After our thirdstop, Wesley and I realize none of the items on Mom’s list areactually for the party, although they’re all for me.
At the bakery, Iassumed we’d be picking up my cake, but Mrs. Romano said it wouldbe delivered to my parents’ house on Saturday. Instead, she led usto a cozy bistro table and informed us we’d be having an autumncake tasting. As we stuffed ourselves on carrot cake with creamcheese frosting, pumpkin spice cake, and apple cinnamon cake, Itold Wesley any of these would be my choice for my party, but Momalways orders half-chocolate, half-vanilla because they’re‘classic’ flavors that appeal to most people. I’ve never saidanything because Mrs. Romano’s cakes are a work of art regardlessof the flavor, and my friends always get me a fall-themed cake atsome point around my birthday. When we left the bakery, Mrs. Romanohanded me a box of macarons in beautiful rainbow pastels, andwished me a happy birthday.
At the stationeryshop, I assumed we’d be picking up thank-you cards. Even though theparty isn’t my idea and I’d prefer not to have one, Mom makes mewrite thank-you cards to everyone who brings a gift or gives memoney. But no, we weren’t picking up thank-you cards. Yasmine, thecalligrapher, had pulled out a shoebox-sized keepsake box toppedwith a red bow, and gushed about how much fun it was puttingtogether my mom’s order. Inside the box was a variety of notecardswith different hand-painted designs and my name written in swirlycalligraphy.
Wesley and I havejust emerged from the florist, where I’ve officially been struckspeechless. After the ease of the first two stops, I wondered ifthis was where things would get tricky and we’d be leaving herewith a car full of flower arrangements for the party. I used to getannoyed at how Mom overdid it with the flowers—especially since Iwould have preferred autumnal arrangements instead of herclassic-looking ones—but then I convinced her to donate most ofthem to nearby nursing homes after the party.
When I gave Mom’sname, the florist had assured me everything was set for thedelivery tomorrow. She then disappeared into the back and emergedwith a huge bouquet of autumn blossoms and a small, clear containerwith a corsage that matches my dress for the party.
“Yourmom is certainly full of surprises,” Wesley says, peering at mefrom behind the bouquet, which he offered to carry.
“Thatshe is.” My mind wanders as we set off down the sidewalk. I have noidea where we’re going. I don’t even realize I’ve stopped walkinguntil Wesley steps in front of me.
“Youokay?”
The question,asked in a soft voice laced with concern, makes my eyes prickle. Iblink rapidly, flapping a hand in front of my eyes in an attempt tostop the tears. “Gah, what is wrong with me?”
Wesley catches myflailing hand and holds it in his. “Your eyes areleaking.”
I givea watery laugh. The first time I ever saw Wesley cry was while wewere watching the movieMyGirl. A quiet sniffle from his end of thecouch had drawn my attention, and it took me a minute to realize mythirteen-year-old companion’s eyes were glistening with tears. I’dwhipped my attention back to the screen, but the movement hadcaught his notice.
“What?”he’d asked, somewhat defensively. “My eyes are leaking.”
He’d seen me cryplenty of times—I was one of those people who got teary duringmovies, whether they were sad, sappy, or romantic—and he nevercommented on it or made me feel weird about it. I’d wordlesslyhanded him a tissue, expecting him to covertly dab at his eyes, buthe’d swiped at them before blowing his nose loudly. “Man, that wassad,” he’d said, shooting me a rueful smile. “Let’s watch somethingfunny next, ’kay?”
I fell a littlemore in love with Wesley that day.
“Unfortunately, I don’t have any tissues to offer you,” Wesleysays now.
My shaky chuckleeases the furrow of worry between his brows. “I have some in mypurse.”
Wesley releases myhand and takes the container with the corsage so I can dig aroundin my purse. “I can’t believe I’m getting so emotional overthis.”
“Whatis‘this’exactly?”
“Ican’t remember the last time my mom did something like this.” Myeyes have stopped ‘leaking’ now that I’ve finally found a tissue,of course. “You remember how she used to be, right? Our familiesused to have so much fun together, and Mom was often the ringleaderof our adventures. Having money changed her. She becamethis…caricatureofwho she thought the wife of a wealthy, powerful businessmanshouldbe, youknow?”
Wesley nods, hisexpression full of sympathy. I’m not telling him anything hedoesn’t already know. He lived through it with me, listened to melament about the changes in my mom and my life after we moved outof my childhood home.
“Iexpected us to be running errands and hauling home packages ofstuff for a birthday party I didn’t want in the first place,” Isay. “But this is almost like a scavenger hunt, and it feels likesomething she would have done when we were kids.”
One side ofWesley’s mouth tips up in a wistful smile. “Yeah, it does.” Hehands me back the container with the corsage, and I admire it againthrough the clear plastic top. “Do you remember the corsage you hadfor prom?” he asks suddenly.
“I do,”I say slowly. “I’m surprisedyoudo.”
Wesley hadfinished his first year of university and was back home in Bellevuefor the summer when the girls and I graduated from high school. Bythe time we graduated, all of our lives looked completely differentthan they had four years prior: I was attending private school;Stella and Hollie were still at our original school, but each borescars that would change them forever; and Louisa was beinghomeschooled by her strict and overprotective dad. Since we missedout on a lot of high school experiences as a group, we decided toattend prom together, and Stella and Hollie got tickets for all ofus. My mom went all out for us with a pre-party at Hathaway Manorand a limo. Since the four of us were going as each other’s dates,we decided to do a corsage exchange, where each of us pulled a namefrom a hat and bought a corsage for whoever we selected.
“Hollieasked me to take her to the florist to pick out your corsage,” hesays.
“Iremember her telling me that.” I also remember her telling me onprom night that she understood why I had a crush on Wesley. We’dbeen swept into posing for pictures right after that, and it nevercame up again. I’d forgotten about it until this very moment. “I’mguessing something happened that day for you to be bringing it upall these years later?”
There’s thatlopsided smile again and, unless I’m mistaken, there’s a hint ofpink coloring Wesley’s cheeks. “Do you think there’s a statute oflimitations on secrets from your teenage years?”
“Ifit’s something you promised you’d never tell? No. But if it’ssomething minor…” I trail off. Wesley looks uncertain, so I add,“Would almost-thirty-five-year-old Hollie be mad at you for tellingme now?”
He chuckles. “Idoubt it. She’s pretty chill.” I make a ‘go on then’ gesture and hesays, “Okay. Hols spent ages that day looking at corsages. I couldtell when she found ‘the one’ because her smile lit up her wholeface, but after a few seconds, her shoulders kinda slumped and shewent back to looking. When I asked her about it, she said she’dfound the perfect corsage that matched your dress, but it was outof her price range. She got really flustered when I offered to makeup the difference, so I told her it would be our littlesecret.”
Great,my eyes are stinging again. “I loved that corsage.” I cringeinwardly at the wobble in my voice. “It reallywasperfect and it matched my dressexactly. My mom showed me how to dry it properly so I could keepit. I still have it in a shadow box in my room with some otherkeepsakes from high school.”
