Took a deep breath.
Her hair was in braided pigtails, her bangs shaggy over her freckled forehead, and she wore jeans and a royal-blue T-shirt that saidRISDin white script. Dylan stared at those four letters, realizing for the first time since they’d met—metagain—that Dylan hadn’t asked about her experience there, hadn’t thought about what she’d given up to take care of her family. Hadn’t wondered if she still wanted to work in apparel design or if she was content with what she was doing now.
Dylan pressed her eyes closed, rubbed at her temples again.
“You’re right,” she said. “I’m sorry. I don’t have a good excuse for this morning except that my parents make me crazy.” She looked up, met Ramona’s eyes. “I didn’t want you to meet them.”
Ramona frowned. “Flattering.”
“No, no.” Dylan took her hand. Ramona let her. “Not because of you. You’re perfect. They just…” She sighed. “They’re Jack Monroe and Carrie Page. They take up all the space in a room, make me feel like I’m still six years old vying for their attention. Or they smother me and make me feel like shit because I’m so fucking angry with them.”
Ramona squeezed her hand.
“Iamselfish,” Dylan said. “When it comes to them, I go into fight or flight, and I do stupid things like drink too much becausethat always seems like a good solution, and it never goes well because I’m terrible at moderation when I’m emotional, and I forgot my phone, so I couldn’t text you that I was getting them out of my house so they couldn’t ruin everything with us.” She shook her head. “SoIcouldn’t ruin everything with us.”
“Dylan.”
“But I did anyway.”
Ramona closed her eyes, long lashes on her cheeks. “You didn’t ruin it.”
Dylan’s lungs felt as though they were functioning normally for the first time since she opened her front door this morning. “No?”
Ramona shook her head, a small smile on her mouth.
“Well, just give it time,” Dylan said, and Ramona laughed. “Someday I’ll probably have to offer you some really big grand gesture.”
“Oh yeah?” Ramona said, smiling. “Like what?”
Dylan watched her for a second, eyes trailing over Ramona’s face. “You’d need something romantic. But soft. Not super public or flashy. But still big enough that you knew I meant business.”
“Like a mushroom museum?”
Dylan laughed. “Maybe. But I already did that.”
Ramona squeezed her hand. “You did.”
“So I can’t do that again. How lazy.”
Ramona laughed.
“If I’m the one who fucked things up,” Dylan said, “which, let’s be honest, I would be, I’d want to do something where you wouldn’t feel trapped.”
Ramona frowned. “What do you mean?”
“So many grand gestures in books and movies are like…I don’t know. They feel intrusive sometimes. Like, ‘Hey, here I am, the person you’re furious with! Talk to me!’ ”
Ramona laughed. “You have a point.”
“So I’d do something where you had a choice. I would…” She trailed off, but then the perfect grand gesture drifted through her thoughts. Perfect for Ramona. Elegant and romantic, one of Dylan’s most favorite places in the world. “I’ve got it.”
“What is it?”
“I’m not giving away my secrets.”
Ramona tweaked her thigh, making Dylan yelp.
“Tell me,” Ramona said, tickling her way up Dylan’s leg to her stomach.
