I snap my gaze to Logan. “More to the point, did you just recognize a Working Girl reference?”
Logan ignores me and proceeds with “As I was saying—Amelia and I were talking last night, and she said I was going at it all wrong.” Amelia is his daughter, and I appreciate the image of her telling him he was all wrong. “She said the point of the game is not to crush the enemy but to have fun. And I realized I’ve been focused on the wrong thing—on some stupid revenge on the guy at Lehman. But you know what? He can have my ex. I am done being angry, and I am letting it go. I just want to have a blast and move the hell on.”
Is he serious? I pull back to study him, and yes, he absolutely means what he’s saying. This is a huge step for my friend, and I smile, happy for and proud of him.
“That is big of you.”
Logan simply shrugs. “Time to move on. Also, my daughter is brilliant, so I should listen to her.”
“Sometimes kids have the best advice,” I agree. I wonder what Amelia would tell me to do about all these feelings I have for her Aunt Summer.
The advice she gave Logan is kind of all-purpose, and maybe I should apply it broadly. So I decide to follow the kid’s wisdom for the moment.
Just have fun.
Right now, though, we play, and Logan doesn’t obsess on crushing the competition to settle a pointless score. He seems happy, and like that—playing as a team, playing as friends—we win.
Afterward, as he packs up his gear, I tell Fitz, “Bet he meets someone new and is arse-over-elbow in love before we know it.”
Fitz claps me on the back. “My bet is you’re next.”
I scoff, dismissing that with a wave, then tell them I’ll take them out for breakfast. But over eggs and toast, I’m still thinking about Summer and the story of how we fell in love in Central Park.
Then I shove it out of my head because it’s time to play pretend with her again.
31SUMMER
“Thrifting?” Oliver arches a brow as we walk to A Taste of Champagne, a consignment shop on the Upper West Side, then he shakes his head like a dog shaking off water. “You’re really taking me thrifting?”
“It’s apparently a very popular thing to do on a date.”
“For who? Teenage girls?”
“Well, the cookie-dough class seemed tailor-made for teenage girls, and women who were once teenage girls do most of the date planning these days, so I suppose, yes, dating trends are driven by teenagers.”
“Can we go to the mall next?”
I swat him and tell him no as we head into the vintage shop. As I comb through racks, he snaps pictures of me while I hunt for a cute jacket.
Focus on the date, I remind myself.
Focus on the article.
Don’t focus on memories of last night and the swoony words that fell from his mouth as he spun the story of how he fell in love with me.
Swoony words were part of faking it.
Who knew Oliver was such a good actor?
But he is. He’s a great actor.
I find a rack of short sequined dresses, labeled The Bridesmaid Dresses You Really Want. I sort through them, paying undue attention to the sparkles to keep my mind off all the things I can’t have.
Like him.
Because relationships suck. I don’t have time for them, and they just distract you from your goals anyway.
So there, I tell my brain.
Really, I should tell my heart, which beats too fast for him.
“Thrifting is fun,” I say as I sort through clothes, ever the cheerleader.
“Why does it need a name like thrifting? It’s just shopping,” he says.
I shoot him a look over a rack of red dresses. “See? You’re being all negative again.”
“No, I’m being honest. It’s not like this is a new thing. Is it supposed to be a fresh fad because we gave it a new name? It’s literally bargain-hunting.”
“Why do you have to be the fun police?”
“I am not the fun police. I am the fun ringmaster. And I’ll prove it to you with our next activity. Did you see the link I sent you earlier? Today is a very special day at Central Park. Once a year. Swan boats.”
“Yes. I did. I love that the park just started that,” I answer, then return my attention to the dresses, where I spot a sapphire sequined mini dress with spaghetti straps. “This is perfect. I’ll try it on, and can you take a pic?”
“Yes, of course, and then we’ll Snapchat it to all our friends, like Madison and Hannah and Taylor,” he says, imitating a teenager.
I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re having a good time even though you don’t realize it.”
He laughs, waving a hand toward the dressing room. “Let’s see the dress, Cassidy, and then we can show Grayson.”
“Fine, but don’t forget to tag Braxton, Jayden, and also Carson.” I snatch the dress and saunter into the changing room.
“I’ll get it on Instaface straightaway. And then ChatterSnap.”
“You do that.” I shrug out of my cotton sundress and pull the snug little number over my head, yanking it down to my thighs, where it ends. Glancing at my shoes, I laugh out loud. “My yellow flip-flops look so cute with this sexy number, Jarret.”
“All right. Show me, Isabella, and then we can post it for the squad.”
I swing open the door, announcing myself with a “Ta-da.”
Oliver’s jaw drops. He blinks then rubs a hand over his chin. “I love thrifting.”
“You do?”
He nods, looking mesmerized. “I’m getting it for you. Wear it all day.”
And I say yes.
