“You’llwhat?” Wesley’s voice is amused now, with a hint of thegood-natured taunting I remember from our childhood.
“I’llhunt you down and hurtyou.”
Wesley’s burst oflaughter startles me. He laughs and laughs, and I wish I could peekaround the side of the house to see him. I imagine him with hishead thrown back and his hands clutching his belly, while Stellasilently seethes.
“Oh,Little Star, I’ve missed you,” Wesley says, his tone full ofaffection now.
“Don’tyou ‘Little Star’ me,” Stella says, although the heat is gone fromher voice. “I mean it, Wesley.”
“I knowyou do. I can’t stay away from her, though, Stels. I’ve stayed awaylong enough. Fromallof you.”
Guilt finallypropels my feet forward, and I hurry away from my hiding spot. WhenI reach the firepit, I set the whiskey on the ground and hand outthe blankets. “I ran into my dad inside and he sent me out withthis,” I tell the others, brandishing the bottle. “Sorry it’s notScottish, Fergus.”
“Noworries. My grandad was Irish, so I’m an equal opportunity whiskeydrinker.”
I open the bottleand hand it to Hollie, who says, “I feel like a college kid,swigging from bottles of wine and now whiskey. I hope we’re allprepared to have hangovers tomorrow. Should make work extra fun.”She wrinkles her nose at me since I have the week off, then takes aswig from the bottle. She passes it to Louisa, who holds it for amoment, her expression uncertain, then hands it to Fergus withouttaking a drink.
Fergus accepts thebottle without question. I joked with him earlier that he was mynew favorite person, and I think I now officially love him, eventhough we only met tonight. A lot of people would ask Louisa whyshe didn’t drink or tell her there was no harm in taking a sip.Someone’s choice to drink or not is nobody’s business, but thatdoesn’t stop some people from prying. Not Fergus, though. Aftertaking a healthy pull, he releases a satisfied sigh and returns thebottle to me, murmuring, “Cheers, Evie.”
I salute him withthe bottle and take a drink. A second after I’ve lowered it to myside, warm fingers brush mine as they remove the bottle from myhand. Wesley and I lock eyes as he takes a drink ofwhiskey.
“Where’s Stella?” I ask.
“Shewent inside to use the bathroom.”
He takes anothersip and then hands the bottle to Hollie. To me, he says, “Can Ipull you away for a sec?”
Without a word, Ifollow him back across the yard. We stop just outside the pool oflight cast by the lamps over the back door. “Dare I ask what’sgoing on with you and Stella?”
“Oh,it’s…” He trails off, shaking his head and running a hand throughhis hair. It looks like inky liquid in the dark, soft andtouchable. “It’s nothing. I just wanted to see how you’re doing. Wehaven’t had a moment alone yet tonight.”
“Oh.I’m good. Dinner was a lot more tolerable than I expected after youfinagled a spot beside me.”
He laughs underhis breath. “I do what I can. This is fun too, right?” He waves ahand to indicate the surprise bonfire.
“Sofun. If you’ll allow me a momentto be sappy—”
“Well,itisThanksgiving,” he says, grinning when I give him a narrow-eyedlook for interrupting me. “Go on.”
“That’sactually connected to what I was going to say. Thanksgiving is allabout being grateful and counting your blessings, and I…well, Ihave a lot to be thankful for. This year more than ever. Having usall back together like this makes me happy beyondwords.”
“I’mglad.” His voice is whisper soft. It feels like an intimate caressin the dark, cool night. I realize I’m staring at him a secondbefore he clears his throat and averts his gaze while he digs hisphone from his jacket pocket. “I made you another playlist, thistime online. I’m going to send you the link so you can listen to itlater.”
“Okay,thanks.” My phone pings in my pocket. I leave it there, knowing Iwouldn’t be able to resist immediately opening the link.
“Remember when you first moved and you were determined to spendas little time here as possible?” Wesley asks. “You said this housewas too big and didn’t feel like home, but my place still felt likehome, so you’d come over every day after school and mostweekends.”
How could Iforget? The McGrath house had always been my second home, and itbecame a haven the year my family moved. It was a strange,difficult year, full of more changes and challenges than I’d everexperienced in my fifteen years. Stella’s accident happened thatyear, and her recovery was slow and painful. She became quiet andwithdrawn, angry at the world. She insisted I hang out with Wesleysince she didn’t feel like talking and couldn’t do much. I was tooyoung to fully understand why she was pushing me away and, becauseit hurt to see her in so much pain—the emotional kind as much asthe physical—I would stop by her room for a quick visit afterschool and then leave without argument when she told meto.
Too old to playthe make-believe games of our childhood, Wesley and I often spentour time together watching movies and listening to music. Therewere entire afternoons when we barely spoke a word to each other,but it felt different from the despondent, often hostile silencefrom Stella.
Eventually, myparents insisted I join extracurricular activities similar to mynew, wealthy private school classmates. I chose horseback ridingand fencing. The riding was partially for Louisa’s benefit; her momhad passed away by then and her dad became extra strict andprotective, barely letting her leave the house. He allowed her toaccompany me to my lessons since she loved animals and being aroundthe horses soothed her. The fencing reminded me of the elaboratelychoreographed sword fights Wesley and I had as kids. I even taughthim some moves, although he said he preferred the routines we cameup with as children. I agreed.
“Feelslike a different lifetime, doesn’t it?” I ask.
Wesley nods, butdoesn’t say anything. Silence stretches for so long, it begins tofeel awkward. I’m about to suggest we rejoin the others when theyard suddenly becomes darker. We look up at the sky in unison tosee clouds scuttling across the moon, obstructing its brightglow.
“I havethe perfect song for this moment.” Wesley swipes around on hisphone, and the song that’s been playing on the portable speakernear the firepit cuts off abruptly. The soft, familiar guitarmelody of “Harvest Moon” by Neil Young starts, filling me with awarm flood of memories.
