17
SATURDAY, JUNE 29TH
49 DAYS UNTIL I CAN LEAVE
“Why don’t you just tell me?” I ask Miles as I follow him into the kitchen.
“Because,” he says, opening the fridge, “you already agreed to go.”
“And you’re afraid I’ll back out once I know what it is?” I ask.
He pulls the water pitcher out, fills his glass, and drinks the whole thing, while smirking at me.
“Come on, Miles,” I say. “I hate surprises.”
“Then you should’ve asked questions before you said you’d go with me,” he says.
“Are we skydiving?” I ask.
He refills the pitcher at the sink. “I doubt it.”
“Does what we’re doing involve heavy manual labor?” I ask.
He puts the pitcher back in the fridge. “Go put on something nice, Daphne. We have to leave soon.” He squeezes past me to leave the kitchen.
“Funeral?” I call after him.
He pauses and looks back at me. “Closer.”
“Please tell me that’s a joke,” I say.
His smirk splits into a grin. “You can wear red, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“A funeral for someone you hate?” I say.
He laughs and ducks away. “Be ready in half an hour,” he says, somewhere out of view.
In my bedroom, I put on the only really nice dress I have, the same backless black one I wore to my engagement party and to Cherry Hill with Ashleigh that first night. She and Julia are out at a local jazz club tonight, so I message them in a group chat: do either of you know where Miles and I are going?
Julia writes, he still hasn’t told you?
Ashleigh says, lmao yes I do.
I send a bunch of question marks.
Julia says, oh my god she just told me
What is it, I ask.
Ashleigh only replies with a winky face. Julia adds, take lots of pics PLEASE.
SENIOR PROM, reads the silver banner. It’s strung between the two columns that frame the baby-pink beachside resort’s front doors, a bouquet of black and silver balloons on either side of it.
Miles’s truck rumbles to a stop in front of them.
“What,” I say.
“Don’t worry.” Miles puts the car in park. “It’s going to get a lot weirder.”
A teenage valet comes sprinting out of the hotel, and Miles gets out of the truck to hand over his car keys. I follow suit and he meets me at the front door.
“It’s the middle of the summer,” I say.
“June twenty-ninth,” he agrees.
“We’re, like, thirty-five years old,” I point out next.
“Yes, we are,” Miles says.
“How are we at a senior prom?” I ask.
“How are any of us anywhere?” he teases. “Come on.” He sets a hand against the small of my back, a tingle leaping up my vertebrae as I let the light touch guide me into the hotel’s opulent lobby.
Glossy tiled floors topped with thick floral rugs and boldly clashing geometric wallpaper, velvet chairs arranged in seating areas on either side of us, and a mounted sign straight ahead: Waning Bay Historical Society Senior Prom.
