“Oh, my gosh, my mom always says that in her landscaping business, all she hears is rich-people problems: Wherever shall I site my bronze statue? I’m just so weary of looking at those peonies. But, Shana, do you have any idea how many girls would hate you for having pretty-girl problems?”
I blushed. Maybe Brian’s mother wasn’t terribly wrong about calling my streak of heartbreaking a pathology—a sickness. Discarding boys coldly wasn’t fair, no matter how afraid of being hurt I was. Just because I had the power to win hearts didn’t give me the right to break them.
In a small voice, I admitted, “I feel bad.”
“Yeah, you should,” Reb agreed simply, without any heat or judgment.
“Should I apologize to them all?”
“No!” Reb looked horrified. “I’m sure they all want your rejection to be a tiny little insignificant footnote in their lives. I wouldn’t go ripping off their scabs now.”
“I don’t know.…”
“Grandma Stesha would say, just be careful with people’s feelings starting right now. And then maybe—maybe!—at your ten-year reunion, you can say something to them. Oh, like”—her voice went all soft and sultry as she fluttered her eyelashes—“Hey, baby! I hope you’ve recovered from pest control technique number five.”
Laughing hard, I understood what Grace meant about her Wednesday Walkers. I told Reb about them now: trusted friends who had journeyed through marriages and divorces together, loyal friends who’d sat by one another’s bedsides during childbirth and cancer treatments, beloved friends who’d kept secrets and poured honesty into each other’s souls.
“Just like us,” she said.
Reb and Ginny might not live in Seattle full-time anymore and they might be moving on in their own lives, but they were my own SOS squad and love-you-forever crew.
“Just like us,” I agreed.
Chapter Thirty-One
You would have thought I was training for the Indy 500 the way I raced home in Dad’s immaculate truck from school two weeks later. My parents were supposed to return early that evening. “Supposed to” were the operative words. The last time we talked, they had sounded so excited after climbing yet another Mayan pyramid that it wouldn’t have shocked me if they extended their stay. Budget hadn’t even been mentioned once.
Halfway home, I checked the clock on the dashboard and accelerated. An emergency Chemistry tutoring session, encouraged strongly by my teacher, had whittled my three-hour party prep window down to one. I cast a glance over my shoulder before moving into the fast lane. I couldn’t get myself worked up over the C+ on my latest Chem quiz. That was a small price to pay for experiencing Peru with my parents, meeting Grace, and getting to know Quattro.
If I wanted to execute all my plans, though, I’d have to pick up my pace. Think reunion mixed with surprise birthday party. For four exhausting hours after school yesterday, I had prepped the Peruvian-inspired meal with Ginny coaching me from her dorm room in the Hudson Valley. Ceviche. Arroz con pollo. And my own concoction: quinoa salad à la porter. While Peruvians might consume 65 million guinea pigs a year, we decided some culinary boundaries should never be crossed.
Although there was no pressing need to check my in-box, I did right after parking the truck in the garage. Messages from Stesha and Grace. Dad’s family confirming their attendance. Ginny and Reb telling me how sorry they were to miss the party. It seemed like I’d heard from everyone but one guy with a soft spot for the color orange.
Even though I was on track to break my personal best record for getting home from school, I was worried. Worn out last night, I had fallen asleep before creating a playlist heavy on Andean mountain songs, not to mention I had all the dishes that needed last-minute assembling. But vaulting out of the truck now had more to do with outdistancing the sad truth that I found myself in yet another unrequited love situation.
I was so focused on Quattro’s continued silence that I nearly missed the surprise waiting for me on the porch: Ginny. Good thing my crutches were planted firmly on the pathway, otherwise I would have fallen from shock. “What are you doing here?”
“What do you think? I was worried you’d mess up my recipes,” Ginny said, throwing her arms around me. “No, actually, it’s spring break. And Mom totally surprised me with this trip.”
It’d been over three months since Ginny visited for Christmas. New red streaks wove through her golden-brown hair, cut so that it shattered against her creamy cheeks. No amount of texting could compare with being together in person, and I balanced on my good leg to hug her again.
“What’s all that?” I asked, pointing at the platters and Tupperware containers in large cardboard boxes lining the porch.
“Reinforcements,” Ginny said, already hefting one box in her arms. “Okay, hurry up and open the door! We’ve got work to do!” A few minutes later, she was slinging mounds of cookie dough onto the baking sheets, making me wonder whether she meant to say that we had a workout to do.