Page 45 of Gave Proof Through the Night

“Happy birthday,” I murmur against her skin, barely more than a whisper.

She doesn’t say anything for a second. In the mirrors around us, forty versions of the same moment hold perfectly still, and somewhere behind the wall the festival goes on without us, the fiddle music, the screaming kids, the whole loud, sweaty, glorious mess of a country turning two hundred and fifty, completely unaware that in a plywood hall of mirrors, I have just come completely, hopelessly undone by a woman who is stealing more than my watch.

“You’re going to have to do better than a cheek, Zesty,” she says finally, and there’s that smile again, the one that got me into this in the first place.

“Give me time,” I tell her. “I’m a gentleman, after all.”

11

ERICA

Chapter playlist:

The Star Spangled Banner — Madison Rising

America — Neil Diamond

Zoe’s plan to land me a gala invitation via cleavage and glitter has proven to be somewhat effective. No gala invite yet, but at least I got the hockey player’s attention. That part of the plan is working so well it’s borderline unfair to the man. And honestly, at this point, I’ll take the win where I can get it.

It started at midnight, technically. Six girls ambushed me the second the clock ticked over into July fourth, all of them piling onto my bed at the loft like it was a group tackle. Rue came in swinging a hand-lettered banner that read HAPPY BIRTHDAY AMERICA’S SWEETHEART, clipped me across the forehead with the corner of it, and did not apologize, because apparently that’s a workplace hazard I signed up for by existing.

Suri had a candle stuck in a Pop-Tart because we didn’t have cake, and lit it with a blowtorch she keeps in her makeup bag for reasons nobody has ever fully investigated. Ivy sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed with a glass of prosecco already poured for me, unbothered, because Ivy’s whole superpower is looking effortless regardless of the hour or the chaos surrounding her. Ginger sang happy birthday in a key that does not exist in Western music. Tanya cried a little, which she’ll deny under oath, and then blamed it on allergies, in a room containing zero plants.

Then Zoe and Tanya handed me a shirt.

Not a shirt. A crime.

Barely there, white, with KISS ME IT’S MY BIRTHDAY ironed on in red glitter letters. Blue and red puffy-paint stars scattered across the shoulder like they’d had a party of their own. Tanya found cut-off denim shorts at a thrift store, and somebody (I have my suspicions who), sourced American flag knee socks, probably from a roller skater’s paradise.

This morning, I walked out into the common room wearing the whole ensemble, and all six women whistled at me like a crew of construction workers annoying a pretty woman crossing the street.

I do a slow turn, arms out, like I’m Wonder Woman or something. “So? How do I look? Fourth of July enough for you?”

Zoe sucks on a lollipop and drops into a Jennifer Coolidge impression so accurate it should require a permit. “Oh yeah. Makes me want a hot dog real bad.”

“Cute.” I glance down at the red and white gingham ribbon Tanya wove into two braids. “But are these ribbons giving… I don’t know. Maryanne from Gilligan’s Island?”

“Trust me.” Zoe points the lollipop at me. “Guys are way more into Maryanne than Ginger.” She glances over at our Fence. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Ginger says, not looking up from her phone.

“These shorts are giving me a wedgie,” I say, tugging at the hem, which is doing structural work it was never engineered for.

“Did Megan Fox complain when her Daisy Dukes rocketed her to international fame?” Zoe waves her lollipop at me.

“No.”

“Then get out there and snag yourself a hockey player.”

Get out there and snag yourself a hockey player. Like it’s a scavenger hunt item. Like he’s a Pokémon and all I need is the right bait.

I lost the outfit battle but somehow convinced all I needed was a high ponytail with the ribbon in a simple bow. The girls accompanied me to the parade and coached me in the art of playing hard-to-get. The Bomb Pop, the coquettish glance over the shoulder. I honestly felt like a fool.

Turns out the bit worked. It worked so well I am currently pinned against a mirrored wall in the world’s stickiest, most disorienting funhouse, Jeremiah’s forearms braced against the glass on either side of my head, his mouth having just, very deliberately, very slowly, pressed itself to my cheek.

My cheek! After all that?

I feel like I just won a small carnival prize and immediately lost it in the parking lot.