Minutes later, Genevieve pulled up to the small one-story house on Aspen Lane and felt her icy mood begin to thaw. A towering pine tree leaned comically away from the double-gabled home, which had fern-green siding, white trim, and a wide set of wooden porch steps. She walked the flagstone path up to the steps and opened the door without knocking, as had been her custom since fourth grade when Mrs. Summers officially declared her part of the family.

The smell of pancakes and warm maple syrup greeted her as she entered the foyer.

“Genevieve!” cried Charlotte, Brandon’s tow-headed kid sister. She bolted into the room like a blue streak and crashed into her, flinging thin arms around Genevieve’s waist. Genevieve laughed and hugged the little girl back, then twirled a lock of Charlotte’s long blonde hair. “Ooh, I love your curls,” she cooed appreciatively.

Charlotte looked up at her and beamed. “Brandon did it.”

“Did he?”

“Good morning, sweetie,” Jill Summers said, stepping around the corner from the kitchen and engulfing Genevieve in a warm hug. Like every morning, Mrs. Summers’s makeup was flawless, her short brown hair perfectly pin curled, and she was wearing her retro polka-dot Kiss the Cook apron over a smartly tailored dress suit. With heels. Even in Genevieve’s memories as a small child sleeping over and watching movies, Mrs. Summers always wore heels. One of the many traits that bonded the two of them was their shared appreciation for always looking their best.

“We’re having pancakes,” Charlotte chirped, pulling her by the hand toward the kitchen. Genevieve gladly allowed herself to be led nearer to the delicious and comforting smell of warm maple syrup and cinnamon. She felt the remaining frostiness of her earlier frustration melt away.

“Charlotte, it’s time to get ready for school,” Mrs. Summers said, and Charlotte raced away compliantly. Mrs. Summers began chattering to Genevieve about her latest client, a local author launching a marketing campaign to promote his upcoming book on the history of the Anasazi Indians, a prehistoric tribe from the Four Corners area who vanished in the thirteenth century.

“It’s really quite fascinating,” she said, sliding a stack of steaming pancakes onto a plate and topping them off with a generous dollop of butter. “Did you know that the wood they used to build their ladders was transported from over fifty miles away? Or that we still don’t know why they disappeared?”

Genevieve said she hadn’t known. Another thing she and Brandon’s mom had in common was how much they loved their respective jobs. Mrs. Summers was a natural at public relations, with her energy and enthusiasm and genuine desire to see others succeed. She wanted to help bring attention to amazing books, both by teaming up with authors to create promotion plans and then by showcasing those authors in her bookstore.

“Here you go, sweetie.” Mrs. Summers drizzled thick warm syrup from a beehive-shaped dispenser and handed the plate to Genevieve, whose stomach was beginning to rumble.

“These look amazing, thank you.” She took the plate and turned for the basement landing at the same moment Charlotte came bounding back into the kitchen with her My Little Pony backpack, skidding to a halt at the table. Mrs. Summers chastised her lightly, and with a smile Genevieve headed downstairs.

Brandon Summers was in his usual spot, hunched over a light-up keyboard and squinting at the multi-monitor display of his gaming computer. The basement room was characteristically dim with patchy spots of hot and cold, due to the only heat source being a portable space heater Brandon kept as far away from himself as possible. As Genevieve watched, he pushed his perpetually sliding glasses up on his nose.

Her best friend had stupidly long eyelashes, cherubic cheeks, and was in constant need of a haircut. He did not look up as Genevieve entered the room and flopped onto the shabby brown polyester couch, which was as comfortably drab as everything else in the cave.

“Your mother’s breakfasts are going to make me fat,” Genevieve said through a mouthful of pancakes.

“Right,” Brandon said, still clicking away on his keyboard. “It’s my mother’s pancakes and not your father’s daily hot-fudge-and-butterscotch-layered sundaes to blame for your impending blimpdom.”

“What you don’t know, because it is a strict family secret, is that everything at Sweet Dreams Ice Cream Parlour has been magically manufactured with zero calories.”

Brandon spun lazily in his chair, carefully folded his glasses into his breast pocket, and smiled at her. “In that case, I should be eating there more often.” He patted his generous midsection.

“You could always run with me in the mornings,” Genevieve suggested.

“I’d sooner starve to death, thanks.”

She forked up the last bite of pancake, swirled it around in the remaining pools of syrup, and placed it in her mouth with exaggerated bliss.

Brandon rose slowly, stretched, and then crossed the room to switch off the space heater, which he only turned on for her benefit. Then he began shutting down his work station and gathering papers and books for school. He was stuffing them into his backpack when his phone went off. After glancing down at the screen, he snorted.

“What?” Genevieve stood up too, pulling her keys from her pocket.

“Apparently, I’ve been charged with the critical task of finding out why you’re so upset this morning,” Brandon said, cocking one eyebrow at her.

“Excuse me?” She strode over to him and peered at his phone, which showed a text from “Mom.”

Something’s wrong with G, she seems off today.

“She obviously didn’t just watch you hork down a heaping plate of pancakes,” Brandon said, slinging his backpack over one shoulder and heading for the stairs. Genevieve followed him, shaking her head in equal parts admiration and unease.

“Your mom is a sorceress,” she whispered conspiratorially.

“Tell me about it. She always magically knows when I need more toothpaste, even though she refuses to come down here anymore. Weird.”

“Bye, you two!” Mrs. Summers called from upstairs.

“Bye, you two!” Charlotte parroted, and they laughed as the screen door slammed shut.

In the kitchen, Brandon filled a thermos with coffee and Genevieve rinsed her plate and stacked it in the dishwasher. Then they stepped out into the sunshine. Brandon cast her a sidelong glance as he climbed into the car and snapped his seatbelt in place. “So,” he said casually, “what’s wrong?”

Genevieve sighed and began backing her Corolla out of the driveway. “My dad hired another closer.” Brandon listened silently as she recounted the argument with her dad that morning. She turned onto Sheffield Street and drove past Haley Park as she talked, and by the time they’d pulled into the parking lot of Pinewood High—a single-story brick building nestled at the bottom of a hill on Forest Avenue—she’d gone over the whole tale.

Brandon looked thoughtful. “Maybe he really is concerned about you being there alone.”

“Oh, please,” Genevieve said with a snort, throwing the car in park and turning to face him. “I can bench press ninety pounds and outrun anyone in this town. I can take care of myself and he knows it.”

Brandon grinned and leaned over to squeeze her ample bicep. Quick as a flash, Genevieve snatched his wrist and twisted hard.

“Youch! Okay, mercy! Mercy!” Brandon howled, and she giggled and let go. She took her workouts seriously and didn’t like to be underestimated. Brandon was rubbing his reddened wrist and watching her warily.

“Look, all I’m saying is maybe you should give your dad the benefit of the doubt. He’s seemed more supportive of your plan to stay on at the store while commuting to Mountain Ridge, right? You said that last week.”

Genevieve grabbed her bag and both of them got out of the car and began walking toward the school. “Yeah, after pushing his agenda all summer.”

“Still.”

“Oh, of course you’re on his side.” They stepped over the curb and onto the grassy field, where students crowded in small groups waiting for the bell. “You just love my dad because you guys like to geek out over the same prehistoric video games.”

Brandon hitched his backpack on his shoulders and sighed heavily. “You know, I feel sorry for you,” he said. “Imagine a life without the pleasures of Pac-Mania and pinball wizardry. And your poor father, having to live with himself knowing he’s failed to produce an heir to the gaming community.”

“Truly, I am an unworthy offspring.” She sighed and looked at him. “Seriously, though, Sweet Dreams can’t afford another closer. I do the books; I should know. He’s trying to replace me, and I can’t... I don’t want⁠—”

Brandon stopped and gazed at her soberly. “Genevieve,” he said, “I’m on your side; you’re my best friend. But sometimes that means being brutally honest, right? Even when, especially when, it’s something you don’t want to hear. I think you’re worrying too much about this new guy, and I think you’re just afraid of surrendering any kind of control of Sweet Dreams now that you’ve taken over so much of the business. I mean, I get it—you love your shop. But you can’t do it all.”

She tilted her chin. “Why not?”

Brandon shrugged and began walking again. “Because,” he said reasonably, “even when the business completely passes over to you, at some point you’ll have to hire new workers. Chase won’t be there forever, and neither will Mellie⁠—”

Genevieve protested at that, but Brandon spoke over her. “And you’ll have to trust others to do the job. No one will do it as good as you,” he added quickly, “but it wouldn’t hurt to have extra help, right? You’re at school half-time now; next year you’ll be a full-time college student. You don’t have to do it all.”

They’d reached the wall of lockers where students tended to congregate in the mornings and where Genevieve kept her camera for Yearbook. As she spun the dial on her lock, she thought about what Brandon had said. “So you’re saying I should see this as a kind of opportunity. I should be happy about the new guy.”

“Why not? You get to train him. Consider it practice for when you’re in charge.”

She cocked an eyebrow at him.