“Her name’s Eleanor,” I admitted. “Her daughter’s in the Penguin Project. We met at rehearsal . . . and again today, under less graceful circumstances.”
Becca’s eyes sparkled. “Oh? Do tell.”
“She fell while skating,” I said. “Came to the first-aid tent. I patched her up.”
“Mmhmm.” Becca’s grin widened. “And now you’re looking at her like she’s the last cupcake at the bake sale.”
I groaned. “You’re relentless.”
“I’m observant,” she said. “And sheisreally pretty. Soft in that way that makes you want to lean closer.”
I blinked. “You—wait, you’re saying that?”
Becca shrugged. “I can appreciate good looks. She looks . . . real. Like she doesn’t hide who she is.”
“Yeah,” I said quietly before I could stop myself. “She really does.”
Becca smiled, softer this time. “You should ask her out, you know.”
I froze. “What?”
“You heard me,” she said, grinning. “You’ve been co-parenting and helping everyone else heal for years, Alex. Maybe it’s time to let someone makeyouhappy.”
I exhaled, half a laugh, half a sigh. “You think she’d say yes?”
“I think you’ll never know if you don’t try,” she said, nudging me with her shoulder. “Besides, I’m due for some new dinner-party gossip.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “You’re terrible.”
“Terribly supportive,” she corrected, winking. “Now go hand out Band-Aids and practice your charm. You’ve got this.”
As she walked off toward the grill, I glanced back at the skating path.
Eleanor was laughing at something Belle said, sunlight catching in her hair, her hand resting lightly on Ava’s shoulder.
Becca was right. Shewasbeautiful.
And maybe, for the first time in a long while, I was ready to see where something new might lead.
10
ELEANOR
By the time we pulled into the driveway, the sky was streaked with pink and gold, the kind of evening that looks like it should be bottled and saved for later.
Ava was half-asleep in the passenger seat, her cheeks flushed and her hair a wild halo of tangles. She had grass stains on her knees, ketchup on her shirt, and a snow-cone stain that looked suspiciously like war paint.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror and winced. My hair was frizzy from the humidity, one elbow was scraped, and my knee sported a brand-new bandage courtesy of Alex. My mom was going to have opinions.
We barely made it through the front door before I heard her voice.
“Oh my goodness, what on earth happened to you two?”
There she was, standing in the entryway in her pressed linen slacks and pearls, looking at us like we’d crawled out of a swamp.
I smiled tiredly. “Hi, Mom.”
“Don’t you ‘hi, Mom’ me,” she said, eyeing Ava’s shirt. “Are those . . . food stains?”
