“You’re a gem,” she told me.

“And you’re a little stinker,” Oliver told her.

She preened. “I know.”

“So stop talking about when you’ll be gone,” he said, a hitch in his voice.

“It’s the truth. I’m used to it. I’m fine with it.”

“I’m not,” he said fiercely, then dropped a kiss onto her forehead and wished her a good night.

As we left, he seemed to collect himself, to shift away from that tug I was sure he felt in his heart, that wish that things were different.

“I love Phoebe,” I blurted when we slid into the limo, just the two of us.

He offered a sad smile. “Join the club.”

“It is not fair,” I said, my lip quivering, but I swallowed the threatening tears. It was his hurt, his pending loss. I didn’t want to co-opt it.

“I know. Some days that’s all I think about.”

“I wish everything were different,” I said, my voice catching once more.

“You have no idea how much I want that. How much I hope for . . .”

“For a miracle.”

Glancing out the window, he nodded, swallowing tightly and swiping a finger across his face before looking back at me with a helpless shrug. “I’ll miss her so much,” he whispered.

I set my hand on his, squeezing. “I’ll be here for you.”

He pressed his shoulder against mine. “I know.”

“Always. I promise.”

“I know that too, Summer.”

He squeezed my hand in return, and that contact was like a seal on our friendship. A promise that we’d look out for each other. That we’d have each other’s backs.

We had a blast at prom, dancing, drinking punch, laughing, and hanging out with friends.

Later, we lounged in our chairs at our table, watching the disco ball swirl its squares of light on the floor as others swayed and we talked.

He lifted a brow in a question. “So, tell me, Summer. How was your first pity date?”

“You’re assuming it’s my first,” I teased.

“Oh, is this a service you offer other sorry boys?”

“Only the sorriest.”

“How lucky am I?”

“Very lucky,” I said.

“In that case, let me know if I can return the favor. Down the road, when you’re twenty-five or thirty, if you ever need a pity date, you call on me, okay?”

I patted his knee. “You’ll be the first one I call. I promise. And same goes for you if you need my services again.”

“It’ll be our prom promise,” he said.

“A solemn vow,” I said, wiggling my brow and pursing my lips before I added with a smirk, “Ollie.”

He narrowed his eyes, growling at me. “You’re evil. But even so, I doubt you’ll need to cash it in. You’ll have no problem getting dates . . .” He trailed off like he was waiting for me to say something more.

Was I supposed to say something? Something clever or romantic?

I didn’t know, wasn’t sure what he was getting at. Teasing him was easy. Understanding him was hard in moments like these.

And deciphering my own tangled knot of emotions—friendship, a dash of attraction, a close family connection, and that terrible kernel of pending grief, cresting like a wave not far from the shore—was impossible. Best to not even try.

So I simply laughed and said, “You’ll have no problem either, Emilys of the world aside.”

The odd thing was that Emily didn’t go to the dance. She wasn’t there with her wanker boyfriend.

The next week, I overheard her in the cafeteria line talking to a friend as she scooped salad onto her tray. “It’s strange,” she said. “I was so sure Oliver Harris was going to ask me to prom. He never did.”

I blinked, my face flushing as she unwittingly revealed his secret to me.

He’d never asked her.

I never let on that I knew he hadn’t.

It didn’t really matter anyway.

I was his pity date, and Phoebe was the happiest we’d seen her in a long time.

15SUMMER

Present day

All day long, all the time, all across the world people say, “I’ll do anything.”

But it’s just a saying, like “I’m dying to see your dress” or “This song is the worst.”

So when Oliver takes me up on my offer to do anything, my jaw comes unhinged. My brain buzzes with static, a radio stuck between stations.

Did he just say “become your fake fiancé”?