“That's probably a little extreme.”

She held up her hands, fingers out. “Trust me, one of my friends has an art

degree, and he's still living with his parents. Makes wind chimes out of those tiny liquor bottles you get on the airplane. He spends his weekends trying to sell them to bored housewives at flea markets. A graphic design degree has gotten me a far better job, thank you.”

“Hmm,” was all he could think of to say. “Sounds like a very practical approach.”

“I'd like to think so.” She wasn't looking at him anymore. The sun had dropped further, and she was in shadow again.

It struck him then. She'd moved on. She'd said as much. Living in Chicago,

climbing the corporate ladder. Fiji water and Armani. She wasn't a Golden Grove

kid anymore. Like him.

Kate pulled her knees up and brushed some dust from her jeans. “Didn't we

used to come up here to do homework?”

“Mmm-hmm.” He glanced at her. “It's also where…” He stopped. Don't do

it. “Never mind.”

“What?” When he hesitated, she reached over to swat him. “C'mon, what?”

Now that he brought it up, he knew she'd never let him off the hook.

“You know. The night a bunch of us went to see Toy Story 2? In seventh grade? After the movie, I was up here looking at stars with my telescope. You came up and brought me some Oreos.”

“Yeah?” Kate pushed some hair back from her face nonchalantly.

Peter's shoulders dropped. She was going to make him say it. “Okay, the kiss, remember? Our first kiss?”

She nodded as if she just remembered where she'd left her car keys. “Oh, that. Yeah, sure I remember. I think.”

“You think? You don't remember your first kiss?”

“Well, yeah.” She cleared her throat. “Sure I do.”

“Wait…” Peter's eyes squinted. “You mean…?”

She laced her fingers together around her knees and shrugged, looking out the window. “Well, it wasn't exactly my first kiss.”

“It wasn't?” he said, irritated at how his voice sounded so small.

He must have looked a little too disappointed. “Well, it's not really that important, is it Peter? I mean, that was a long time ago.”

His eyes narrowed. “Who was it? Robert Bowman?”

“No, it wasn't Robert Bowman.”

“Tim Polowski?”

“No, of course not. You know, I really don't even think I—”

“Kent Wilkins?” He looked at the ceiling, thinking. “Uh, that Steve guy with the freckles? Martin what's-his-name in your art class? Dennis—”

“It was Brian McDermott and we were at a birthday party in his basement and my friends dared me to kiss him so I did and that was all there was to it,” she blurted.

“Brian McDermott? 'Fissure Chin'?” Peter gave a short laugh.

Kate folded her arms. “Well, you just had to know, so there.”

“Brian McDermott.” He nodded. “Did you know he's a plastic surgeon in

Texas?”

Kate's eyes widened. “Really?”

“Yup. You could have been the wife of the only plastic surgeon in the country who needed more work done than his patients.”

Kate flashed a sarcastic smile but said nothing.

Peter looked out the window. “Well, it was my first kiss.”

“Oh, come on.”

“You were wearing a purple dress and had those yellow flower clip things in

your hair that you always wore, one on each side. And you smelled like strawberries from your Strawberry Shortcake perfume.”

Kate stared at him. “I did?” she said softly.

“And you were wearing orange sandals, and all I could think of was 'Please,

God, don't let our braces get stuck together.' ”

“They didn't, as I recall.”

Peter turned to face her, smiling. “So you do remember.”

Now it was Kate's turn to stare out the window. “Sure. Everyone remembers

their third kiss.” She untangled her legs, crawled to the ladder and turned to climb down.

“Mmm-hmm. Wait—third kiss?”

Kate's head disappeared down the ladder with a sly smile.