She held on a little longer than was necessary. When she pulled back, Dylan met her eyes, her brows lowered a little. She tucked Ramona’s hair behind her ear.
“Congrats on the job,” she said softly. “Didn’t get a chance to tell you earlier.”
Ramona forced a smile, searching Dylan’s eyes for…she wasn’t even sure. Anything.
“Thank you,” Ramona said when all she found was Dylan’s calm expression, no smile, but no angst.
Which really wasn’t like Dylan at all.
Dylan looked at her for a second, brushed her thumb over her cheek before she sat in the chair next to Ramona’s. Leigh handed her a plate full of bao buns and Dylan dug in, marveling at how much jackfruit could taste like pork, just like they all had earlier. She was beautiful. She smiled. She ate. She complimented the food. She asked Olive about college preparations and April about recent tattoos she’d done and Leigh about why the hell anyone would ever want to put black beans in chocolate, and then they all talked about how they hated the Fourth of July and its illusory celebration of American independence, which led to laments about the next election’s possibilities.
It was a perfect night, really. There was humor and food and shared camaraderie over genuine fears, laughter and stories and strong coffee.
But the entire time, Dylan never really looked at Ramona again. She didn’t ask her anything, didn’t say anything else about Noelle, and neither did the rest of their party.
Unease slithered through Ramona, slow and steady, like an oncoming sickness.
She reached out and took Dylan’s hand while they all drank coffee, and Dylan let her. Their fingers tangled together, a perfect fit, but Dylan still wouldn’t look at her, and Ramona had never craved a pair of eyes on her own so much in her life. She felt feral with want, and as she sat there, other wants bubbled to the surface, wants she’d been avoiding, been brushing off.
Dylan with her friends like this, with her sister. Dylan withher. Ramona wanted all of that. She wanted more than the summer, and she wanted more than just a fling. She wanted, and she wanted, and she wanted.
And she wanted to tell Dylan the truth. And she would. Shewould.
She just had to figure out the right time.
Dylan was quieton the way back to her house.
She and Ramona walked, holding hands through the twinkle-lit downtown, red, white, and blue decorations already hanging in the square for the Fourth celebrations tomorrow. The entire way, Ramona didn’t break the silence, her mind too busy trying to figure out how to broach the subject of Noelle and RISD and all the things Ramona wanted.
The shape of her dreams.
A shape that had morphed in the recent weeks to include Dylan Monroe.
She still hadn’t figured it out when they walked into Dylan’s house, the glow from the stove the only light.
Dylan dropped her bag, then went straight to the refrigerator and poured a glass of water. She drank the whole thing down in five gulps.
Ramona stood by the couch, watching her. Thinking.
Dylan, when we first started hanging out, I had hoped you could introduce me to—
God, no.
Dylan, I’ve pretty much worshipped Noelle Yang since her first film—
Jesus Christ, the idea here was tonotsound like an opportunistic asshole.
Because that’s not what Ramona was at all.
Was she?
She shook her head. Took a breath.
Dylan, I want to be a costume designer. I always have.
There. Simple. To the point. Left Noelle out of it altogether, which seemed best. Maybe Dylan would simply say,Great, babe, anything I can do to support you.
Ramona swallowed about a billion times. Clasped her hands in front of her. Then behind her. Then folded her arms, but no, that looked confrontational, so she let them dangle by her sides like deadweight.
