“Ooh! Look! Daisies.”
“You arehopeless,” he says.
Whatever. Holmes and I have always agreed that he and I share our own unique space in the middle. We’re biracial, the exact middle point between our dads’ dark-brown and summer-tanned skin, our hair a coiled blend of Father’s tight 4c curls and Dad’s straight blond hair. They like to brag that Holmes and I are an even distribution of all their most handsome features.
Our cousins, on the other hand, like to joke that we were made in a lab. Which isn’t too far from the truth. We were conceived through advanced IVF procedures, some of which still aren’t on the market. I guess that’s what happens when your family works for a medical company known for their experimental successes.
We have always been proud of our unique origin story and how much we look alike. Even though we have always explored our own styles, we were known by our hair, a pretty riot of coils that are darker in the winter, sun-streaked in the summer, and always styled the exact same way. People would recognize us from a block away.
This summer, though, Holmes cut his hair. He wants to join the military, just like our fathers did. Even though that’s years away, he wanted to start now with a workout routine and a regulation haircut.
Boring.
I’ve never said, but it makes me kinda feel like we’re not twins anymore. At least not in the same amount, and it makes me sad.
Which is super dumb, but I’ve never been what you’d call book smart.
Either way, why would I take advice from a guy who prefers more structure than an archi…an architect…at a builder’s conference? What could he possibly know of the pure lawlessness of love?
“Seriously, Mav. You’re going to embarrass yourself.”
“No, I won’t,” I insist, super confident that I’m right. “I just want to do something romantic.”
“Pretty sure the most romantic thing you could do right now is wait a few years,” he says drily.
I send him a glare. “Rami sent you over here, didn’t he?”
“Maybe,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Maybe he thought you were about to do something really pathetic and wanted me to warn you.”
“I cannot be stopped,” I say, mirroring his pose.
“You’re squishing your daisies.”
Dammit.
Not a problem. I throw away the squashed daisies and pluck a few more. Then add some sage with the purple flowers to round it out. I arrange and rearrange the collection of flowers and greenery until they’re…okay.
I wish it looked more impressive, but it’s the thought that counts, right?
“Hopeless,” Holmes says, shaking his head.
I shoot him the finger as I stalk off toward the cabins where the camp counselors are staying. I spy a deflated balloon from today’s luncheon and use my teeth to cut off the length of twine tying it to the fence, wrap the twine around the stems of my bouquet, and then check my hair in a passing window.
Everything is coming together perfectly.
It’s almost nightfall, and I wait until I’m pretty sure Boone is the only one in the cabin before I walk up the steps.
Now that I’m here, though, my palms are suddenly…moist.
Ulg.
I think about ditching, but my fathers didn’t raise a quitter. Instead, I gather my courage, wipe my hands on my shorts, and knock on the door. He crosses the cabin, his hiking boots heavy on the wooden floor. My heart speeds up, like it’s trying to race out of my chest. The door swings open and…oh.
There he is.
The most beautiful man on the planet.
Solar system.
