the inspirational portraits.

But instead of striving to achieve the greatness of Huckleberry Hound, the crazy cockapoo jumps up onto a low-lying table and pees on an orchid plant.

“No, no, no,” Kate says, grabbing him. “You’ll get us thrown out of here.” Turning to me, she says, “We’d better get him to the swimming pool.”

I hope the dogs shower first.

I pick up a few doggie breath mints that have been carefully laid out in a silver bowl and feed them to Pal. Maybe he’ll meet a female pooch and want to make a good impression. I reluctantly skip the perfume atomizer, figuring that not every lab alive loves Chanel No.5.

At the Olympic-size pool, a team of shapely swim instructors who look like they wandered off the set of Baywatch take Pal and Mr. Rich.

“First a little test to see if they can go into the deep end,” explains one, swatting down Mr. Rich, who has the edge of the instructor’s tight red Speedo clamped between his teeth. “Then we’ll assign them to the proper class.”

Kate and I take seats in the bleachers, and I watch proudly as Pal shows off his proficient doggie paddle. But I’m embarrassed when he gets put in the beginners’ class because Bradford and I never helped him master the backstroke.

When the classes get underway, Kate spends a few minutes worrying about Mr. Rich, who’s been outfitted with two bright orange water wings on his front paws. From the way he’s flailing around the shallow end, it looks like he could use them on his back ones, too. But then Kate decides he’s in good hands and she can spend some time worrying about me.

“Have you used your wok yet?” she asks, checking her manicure, which has somehow survived the leash lashing from the daft dog.

“Don’t be nasty,” I say. “Any man can send you diamonds. It takes real effort to find something as original as a wok.”

“Especially hard to find a wok in Hong Kong. Probably took Bradford—well, minutes to come up with one,” Kate teases, but then glimpsing my grim expression, she pats my knee. “Seriously, I think it was very cute and sweet of him.”

“Do you really?”

“I do,” Kate says, playing with the diamond bracelet on her wrist. I’m not going to ask her where she got it, because I’m pretty sure I know. “I’ve always liked Bradford. He’s smart. He adores you. You have great sex.”

“How do you know that?” I ask.

“You’ve told me enough times,” Kate says, poking around in her purse. “Here. A little something for when he gets home.”

She hands over a clear plastic lipstick container that says Lip Venom on it.

“Venom,” I say, studying the name. “Interesting idea. Kiss and kill?”

Kate laughs. “It’s for lip fullness. Increases the plumpness by one point seven millimeters over twenty-eight days.”

“I don’t usually look for things that increase my plumpness,” I remind her.

“But this one’s special,” says Kate. “Gloss it on and it feels like you’ve been stung by a thousand bees.”

“And how long did scientists work to create this?” I ask, holding the tube as far away from me as possible.

“Probably decades in the making,” she says. “It’s a real breakthrough. Makes the blood rush to the surface of your lips so they feel all hot and tingly. The best part is that it hurts. That way you know it’s working.”

I usually know my lipstick’s working by looking in the mirror. And fifteen dollars to buy a vial of pain? Just add it to all the plucking, pulling, piercing, and plastic surgery women put up with for beauty. But this one apparently has a secret bonus.

“Owen loves it, too,” Kate confides. “Drives him wild when I kiss him with my hot lips. You have to try it with Bradford when he gets back.”

“I don’t know what’s going to happen when Bradford gets back,” I tell her, putting down the tube.

Kate eyes it, then rubs my arm sympathetically. “You have to stop worrying,” Kate tells me.

“I’m trying,” I say. “And you know what? I’ve actually been feeling better lately. I’m not as scared about what might happen anymore. Bradford went to Hong Kong, and I didn’t fall to pieces. Maybe James’s being back has been a help. I suddenly realize there are options in my life.”

Kate looks at me worriedly. “Is James an option?”

“James is back and so some of that old pain is gone,” I say slowly. “And I realize the future can be whatever I want. Who would have thought that I’d have a whole new career in TV at forty-one?”

“Aren’t we thirty-eight?” Kate asks.

I smile. “You may need to be thirty-eight. But I’m happy with what I am. So many things seem possible now. You know what? Getting older and smarter and more confident isn’t that bad.”

“I like the way that sounds,” Kate says, nodding.

“I’m feeling pretty good,” I admit. Without thinking, I squirt a dab of the Lip Venom onto my pinkie and swipe it across my mouth. Within seconds, my lips are burning, my eyes are tearing, and I feel like my face is on fire.

“Oh my god, this hurts!” I say, letting out a yelp and frantically searching for a tissue. There are lots of beauty options out there as you get older, too. But you have to be careful about your choices. This is one I wish I hadn’t picked. Next time I’m sticking with my own Clinique lip gloss.

 

Well after midnight, the newly primped and pampered Pal pushes open my bedroom door and places his front paw on the edge of my mattress. Usually he just barks when he wants something, but this is a very Lassie-like move, so I think the day at the spa has been good for him.

“What’s up, Pal?” I ask.

Great, now I’m talking to the dog. He curls up on the floor next to the bed and stares at me with his big brown eyes. But I don’t care how cute he is, he’s not spending the night. A rule I’ve tried to enforce with all males who pass through my life.

“Come on, Pal,” I say, leading him back downstairs to the kitchen, where he has his very own monogrammed L.L. Bean bed. And maybe Pal did have an ulterior motive in coming to fetch me because I smell something burning. I go over to the Viking stove, where a pot of milk is scorching on a high flame. I quickly turn it off. Then looking around the dark room I notice Skylar huddled on the windowseat in the breakfast nook. She has a chenille throw pulled around her, and she looks miserable.

“What’s going on?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Skylar says. “I wanted some hot chocolate, but I wasn’t sure how to make it.”

“Let me do it for you,” I say, pulling a new pot out of the cabinet and going to the refrigerator for some soy milk. The only kind, I’ve learned, that Skylar will drink.

“Don’t bother,” she says, squirming around on her perch. “I don’t care about the cocoa anymore. I don’t care about anything. Life sucks.”

I think about going over to her, but decide to stay at the stove and give her a little space. I stir the milk, keeping my back to her, and cautiously ask, “Anything particular that sucks?”

“School. Boys. Friends,” Skylar ticks off, hitting the big ones immediately. And then because she’s fourteen and everything seems like the end of the world, she adds, “I gained two pounds. I got my period during gym. My math test was hard and geometry is just the dumbest thing ever. And I spilled ketchup on my Dolce & Gabbana skirt and it will never come out. Never.”

I mix a little bit of sugar into the Droste cocoa, put in a dab of vanilla, my secret ingredient, and pour the mixture into two mugs. I bring one over to Skylar.

“Yup, that qualifies as a lousy day,” I say.

“You’re not supposed to say that,” Skylar says, taking the mug and blowing on the top. “You’re a grown-up. You’re supposed to tell me that everything will be okay.”

“It probably will,” I say. “But it never feels that way when you’re in the middle of it.”

“How would you know? Your life is perfect.”

“My life is pretty good, and so is yours. Some things make me happy and some things don’t.”

“Now you do sound like a stupid adult,” Skylar says. “You have no idea what it’s like to be fourteen. And don’t tell me you were once my age, because everything’s different now. Nothing like a million years ago when you were in high school.”

“More like a million and a half years ago,” I say.

“Right. And in those days, if somebody had a party, she probably had to invite the whole class, right? So nobody was left out.”

I flash on all the nights I stayed home watching reruns of The Love Boat while everybody else was at parties, but I don’t mention it, because that’s not really what Skylar cares about.

“Who didn’t invite you?” I ask.

“A girl at school. She’s having a party Saturday night in the city with a DJ and everything. I asked her why I couldn’t come, and she just walked away. I’m the only one in the whole school not going.”

I’m betting that’s an exaggeration, but Skylar doesn’t need to be challenged on details. Not when she’s feeling like her entire universe is falling apart.

“Maybe she’s jealous of you because you’re so pretty,” I venture. “She doesn’t want the competition.”

“No, she just hates me. Everybody hates me. The whole world hates me.”

I could commission a Gallup poll right now to prove how many people love her, but it wouldn’t matter. Skylar still wouldn’t be convinced. So I offer something better.

“You can’t go to the party anyway,” I tell her, sipping a bit of my own hot chocolate. “You have something more important to do on Saturday night.”

“Oh right,” she says, sarcasm dripping. “If you want me to baby-sit for Dylan, it’s not happening. I don’t care what you pay me.”

“Actually I want you to come with me to L.A. and meet Tobey Maguire. You know, the cute one from Spider-Man.”

“Don’t make fun of me,” she grumbles.

“I’m not. I need your help. I don’t know a thing about him, and I just found out that Kirk and I are flying out to shoot an episode of our show in his kitchen. He’s going to teach us how to make hot fudge sundaes. Though maybe I should cancel it because I probably make better sundaes than he does.”

“Don’t cancel!” Skylar screams. “Tobey Maguire’s the hottest! Are you dense?”

I grin at her and Skylar suddenly realizes that I was teasing about calling it off—but serious about the trip. She jumps up and throws her arms around me.

“Could I really come with you?” she asks exuberantly. “I have the prettiest yellow Versace skirt I could wear.”

I guess the ketchup stain on the Dolce wasn’t the end of the world after all.

“Having you there will be the best part of the whole trip,” I say, playing affectionately with her hair.

“I can’t believe it!” Skylar gloats. “Nobody’s even going to care about Delia’s stupid party and her stupid DJ. I’m going to have the best stories in school on Monday. The best stories for the whole year.”

“You can be my official assistant on the trip,” I say. “We’ll even put your name on the credits.”

“Sara, you’re the best,” Skylar gushes, hugging me again. “You’re so cool. Nobody’s cooler. I hope my dad’s still marrying you.”

I grin, completely thrilled. Skylar actually wants her dad to marry me. And I’m even more delighted by something else. A fourteen-year-old girl thinks I’m cool.