“Thank you,” she says quietly. “For being there for my sister.”
The weight behind those words makes my chest ache. “I didn’t do anything special.”
“Yes, you did.” Kiki’s eyes are bright. “Kiera doesn’t open up to people easily. She doesn’t trust easily. And whatever happened tonight—whatever she told you or shared with you—that’s huge. So thank you for making her feel safe enough to do that.”
I don’t know what to say. How to explain that Kiera trusting me feels like the most important thing that’s ever happened, that holding her while she cried felt like both a privilege and a responsibility I’m terrified of messing up.
“I care about her,” I say finally. “A lot.”
Kiki smiles, and it’s knowing and warm. “I can tell. And she cares about you too, even if she’s not ready to admit it yet.” She heads to her car and climbs in. She waves through the windshield, and I watch as she backs out of the driveway and disappears down the street.
When I turn back to the house, Kiera is standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the light behind her. I walk back up the steps, and suddenly I’m nervous. We’re alone again. No Skyler, no movie to watch, no cleaning to do. Just us and whatever happens next.
“So,” I say, shoving my hands in my pockets because I don’t trust what they’ll do otherwise. “It’s still early. Well, early-ish. Do you want to—” I pause, second-guessing myself. “Would you maybe want to go get a late night treat with me?”
She tilts her head, and I can’t read her expression in the dim light. “Like what kind of treat?”
“There’s an ice cream place up the road past the marina. It stays open until midnight during the summer.” I’m rambling now, nervous energy making my words tumble out faster. “We could get ice cream and walk on the beach. Or not. We could just go back inside and watch another movie. Or you could go home if you’re tired. I’m not trying to?—”
“River.” She’s smiling now, really smiling. “I’d like to get ice cream with you.”
Relief washes over me. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She steps back inside to grab her bag. “Let me just get my stuff.”
Five minutes later, we’re in my car driving toward the ice cream place. The windows are down, letting in the warm night air and the sound of the ocean. Kiera has her elbow propped on the door, her fingers tapping along to the radio even though she probably doesn’t realize she’s doing it.
I sneak glances at her when I think she’s not looking. At the way the passing streetlights illuminate her profile. At the pink streak in her hair that’s come loose from behind her ear. At the small smile that’s still playing at her lips.
The ice cream place is a small shop right on the boardwalk, painted bright yellow with a hand-painted sign that says “Sweet Retreat.” There are a few other people milling around—couples mostly, enjoying the warm night.
“What’s your favorite flavor?” I ask as we approach the window.
“Cookie dough. Always cookie dough.” She peers at the menu. “What about you?”
“Mint chocolate chip.”
She makes a face. “That’s like eating toothpaste.”
“It is not like eating toothpaste.” I grin at her. “It’s delicious and refreshing.”
“It’s weird.”
“You’re weird.”
“I’m not the one who orders toothpaste ice cream.”
The way we chide each other feels easy, natural, like we’ve been doing this forever. When we reach the window, I order a double scoop of mint chocolate chip in a waffle cone, and Kiera gets her cookie dough.
“I’ve got this,” I say when she reaches for her wallet.
“River—”
“Please. Let me buy you ice cream.” I hand the teenager working the window some cash. “It’s just ice cream.”
She looks like she wants to argue but doesn’t. “Thank you.”
We take our cones and walk down the steps to the beach. The sand is cool under my shoes, and the ocean stretches out dark and endless ahead of us. The moon is nearly full, casting silver light across the water.
