One Last Thing

e i g h t

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    EVERY YEAR FOR Everett's birthday since I've been born, we've gone to his house for dinner.

    His mom will make Everett's favorite food—gnocchi in white sauce and sauteed shrimp—and my mom will bake a large chocolate cake that we'll eat until we're sick, then leave the rest for Everett and his mom to finish on their own. It usually only takes them two business days before they're at our door giving the plate back to us, completely empty and without a single crumb in sight.

    This year is no different. The entire house smells like a bakery as my mom takes the cake out of the oven. We're running a little bit late—we're supposed to be over at 6 and it's 5:30—so I offer to spread the frosting and give my mom time to get ready.

    She kisses me on the cheek as she takes off her apron and says, "you look very pretty, Julia. Very adult."

    I look down at my outfit. It's nothing special, just a pair of boyfriend jeans and a maroon knit sweater I dug up from the back of my drawer. Which means she can only be talking about my makeup—I did my eyeliner for the first time in centuries—or my hair, which I took the liberty of curling so it looks less like the first five US Presidents' and more like a teenage girl's who cares about her appearance.

    Growing up, I've constantly been told I take after my Mom, and I consider myself lucky for it. I got her favorite traits—the freckles, the heart-shaped face, the high cheekbones, and the blue eyes. The only thing that isn't hers is my hair. While Tucker inherited her sandy blonde locks, mine is an indisputable muted brown—the same shade as my Dad's.

    She brushes back a strand of that hair now and murmurs, "I can't believe you're going off to college. My kids are growing up."

    I roll my eyes, even though my heart pulls slightly. "Mom. Please don't start crying."

    "I'm not!"

    "She totally is," Tucker's voice says, and then a moment later he's in the kitchen, wearing khaki pants and a plain white shirt.

    Mom just scoffs before she leaves to change out of her PJ's. I take the liberty of dipping a knife into the container of chocolate frosting and spreading it over the cake as Tucker goes to eat the scraps of cake mom cut off to even out the edges.

    I'm making final touches when Tucker says, "Please don't be awkward this time around."

    I look at him, my brows furrowed. "What?"

    He rolls his eyes and wipes at his hands, standing a bit straighter. "You know what I'm talking about. Last year you and Everett were so weird around each other it was almost painful to watch."

    My mouth drops. "Was not!"

    But we definitely were. I remember. It was the first true year where it was clear that we weren't friends—we hadn't talked since the December before. It had been ten months. I didn't know how to act, or what to say, so I didn't say anything, and he didn't either.

    I remember I resented how calm and indifferent he seemed to be while I was an anxious mess. Every now and then I would steal glances at him, and sometimes I could swear he would steal glances at me, but we never caught each other's eye.

    Except for one time that night, when I was reaching across to grab another slice of cake. He reached out at the same time for the knife, and our hands brushed. We both simultaneously recoiled like we'd been burned and looked at each other, eyes wide.