Hello, Dolly.
She watched her ball obliterate the pins, the song filtering through her mind. Of course she remembered the song too…but…
She turned, looked at Ramona. Watched as she leaned into Rogan—Logan, Hogan, whatever the hell his name was—her dark hair falling across her freckled face, one thick thigh tucked under the other on the orange chair. April showed up, squeezing her alien’s ass in between the two of them, plastic cups filled to the brim with fluorescent green margaritas splashing onto the shiny tiled floor. Some bro country all about trucks and beer played over the sound system. Ramona laughed at April, then licked a bit of salt from her cup.
Dolly.
Hello, Dolly.
No.
It couldn’t be.
Cherry was a vacationer. A summer visitor just like Dylan and Hallie. She was—
Dylan blinked at Ramona, trying to picture this zaftig beauty as a skinny girl in the moonlight, tears shining on her face, a silly song on her lips.
Impossible.
Except was it?
Surely, Dylan would recognize the first girl she—
“Dylan?”
April’s voice.
Dylan shook her head, the room coming into focus, as well as the realization she’d been staring at Ramona for a good minute or two.
“You okay?” April asked.
“Dylan…” Rogan-Logan said, then snapped his fingers. “That’s why you look familiar. You’re Dylan Monroe, holy shit.”
“Well, fuck,” April said.
“Nice going,” Ramona said.
Dylan tilted her head at Ramona, trying to find Cherry in her features, find anything that would give her a clue about—
Ramona smiled at Dylan.
A sort of wince-smile, but it was enough.
A shock, like lightning flashing on a familiar scene, but with such intensity, you noticed all these little details you didn’t notice before—the way a tree leaned to the left or how the mailbox’s flag was a little rusty.
Because right there, on the left side of Ramona’s face, was a dimple.
A dimple she’d noticed when they met in Clover Moon, but at the same time hadn’t noticed at all.
A dimple she’d pressed her finger to eighteen years ago.
Her throat closed up, air refusing to fill her lungs.
“Dylan, it’s okay,” Ramona said, standing and coming toward her. “Logan won’t make a big deal, will you?” She reached Dylan, placed a hand on her arm, then looked back at Logan.
“Nah,” he said, taking another sip of his beer.
Quite the articulator, this guy, and while she knew it was rude—she didn’t even know Logan—the derisive thought was enough to distract her and open up her lungs a bit. She sucked in a breath slowly, nodded as Ramona squeezed her shoulder.
