“No?” Ramona asked.
“No! I mean, yes! God,” Dylan said. “Sorry. You just…had that on hand? It looks straight out of a cowboy movie. Or cowgirl, I guess.”
Ramona’s freckled cheeks went a little pink. “It was a project. For a class.”
“Wait, youmadethat?”
“No, just designed it. Well, I did make the vest, but that’s all.”
“Oh, that’s all,” Dylan said, still flabbergasted. “It’s really good.”
“Thanks,” Ramona said, then looked Dylan up and down. “You look perfect.”
Now Dylan’s face washed warm, and she knew she had to get her shit together. Of course—of course—she’d noticed yesterday that Ramona was cute. Beautiful. Sweet and gentle and altogether lovely, but with the knowledge that she was also queer—bi just like Dylan, even—Dylan felt the room tilt.
And it just kept tilting.
No.
Absolutely not.
Impossible, stupid, and completely unnecessary, especially as Ramona didn’t deserve to have her entire world potentially—probably—ruined by any attachment to Dylan Monroe.
Friends.
That’s what Dylan wanted. Nice, normal, everyday, never-end-up-in-a-tabloid friends.
Downstairs, a door slammed, startling them both out of their awkward-as-hell staring.
“Ra-Ra!” a voice yelled. “Let’s move it! Oh, sorry, Mr. Riley.”
Ramona laughed, rubbed her forehead. “That would be April.”
“Right,” Dylan said, glad for the mention of another person. “Let’s go, then, Ra-Ra.”
Ramona rolled her eyes, and the two of them headed downstairs, where a man with salt-and-pepper hair and khakis stood in the foyer talking to April, who was costumed as…well, Dylan didn’t really know what.
“April, why does it appear you’re being carried around by an extraterrestrial?” the man asked.
April laughed. It did, indeed, look like she was being carried around by an extraterrestrial—her head was visible atop a small human body filled with air from a motor in the back of the costume, while behind that, a bright green alien held on to her with three-fingered arms as though taking her back to its planet.
“It’s just for fun, Mr. Riley,” she said. “Costume bowling. Miraculously, not my idea.”
“That is miraculous,” he said, then glanced at Ramona as she and Dylan hit the bottom of the stairs. “Well, look at you two.” He met Dylan’s eyes and held out his hand. “Hi there, I’m Steven Riley.”
“Hi, I’m D—”
But her mind froze, blank. She wasn’t Dylan. Didn’t want to be, but she had no idea who the hell she was, all names flying right out of her head, addled by Ramona and chaps and freckles, so now she just stood there gaping like an idiot with her hand in this man’s while he frowned at her.
“Dolly,” Ramona said. “This is Dolly. She’s visiting for the summer.”
“Dolly,” Mr. Riley said. “Haven’t heard that name in a few decades. It’s lovely. Nice to meet you.”
“You too,” she managed.
After that, things were a blur. Olive and Marley appeared, still costumed from earlier in the day, and then she was in the front seat of Ramona’s car—some sort of SUV crossover deal—bucklingherself in while Olive and Marley tried to help April fit into the back seat.
“Just deflate it!” Marley said, and April groaned.
