“Gotcha, movie star,” she said breathlessly, eyes sparkling.
“That was anaggressivetag,” I said, laughing.
“Bread pudding’s on the line. No mercy.”
By the time Anna’s team won (she caught the winning touchdown, naturally), I was sweaty, grass-stained, and happier than I’d been in months. Maybe years.
I grabbed a beer from the cooler and was about to rejoin the group when I overheard two of Anna’s aunts talking near the porch.
“Do you think this means Anna will move to Hollywood?”
“Not a chance. After everything she’s been through, that girl’s never leaving New Orleans. Not even for a Hollywood star.”
“I know you're right. New Orleans girls like Anna don’t leave home. This place is in their bones.”
The words landed like a punch to the gut.
I stood there, beer forgotten in my hand, as the implications sank in. I'd been thinking—maybe not consciously, but somewhere in the back of my mind—that if I got the part, if things between us kept going this well, maybe Anna could come with me. She was a writer. She could work from anywhere, couldn’t she?
But what if she couldn’t? What if she wouldn’t?
What if I asked her to choose, and she chose New Orleans over me?
I tried to shake it off and rejoin the chaos. Uncle Steve was attempting to teach the kids how to have a watermelon-seed-spitting contest, demonstrating his technique with the enthusiasm of an Olympic coach. At the same time, Aunt Mona stood behind him, shaking her head and muttering about “teaching children bad manners.” The energy was infectious.
But those words kept echoing.That girl’s never leaving New Orleans.
How could I ever ask her to leave this behind? Her family, her city, everything that made herher?
Then, a shout from across the yard shattered the moment.
“Anna! You’re famous!”
37
ANNA
I staredat the photo on my aunt’s phone. It was me.
“At least they got my good side,” I winced. Might as well look on the bright side.
Luke’s mouth twitched. “That jester hat is doing you a favor.”
“Right?” I managed a weak laugh. “Very flattering angle.”
But my thoughts were already racing ahead to what this meant: headlines screaming that we didn’t belong together. That he was Luke Fisher, and I was just... me.
And once he saw those headlines, once the world started pointing out how mismatched we were, would he start to see it too?
“Anna.” My Nonna’s voice cut through my spiraling thoughts. She was squinting at someone’s phone. “You’re on the internet. Does this mean I need to friend you on the Facebook now? I don’t even know my password.”
“Nonna, you don’t need to?—"
“Your cousin posted a casserole recipe last week, and I couldn’t comment. This is important, Anna."
Aunt Mona appeared at my elbow, peering at the photo over my shoulder. “The jester costume really brings out your eyes,” Mary added helpfully.
Uncle Charlie squinted at the screen. “Says here you’re a ‘cater-waiter.’ Isn’t that what we used to call waiters?”
