Too old to play the make-believe games of our childhood, Wesley and I often spent our time together watching movies and listening to music. There were entire afternoons when we barely spoke a word to each other, but it felt different from the despondent, often hostile silence from Stella.

  Eventually, my parents insisted I join extracurricular activities similar to my new, wealthy private school classmates. I chose horseback riding and fencing. The riding was partially for Louisa’s benefit; her mom had passed away by then and her dad became extra strict and protective, barely letting her leave the house. He allowed her to accompany me to my lessons since she loved animals and being around the horses soothed her. The fencing reminded me of the elaborately choreographed sword fights Wesley and I had as kids. I even taught him some moves, although he said he preferred the routines we came up with as children. I agreed.

  “Feels like a different lifetime, doesn’t it?” I ask.

  Wesley nods, but doesn’t say anything. Silence stretches for so long, it begins to feel awkward. I’m about to suggest we rejoin the others when the yard suddenly becomes darker. We look up at the sky in unison to see clouds scuttling across the moon, obstructing its bright glow.

  “I have the perfect song for this moment.” Wesley swipes around on his phone, and the song that’s been playing on the portable speaker near the firepit cuts off abruptly. The soft, familiar guitar melody of “Harvest Moon” by Neil Young starts, filling me with a warm flood of memories.

  “Still love this song?” Wes asks.

  “So much.” It’s been one of my favorites for as long as I can remember. It was often on the radio during my childhood, so it became one of those songs that attached itself to countless memories; nothing monumental or life changing, but it evokes feelings of joy and comfort when I hear it now.

  Wesley tucks his phone back in his pocket and holds out a hand. “Dance with me, Evie.”

  A small, bewildered laugh spills from my lips. “Here? Now?”

  “Why not?”

  Why not indeed. Hollie, Louisa, and Fergus are engaged in conversation and don’t seem to notice or mind that we’ve separated ourselves from them. Stella hasn’t returned from the bathroom yet, which likely means she got caught up talking to someone inside. I think about the hushed conversation between her and Wesley just minutes ago: ‘Stay away from her, Wes.’ Why were they arguing about me?

  Wesley raises his eyebrows expectantly and wiggles the fingers of his outstretched hand. I force the questions from my mind and take Wesley’s hand, letting him pull me close.

  With one hand tucked in Wesley’s and the other clutching the back of his jacket, I close my eyes and sink into his embrace. His familiar smell mixes with my favorite seasonal perfume: the sweet, sharp scent of dying leaves, crisp air, and the underlying aroma of woodsmoke. Without a doubt, this moment will be added to the bank of sense memories evoked by this song. In fact, I’ll likely never be able to hear “Harvest Moon” again without thinking of slow dancing with Wesley on a perfect autumn evening with the full moon shining on us like our own personal spotlight.

  “You didn’t want to spend the holiday with Ashleigh?” The question spills out, unbidden. Her name tastes like dirt in my mouth. I’ve met Wesley’s girlfriend a couple of times, and she seemed nice enough, but it always bugged me that she never made an effort to get to know Stella or the rest of the McGrath family.

  The last notes of the song fade out and are replaced by another tune. Wesley releases me slowly, almost hesitantly, keeping my hand in his. He blows out a long breath, drawing my attention to his lips. A thought as unbidden as my words from a moment ago enters my head: I bet his lips taste like whiskey and the sweetness of s’mores.

  Wesley doesn’t get any further than, “About that…” before Stella appears. He drops my hand as if it burned him, and takes a step back. Between the sudden distance and the chilly look Stella is shooting at her brother, the air around us feels cooler.

  Wes shivers, making me think the frigid air isn’t only my imagination. “We should get back to the fire,” he says. “I could use another s’more, how ’bout you two?” Without waiting for a response, he heads off across the yard.

  Before Stella can move to join him, I grip her arm, keeping her in place. “What is going on with you two?”

  With her gaze trained across the yard, her mouth twists from side to side as if she’s chewing over what to say. “Did he tell you he and Ashleigh broke up?”

  The unexpected question makes my heart surge so hard and fast, it leaves me lightheaded. My grip tightens on Stella’s arm, causing her head to snap in my direction. Her hard expression softens into one of understanding and concern. “No, he didn’t,” I say faintly. “I…I thought you’d be happy about that?”

  “I am. It’s just…” She sighs, her gaze swinging back toward the firepit, where the volume of the music has risen and Wesley is attempting to coax a giggling Hollie out of her seat to dance with him. “It’s not important, Ev. Let’s go enjoy the rest of the night, okay?”

  “Right, yes, of course. You go ahead and I’ll be right there, okay?”

  Despite looking like she wants to argue, Stella sets off across the yard. I could understand Wesley not bringing up the end of his relationship tonight, but we spent hours together at the diner the other day and he never said a word. Pieces of a mental puzzle slowly fall into place, although they’re jagged and don’t quite fit right.

  Wesley is now single for the first time in years. When we were younger, Stella rooted for her brother and me to get together, which always gave me a glimmer of hope that she knew something I didn’t, like perhaps Wesley returned my feelings after all. But if that was the case—is somehow still the case all these years later—why is Stella so angry at Wes and demanding that he stay away from me? Am I misreading this whole thing and it actually has nothing to do with me?

  I pull my phone from my pocket to check the time. The link to the playlist Wesley sent me earlier sits at the top of my list of notifications. With the others preoccupied, I click the link. The playlist is titled “BFFs” and, as I scroll through the list of songs, I see they’re all about friendship: “Friendship Never Ends” by Spice Girls, “Best Friends” by S Club 7, “I’ll Be There for You” by The Rembrandts, “Count on Me” by Bruno Mars, and on and on.

  Single or not, it doesn’t matter. Wesley is likely only staying in Bellevue until after my party this weekend, and he still lives three hours away. There’s also the not-so-small fact my feelings for Wesley are, in fact, one-sided, as proven by this incredibly thoughtful—yet soul crushing—playlist.

  I tuck my phone away and straighten my shoulders, then head back toward the firepit, my best friends…and the bottle of whiskey.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It’s Wednesday morning, and I’m back at my parents’ house. I got a text late last night from my mom requesting that I come over. She thinks because I’m off work this week, I’m at her disposal, but Stella and I had plans. Sure, those plans involved lounging around in our PJs, but I’ve earned the right to be lazy if I want to. Despite that, Eleanor Hathaway’s ‘requests’ are actually demands in disguise, so it wasn’t worth the fight.

  I begged Stella to come with me and even attempted to bribe her with the promise of lunch at her favorite restaurant. She claimed she needed to continue her job search. I may or may not have called her a coward. Lovingly, of course.

  After nearly two hours at my parents’ place, I wish I’d thought to feign an illness or injury this morning. Mom and I have been sitting at her enormous dining room table while she goes over what seems like six thousand lists related to my party this weekend. It’s not like I have any say whatsoever in any of it, so I’m not sure why I have to hear about the food, decor, guest list, and the multitude of vendors she’s working with in excruciating detail.

  In order to survive this tedious task, I’ve been sending regular texts to Stella while Mom is distracted. The latest is a two-part photo series: first, a shot of Mom with her phone pressed to her ear, brows drawn together in a scowl as she scribbles something on one of her many pads of paper. The second is a selfie where I’ve got my eyes crossed and my tongue poking out. Stella replies with a string of laugh-crying emojis.

  “Who are you texting there that you think I can’t see?” Mom asks.

  Busted. “It’s Stella.”

  I expect her to make a comment about us texting each other even though we now live together. When we were little, we’d spend an entire day together, either at school or playing at one of our houses, and then we’d often spend half the evening on the phone with each other. Our moms always thought it was hilarious and bizarre for two kids to have that much to talk about.

  Mom sets her pen down and gives me her full attention. “How is my darling girl doing? I didn’t get much of a chance to speak to her on Thanksgiving.”

  I smile at the term of endearment, even though I’m unsure how to answer. Stella wouldn’t mind if I told Mom any of the things she’s confided in me recently. Mom would be sympathetic, but also concerned because she genuinely loves Stella and considers her family. I’m not sure I want to get into it right now, so I finally settle on, “She’s figuring things out. I’ve told her she doesn’t need to rush or feel pressured into anything.”

  Mom nods, seemingly pleased with that answer. “You’re a good friend, Evelyn. You two are lucky to have each other. Speaking of which, are you enjoying living together? I worried it might not be the wonderful fantasy you always dreamed of.”

  “I think it’s safe to say we both worried a bit about that too, but it’s been great. We genuinely enjoy each other’s company, and we’ve fallen into a routine that works for us. I think it helps that I’m gone most of the day and we’re not together all the time. I’m honestly in no hurry for her to move out.”

  “I’m both glad and relieved to hear that,” Mom says. “What the two of you have is something truly special. Or, rather, the four of you. My four girls.” She says the last part wistfully, her eyes misting over. With a few rapid blinks, the moisture disappears, making me wonder if I imagined the beginning of tears. “Anyway, I wondered from the smile on your face if you’d been texting Wesley.”

  “Wes? Why would I be texting him?” And what kind of smile was I wearing for her to assume that?

  She shrugs casually. Too casually. “You two looked cozy on Thanksgiving, that’s all. Will you be seeing him again before your party?”

  “I’d like to, but he said he’ll be busy dealing with some stuff while he’s in town.” He’s told me that twice now: Saturday night after our time together at the diner, and again on Thanksgiving night before we parted ways. Stella spoke to him on the phone yesterday and seemed less irritated with him afterward, but I was afraid to press her for details about what was going on with the two of them.

  Other than a soft hum of acknowledgment, Mom doesn’t say anything else, which is surprising. She returns her attention to the list in front of her, although I can tell she’s looking at it without really seeing it. The wheels in her brain are turning so hard, I can practically hear them.

  “Such a sweet boy, our Wesley,” she says faintly, as if she’s lost in thought. “Man, I should say. Even after all these years, it’s hard for me not to picture him as that fair-haired little boy who never strayed far from your side.”

  Unsure where she’s going with this but suspecting she is going somewhere, I remain silent.

  “Wouldn’t it be nice if he moved back to town? I’m sure Suzanne and Warren would be over the moon to have both of their children back. And you would too, I imagine.”

  “I would,” I say steadily. “Stella and Wesley are two of the people I love most in the world.”

  For a moment, I fear I’ve said the wrong thing. Mom’s eyes brighten and she straightens almost imperceptibly in her seat. She reminds me of a well-trained pet who’s just heard the familiar crinkle of a treat bag and is waiting patiently for a reward. I almost laugh to myself when I think how offended she would be at that comparison.

  The sound of the doorbell interrupts whatever she’s about to say. I don’t even have a chance to feel relieved before she says, “That’ll be the hairdresser for the test run of your hairdo for the party.”

  I jump up from the table. “The who for the what?”

  “I’ve arranged for you and the girls to have your hair and makeup done before the party,” Mom says, sweeping from the room with me hot on her heels. “I was going to surprise you on Saturday, but after the fiasco with the dresses last weekend, I thought a trial run would be a smart idea so there are no unpleasant surprises the day of the party. Someone will be coming in an hour or so to do your makeup.”

  There’s no time to express my dismay before Mom reaches the door and throws it open. Looks like I’m not getting out of here any time soon.

  *****

  Having a team of professionals do my hair and makeup for my birthday seems completely over the top, and yet I can’t deny the results are incredible. So incredible, in fact, I can’t stop staring at myself in the mirror after the makeup artist has packed up and left. I twist and turn, admiring my glowing skin and the soft curls that frame my face.

  It doesn’t escape me how lucky I am to have my own ‘Glam Squad’ as Mom called them; a lot of people dream of things like this. And in the spirit of looking for the positives, I know Stella, Hollie, and Louisa will enjoy the pre-party pampering on Saturday.

  Mom’s click-clacking heels announce her arrival a moment before she enters my bedroom. When her eyes meet mine in the mirror, she comes to an abrupt halt. “Oh, Evie, you look stunning. You always look lovely, of course, but hiring professionals was a brainwave on my part.” She strides further into the room and comes to stand behind me where I’m still sitting at the vanity table. “I sent your dress in for a few minor adjustments, otherwise I’d have you try it on so we could get the full effect.”

  I can’t imagine what ‘minor adjustments’ the dress needed since it fit perfectly, but it’s best not to ask.

  “You’re going to make some man very lucky someday, you know,” Mom says.

  I groan. “Mom, please—”

  She waves off my protest. “Are you bringing a date to the party?”

  “You know I’m not.”

  “I know no such thing.” She’s still standing behind me. Something about her body language tells me she wants to touch my hair. Not in a loving, motherly way, but in a way that says she wants to adjust something. “You don’t keep me abreast of your dating life.”

  “That’s because there’s nothing to tell.” The minute the words are out, I know they’re a mistake. Mom’s wide-eyed curiosity has a voice in my head screeching, ‘Abort, abort!’ I spring to my feet and pace across the floor. What I’d really like to do is flee the room entirely, but she’d only follow me. “Well, not nothing. I’ve been dating on and off, and Fergus will be coming to my party on Saturday. You said yourself how great he is.”

  “So it’s okay when Hollie plays matchmaker, but not me?”

  “I’d prefer if nobody played matchmaker, but Hollie…” I stop short of saying ‘Hollie at least knows my type’. It’s not that Fergus is necessarily my type, but that’s not the point. Hollie only suggested inviting him as a buffer, and he was happy to oblige. He did his best on Monday, but even with him here, it didn’t stop Mom from thrusting every eligible man in my direction.

  “Fergus is more than welcome here anytime, but unless you’re actually dating him, I have someone I’d like you to meet at the party,” Mom says, apparently not noticing how I trailed off mid-sentence. Or choosing to ignore it, which is the more likely scenario. “His name is Jonathan and he works with your father. He was here one night for a business dinner I was hosting for Dad, and he saw your picture and seemed quite interested. He’d be perfect for you, Evelyn. He’s handsome and smart and—”

  “Enough, Mom!”

  I’m not sure which of us is more startled by my outburst. We stare at each other in stunned silence for several beats. There’s no going back now, so I suck in a deep breath and straighten my spine.

  “It’s not that I don’t appreciate everything you’ve done for me, Mom. Everything you do for me. But I’m about to be thirty-five, and I’ve been a successful, independent woman for a long time now, which means I don’t need you telling me how to live my life or what I should or shouldn’t do. I also don’t need you setting me up with random guys.”

  “They’re hardly ‘random guys’, Evelyn, they’re—”

  “Mom.” I say it more gently this time, and she clamps her mouth shut. “I know you mean well. I really do. And I don’t ever want you to think I’m ungrateful for a single thing you and Dad have done for me my whole life. But it is my life, and you need to let me live it the way I see fit. Which also means…” I suck in another deep breath because I’m on a roll and I might as well say it all now that I’ve started. “Which also means I’d like for this weekend’s party to be my last big birthday party.”

  Mom’s eyes go wide. I can practically see the thoughts floating over her head like cartoon speech bubbles. But I thought you loved these parties. What will our friends think? How can I make up for this yearly party with another big, showy event that reminds people how successful and influential we are?

  Okay, that last bit was all me, but still.

  “Do you remember the parties you threw for me as a kid?” I ask.

  She nods slowly. “I always wished I could do more. Take you places or throw extravagant parties. It was always just the four of you and a few of your school friends at the house.”

  “You say ‘at the house’ like it’s a bad thing. Where you remember a small party with a few of my friends, I remember sparkly decorations, a themed cake, and my closest friends by my side. I remember trips to Blockbuster to pick out movies, followed by epic slumber parties where we stayed up half the night watching movies, doing at-home spa treatments, and eating unlimited junk food. I was surrounded by people I loved, doing things I loved. Some of my best childhood memories are from those parties, Mom.”