She motors off, and the backlog of questions waterfall off my tongue. “So when—how did you get my message?”
“Bryony Suzuki got your message and she passed it to me. News travels fast when you live on an island and your name is Bryony. I couldn’t reach you yesterday so I decided to come find out what the heck is going on. Thank the lilies for the private jet.”
“You have a Cloud Air card, too?”
“Naturally. Where next?”
“Um, make a left at the top.”
She steers the car up the hill. “Tell me she’s okay.”
“Mother? She’s fine, I think. She’s in Oman, and won’t be back until Monday.”
“Oh, that’s good.” She blows out her breath. “Now tell me who we’re PUF’ing.”
“Mrs. Alice Sawyer. I accidentally fixed her a week ago.”
“A week? You got her written permission to PUF her, I assume?”
“There’s a good chance she hasn’t kissed him yet.”
“What are the signs?”
In a few sentences, I explain about the cake and the seating arrangement at the homecoming game.
I don’t notice we passed the cul-de-sac until we’re halfway down the hill. “Oh, turn back!”
My aunt executes a five-point turn. Driving isn’t Mother’s forte either. “Mimsy, why do you think we have a Rule Eighteen?”
She still remembers the rule numbers. “To give us an out in case we screw up?”
“No, it’s to give us afairout in case we screw up. If you PUF before a party falls in love, no harm is done, no one is the wiser. But once a party falls in love, PUF’ing would take away one of life’s greatest treasures. You must disclose.”
My heart sinks to my feet. Somehow, I knew that, I just didn’t want to admit it.
I point to the Sawyer residence and my aunt parks in the driveway. The sight of the familiar Jeep parked out front makes my adrenaline spike.
Aunt Bryony squeezes my arm. “Let’s do this.”
Moments later, I’m shuffling up the driveway after my aunt, cooler and hyacinth in hand.
As I muster the nerve to ring the doorbell, a motor roars behind us. A sporty yellow two-seater pulls into the driveway next to the rental car, rumbling loudly. Trees reflect off the glossy windows, obscuring my view of the occupants, but as the car inches closer, then stops, I make out the driver and her corkscrewred hair. It’s Cassandra, and next to her is Court.
The engine fades to a purr. Court’s aviators hide his expression. He says something to Cassandra that makes her smile.
So he wasn’t sleeping. Boy, I got it wrong. My insides churn with emotion—resignation, regret, and even a little outrage. Court hops out of the car. He’s wearing a rumpled shirt, dark jeans, and a military-style jacket, the kind of outfit for a Friday night, not a Saturday morning.
To my surprise, Cassandra’s window slides down. A series of white bangles adorn her tan arm. “Hey, Mim. What’d you think of the performance?”
“You were great,” I say with more enthusiasm than I feel.
“Thanks. Kali rocked that house, too. She’s awesome!”
“Yeah, she is.”
“See you!” She backs out and roars off.
Court treads up, his mouth tight. He pulls off his sunglasses and squints at my cooler, like the sunlight hurts his eyes. “What are you doing here?”
