“I’d say you surpassed grelpful,” I tell him, feeling no choice but to lean into my word vomit. “That was almost neroic.”
One of his dark eyebrows lifts. “And that’s some variant of…neurotic?”
“No!” I blurt. “No, it’s a combination ofniceandheroic. Neroic,”I repeat, like saying it again might somehow make the situation any less humiliating. It doesn’t.
He smiles kindly at me. Like maybe he’s used to people completely losing their ability to speak naturally in front of him. “And here I thought you already had an accurate read on my personality.”
It pulls an unexpected laugh from me. “I’m sure you can’t be too bad,” I tell him. “You’re Agatha’s grandson, after all.”
His smile falters and my heart trips over its feet. “You knew her well?” he asks hopefully.
Behind my eyes is a quicksilver montage of my most cherished moments with Agatha. The day she insisted I move into the guest cottage and stop commuting from Providence. The first time she excavated the story of Calvin and assured me thatEvery great life needs at least one great heartbreak, darling. The last time she hugged me, when I missed my chance to tell her how much I loved her.
A tear slips down the side of my nose. “Yes,” I whisper. “I knew her.”
The step Jude takes toward me is almost imperceptible.
“I could tell,” he says quietly. Fervently. “When you laughed at the church.”
My shoulders creep toward my ears. “I’m so sorry about that—”
“No, don’t be,” he says, eyes wide and earnest. “It was such a relief to know I wasn’t the only one who—”
“Knew she would have preferred to be scattered at sea on aChicago-themed booze cruise?”
This time, he blows past all the smirks he’s given so far and blasts me with a smile so wide and warm, I feel like a cat curling into a patch of sunlight. It cuts smile lines into his cheeks and creases around his eyes, and I’m… perfectly fine. Ambivalent, even. Totally neutral over these face-related developments. “Exactly,” he says with a laugh that turns into a soft gaze. “I should have known from your dress that you were close with her.”
I look down at my careful copy of the world’s most iconic little black dress, and a warm buzz begins building inside me. “You recognize it?”
“Of course. Nana made me watchBreakfast at Tiffany’sanytime I was in a shitty mood.”
“It wasRoman Holidayfor me!” I beam, half joyous, half bereaved.This. This was exactly what I’d hoped for—a connection with someone I could share my memories of Agatha with. What I didn’t expect was this constant fluttering in my chest after years of whatever the opposite of fluttering is. Sputtering, maybe. His gaze skates over my silhouette.
“It’s a lovely replica,” he says, eyes lingering on the high neckline resting just beneath my collarbones.
I brush a nervous hand through my bangs. “Thank you,” I say. “It was fun to sew.”
His eyes snap to mine. “Youmadeyour dress?”
I lift a shoulder. “I’ve always loved to sew. It seemed like—” I pause, calming the upsurge of emotion. “Like a good way to honor Agatha.”
Jude swallows. “She would have loved it. But you’re missing your pearls.” His gaze traces down one of my bare shoulders, all the way to my hand, and I suddenly feel like a repressed Victorian, scandalously flashing a little too much elbow. “And your gloves.”
Something small and shameful squirms in my stomach. I don’t want to admit that after buying the fabric, I couldn’t afford the costume jewelry or gloves. “I thought people might take offense if I showed up looking like I’d come for a costume party,” I say instead.
“I’m honestly surprised Nana didn’t stipulate that everyone come dressed in costume.”
My eyes drop to the tiny pink feather still on his collar, and before I can think better of it, I reach up to pull it off, my fingers grazing the soft wool of his jacket. I hold it between us, heart thrumming from my daring move. Since when have I mademoves? The only moves I make are from the safety of my own mind when I’ve had a little too much wine and think about drunk-dialing Calvin.
Calvin. With a jolt, I realize he hasn’t crossed my mind once since Jude saved me from hell’s houseplant. It must be a record, but I suddenly realize I’ve managed to forget not only my ex, but alsowhere I am—at my dear friend’s memorial. Guilt is like a hard pinch to my heart. There’s got to be some kind of karmic penalty for flirting at a funeral, right? But then I think of Agatha, and a tingle at the back of my neck makes me feel like she’s here, eyes sparkling with delight as she watches us. Ifanyonewould approve of me flirting at their memorial, it would be her—especially if it was with her grandson.
And so, gathering my courage, I twirl the feather between my fingers as I raise my eyes to Jude’s. “I think your costume would have stolen the show no matter what.”
He looks dazed, absently raising a hand to where I removed the feather. Then he shakes his head. “I’m so sorry. You know my name, but I haven’t gotten yours.”
I smile. “Is this when I tell you I have to leave, and then accidentally-on-purpose lose a glass slipper?”
“That depends. Do you have any scary stepsisters? Because you should know, as an only child, I’m completely unqualified to handle an evil stepsibling dynamic.”
