“I don’t think so? Some of them don’t even live in Moonville—like that old guy over there, he’s from Akron. It’s like a goddamn family reunion. What’s going on?”
I’m starting to sweat. “Did your dad invite everybody he knows to this lunch? Are we going to be pitching in front of an audience?” Even as I say it, it doesn’t make any sense.
“Trevor! Isn’t this crazy?” a teenage girl squeals, embracing him.
“Holy shit. Ashlee!” He dazedly hugs her back. “I haven’t seen you since your eighth-grade graduation. What’s everybody doing here?”
She begins speaking before he’s finished, words flying a mile a minute. “Isn’t it exciting? Uncle Daniel asked Mom if we could drive down to Moonville on Sunday, but then Aunt Susan found out Daniel was actually going to arrive heretoday, so she told Mom she was coming early. And then Mom told Uncle Daniel she was coming early, too, to spend more time with him since I’m homeschooled and we can just pick up and go. Then I guess he invited other people to show up but didn’t even tell them what it was for. I couldn’t believe it when Mom told me!”
I’m still deciphering the gibberish when Trevor interrupts, “Believe what? Why did he want all of us here?”
She barrels off, leaving us at a loss. I’m developing a sinking feeling that this lunch with Mr. Yoon might not have anything to do with our request for a loan.
We make our way through the room; ahead, a woman turns and our gazes catch. My brain feels dipped in freezing water, so shocked that it takes a few moments to connect what she looks like to who she is.
She gapes, too, lowering her drink. She has ruffled bangs and shorter hair. Her glasses have been updated, too, the ginormous eighties style swapped for smaller rectangular frames. The rest of her remains exactly the same. I recognize that windbreaker, green and periwinkle with the white zipper, how she’d zip it up halfway. The ultra-blue jeans. Funny how an old windbreaker and a specific shade of denim have the power to rush me through the space-time continuum at the speed of light, forcing tears to my eyes. It’s like slipping into a warm, comfortable sweater, when you run into a figure from your past and they’re still the way you left them. “Oh, my goodness,” she breathes.
Her arms are around me before I can put myself back together enough to recall her name. Kristin. “Mrs. King.” The mother of my high school boyfriend. “Holy cow, what are you doing here?” She moved away from Moonville while Alex was at college, and he never returned to his hometown, either.
“Not Mrs. King for long!” she exclaims. “I’m getting married this coming Sunday. What areyoudoing here?” She pulls back to give me a once-over. “You’re so different! Your hair!”
Married? I can’t imagine Kristin remarrying. “Congratulations,” I sputter. “Who’s the lucky guy?”
“Right over here!” She leads us through a pack of Trevor’s relatives. “Daniel,” she calls. “Daniel, I want you to meet somebody.”
Trevor’s face blanches. “Dad?”
We’re face-to-face with a gentleman in his late fifties or early sixties, with wire-rimmed glasses and a plain blue cottonbutton-down, khakis, and penny loafers. He gives me a kind nod hello.
“I believe I recognize you. From the dance picture in the upstairs hallway, right?” He checks with Kristin, who ducks her head in mild embarrassment.
“It’s just that the prom photo is such a good one of both of you,” she begins to explain, but before I can digest the bomb—Mrs. King still has my prom picture hanging in her house???—she’s cut off by Trevor:
“You said you’re gettingmarried?”
Daniel’s smile is understated, but warm with feeling. “Surprise.” Then his gaze returns to me, registering our hands, which are still fastened together—at this point, more so we don’t lose each other in the mob than to make our white lie to Allison convincing. “Trevor, won’t you introduce me to...?” He lets the question linger, but a different voice responds.
“Romina.”
Every atom in my body sits up straight at the sound I’ve unconsciously both feared and desired from the moment Kristin turned her head toward me—the way it shapes my vowels into a smooth, rich spell—and it’s as if nobody else has spoken my name in the eleven years since I last heard it fall from his lips.
Chapter Four
SWEET PEA:
Your memory is a lingering presence.
THEN
It’s Alex King. Again.
“Hey, Romina.”
“You buy stuff from here a lot,” I reply wonderingly, passing a Milky Way across the checkout scanner and tossing it into a bag.
“Oh, that’s all right, I don’t need a bag,” he says quickly.
I size up his other purchases: a bottle of Windex, three cans of Red Bull, a bag of chips, a tub of potato salad from the deli, and a pack of double-A batteries. “Why not? You want to hold it all?”
