The first firework sequence was a blend of peonies and chrysanthemums, their patterns both spherical and flowerlike upon crackling. If you blinked, you’d miss the peony, but I loved the chrysanthemum’s finale. Its big, bright burst was followed by smaller pops of gold.
I shifted in my seat with excitement, goose bumps blooming on my arm when I accidentally brushed against Connor. “You love fireworks,” he said softly.
“Yes.” I nodded. “But I’m not a pyromaniac.”
“Mmm,” he hummed. “I don’t know about that…”
I offered him something that resembled a glare.
“You saying you’re not a pyromaniac when I saidnothingabout you being a pyromaniac suggests youarea pyromaniac,” he explained.
I flushed. “It wasoneNew Year’s Eve.”
When I was thirteen, my grandfather and I had driven to a hole-in-the-wall fireworks store to wow our family at midnight. I hadn’t been able to stop smiling…until one of my cherry bombs went rogue and nearly nailed Pops in the leg.
Connor laughed, but then we refocused on the sky, a series of green comets now center-stage.Crossette, I pinpointed almostimmediately. It was one of my favorites; a comet that broke into multiple comets, resulting in unique cross shape.
“I love these,” I heard Connor remark several minutes later, as we entered another phase. His voice was barely a whisper above the crackle and the party’s applause. “It sort of looks like a spider in the sky.”
“Or lace,” I said, nodding as the gold glitter shimmered. “The technical term isbrocade.”
Connor coughed. “Pyromaniac.”
In response, I flicked him on the arm.
“Hey!”
“Really?” I raised an eyebrow. “That hurt?”
“Yes, courtesy of…” He took my hand, and I felt my heart softly skip when he lifted it up and squeezed my fingers. “Your claws.”
Excuseme, I thought.Claws?
“Okay,rude.” I shook him off to admire my manicure. My nails were far from talons. I did wince a little at the sight of my right pinkie nail, wondering if I’d been chewing on it in my sleep…because it had been whittled down. Annie was right; the look was not cute.
As the brocade fireworks disappeared into strobes, I folded my arms across my chest. Out of sight, out of mind.
Connor seemed comfortable falling into another silence, but for some reason, I didn’t. “How was your night?” I asked him. “The boys behave themselves?”
“It was fine,” he answered. “Teddy’s sugar rush presented some challenges, and Finn suddenly wants to learn to surf for Claire…” He shrugged. “It’s just been a little tough today. I would give anything to be home right now.”
“Oh,” I said, caught a bit off guard by his honesty, but also quickly connecting the dots back to an earlier vignette; Connor looking out over horizon, notably not feeling tonight.
“My family has been hosting our Fourth of July cookout for as long as I can remember,” he continued. “It’s not as big as this…” He gestured around Paqua Farm. “But it’s still abigproduction. Decorations, goofy pool floats, games, everything. My dad literally spends all year planning the menu. He engineered a whole guacamole and margarita bar for tonight.”
One corner of my mouth tugged up in a smile, and even though the fireworks were still in full swing, Connor unlocked his phone to show me photos his mom had sent him. Red, white, and blue paper lanterns; pitchers of pink, yellow, and orange margaritas; people in sailor hats; hot dogs and hamburgers; and even human-sized cardboard boats in the pool. A girl with braids was rowing as if her life depended on it, despite her boat already sinking. MADMADS, was written in bubble letters on the side. “I’ve missed this cookout once or twice,” Connor told me. “But it never felt like a big deal… There was always next summer.” He paused. “But now,willthere be next summer? Tonight kind of feels like the last one.” He nodded atMad Mads’s determined captain. “Mads and I are going tocollege; who knows what we’ll be doing a year from now?” He sighed. “And Liam…”
“And Liam?” I prompted when he trailed off.
“Nothing.” He shook his head. “Just that I know Liam’s really going to miss me when I leave for Notre Dame, so sometimes I feel shitty about taking off this summer.”
A lump formed in my throat, wishing I didn’t feel almost exactly the same way. My dad, and my phone calls with Annie so far, had reassured me that everything would be okay while we were away, but I had no idea how to prepare myself for the end of the summer.Howwas I going to say goodbye to Annie? After a year of spending most of my days with her?
I hadn’t thought of that when I’d begged to take a gap year—the idea that I’d be able to see her so often, but once twelve months ran their course, both of us would have to adjust to far less regular visits.Will she even notice?I wondered.When I’m gone for months instead of days?
Her mental calendar was nonexistent, and I hated that that sounded promising. If I left in August and didn’t see her until Thanksgiving, it might seem the same as me visiting Wednesday after stopping by on Monday.
The thought made my heart hurt.
