Lucy leads us to the pool house at the far end of their property, past the newly lined pickleball court, the crystal-clear infinity pool, and the tiny putting green Gil installed last spring when he and my dad decided their short games needed work.
“So, Mom and Dadletus come over here this late?” Frankie says. “We’ve been sneaking out after Shabbat every year for…ever.”
“They think it’s cute,” Lucy says. Her voluminous hair falls down her back as she stands up straight, facing the side of the pool house. “Besides, it’s not like they have anything to worry about. When was the last time something bad happened here?” We don’t answer because the answer isnever.
Lucy raises a fist and knocks three times, then waits. The lights are off inside, and the only sound comes from the tiny waves lapping at the shore. I shiver in my oversize T-shirt and sleep boxers, the unofficial uniform of Friday nights, when the six of us meethere. Tonight, my top saysI Believe in Happily Ever After, a merch tee I snagged at the romance bookstore in Brooklyn the last time we schlepped into the city.
“Why do the boys insist on all this hoopla?” Frankie says. Her corkscrew curls are tied into a bun on the top of her head, sticking out every which way, and she fiddles with one, pulling a tendril from its secure station until it springs back into place.
“Because it’sfun,” Lucy says, knocking her with an elbow. “We get to pretend like we’re in a secret club.”
“Wearein a secret club,” I respond, though I flush when I hear desperation in my voice.
Shit, it’s happening again. The wetness in my eyes, the soreness in my throat. The sentimentality I can usually push down has been rising to the surface so often, ever since Lucy and Ethan’s graduation last week. The countdown to their departure has begun, and I hate that it’s all I can think about. I’ve never known life without Lucy sleeping on the other side of my bedroom wall and I don’t want to. When I think too hard about what it will be like without her asking me if I want to take a bike ride, singing Taylor Swift in the car, or communicating with me using just her eyes from across the dinner table, my brain gets hazy, like I can’t quite picture that version of reality. If I had it my way, we’d stay these exact ages forever: Lucy, eighteen. Me, seventeen. Frankie, fifteen.
We had one perfect school year, when we all went to Pelican Island Academy’s high school at the same time. Lucy drove us every morning, dropping Frankie off at the freshman circle before we parked in the senior lot, separating only when I had to go off to junior assembly. We saw each other in the halls, the bathrooms, athomecoming and pep rallies. I got to play on Lucy’s varsity tennis team, and though Frankie sulked about being on JV, we all got to wear those uniforms together. And now it’s over.
Lucy knocks again. “Let us in!”
Finally, a voice rings out from inside the pool house. “What’s the password?”
“Oh my god, Alex, who cares?” Frankie steps forward and presses her face to the window.
“Nuh-uh, the password,” says a different voice.
I can’t fight the smile forming on my face. “Pennywise.”
Lucy groans. “You used that one already, Trevor.”
Laughter erupts inside the pool house and then finally the lights switch on and the door swings open, revealing all three Silver boys in various states of repose around the small room.
Alex, the youngest, is perched on top of the counter in the kitchenette, kicking his socked feet against the cabinets, twisting a Rubik’s Cube around in his hands, even though he’s crossing his vivid blue eyes at Frankie. Like Frankie, he’s the physical outlier of his family: He’s got the same features as his brothers—a round chin, sharp cheekbones, a nose that makes a near-perfect forty-five-degree angle—but he’s the one who towers over the others, whose light eyes are so bright they seem to pierce your skin.
Trevor’s laid out on the couch, my copy of the first Bridgerton novel in his hands. He pushes himself to sit up, his mouth forming a lazy smile. “Catch, Millie!” He tries to fling the book to me, but his face contorts into a wince as it falls to the floor at his feet. Ethan, the oldest boy, who’s leaning against the doorframe, rushes to scoop it up.
“Dude, careful,” Ethan says.
Ever since Trevor messed up his shoulder in a bike accident a few months ago, he’s been itching to heal faster than he should, tossing balls and books and all sorts of stuff his physical therapist says he shouldn’t. The only person he’ll listen to is Ethan, who’s giving him a stern look, a whole conversation passing between them.
“I know,” Trevor says, sulking, and Ethan’s face relaxes.
It’s always jarring to look at them side by side. To everyone else, they’re nearly identical, with their dark curls and broad shoulders. But when you know them as well as we do, it’s obvious they couldn’t be more different. That if I was faced with the questionWhich one would you give your heart to?there was only one answer.
Heat flames up my cheeks, down my neck, and there’s a flicker in my core as I watch Ethan flip through the book—mybook. The pages make a pleasantwhooshing sound when they move through space. He looks up at me and smiles, a dark lock of hair flopping down to cover one of his eyes. When he pushes it back, his T-shirt rides up a little, revealing a sliver of skin, and a lightning bolt strikes my stomach. He extends his arm to me, the book in his hand. “Here you go.”
I take it from him and hug the copy to my chest. “Thanks.” The word comes out chalky, like all my words do when I’m talking to Ethan.
It’s a sickness, I know. One I’ve tried to rid myself of for the past five years. But I can’t help it.
I’m desperately in love with my sister’s boyfriend.
Lucy
I lock eyes with Ethan, and that sweet, sloping grin spreads across his face. “Hey.” His voice is low, and he leans in for a kiss, chaste by our measures, but even so Frankie makes a retching noise.
“Get a room!” she calls.
“Kissing is a totally normal greeting, Frankie.” I sit down beside her and bump her shoulder with mine. “You’ll have to try it sometime.”
