“How’s it going?”
“Okay,” I lie. “What are you doing?”
“My mom wouldn’t let me stay home, so I figured if I had to come, at least I could be alone in here.”
“Oh,” I say, shifting my weight uncomfortably. “In that case, I’ll leave you to it. Good luck…”
I step around him, but he calls out, “Wait.” I turn to face him. “I’m so lost. Care if I follow you?”
I pause, not really sure how to say no. And then there’s the annoying fact that I don’t reallywantto say no, even if being around him makes me sad. “Sure.”
I turn and resume walking aimlessly ahead, with the faux confidence of someone with a plan.Fake it till you make it.
After a few minutes of awkward silence, Cooper clears his throat. “So, I heard you made the shirt Sloane’s wearing.”
After this past week, it feelsimpossibleto have a casual conversation with him, but I did say I’d try, so…
“I did. Did you run into her or something?”
“Yeah, I passed them about twenty minutes ago, and—”
“Oh?” I say, cutting him off. “Were they using their map?”
Cooper chuckles at my competitive side rearing its ugly face. “No, and they looked incredibly lost.”
“Nice!” I say with a devilish grin.
He laughs and shakes his head. “Anyway, she was bragging about her shirt to Asher. I think it meant a lot to her.”
“That’s sweet, but it was as much for me as it was for her,” I tell him as we veer right.
“What do you mean?”
I shrug. “It’s just for fun, but I’ve been trying out different fabrics and designs here, so it was good practice. And it was sort of neat making something for someone other than myself. I’ve never done that before.”
“Yeah? Well, it was still cool of you.” Cooper kicks a corn husk lying on the dirt path and asks, “Have you ever considered doing it for more than fun?”
The question is so innocent, and yet I have to stop myself from laughing.
“No,” I say. “I’m going to be a journalist.”
“Because your dad is a journalist? I think that’s what you said years ago.”
I nod, both loving and hating how easy it is to fall back into beingus.
“Used to be. Now he’s the president of Street Media. And, yeah, I guess that’s part of the reason. I grew up at the company, with my dad teaching me everything he knows. And I’m good at it.”
“You’re good at designing clothes, too.”
I glance at him. “Thanks. But it’s just a hobby. Do you know how many aspiring fashion designers there are in New York?”
“A lot, I imagine. But I think you could do it.”
I offer him a smile. But he just doesn’t get it. Even if I could get my dad on board—which would never happen—I have no connections in the saturated world of fashion. It’d be too risky to pin my whole future onhopesof succeeding when I have a guaranteed job in journalism.
“So, I was talking to Aunt Naomi about the parade this morning,” I say, changing the subject. “And it got me thinking… you should make your own float.”
He arches an eyebrow at me. “For what?”
