Author: Kristan Higgins

“Jackie Chan,” I answered immediately.

“Whoo-hoo! Jackie Chan it is, Dad! We’ll pick you up in half an hour, okay?”

They arrived shortly, and I squeezed into the pickup’s front seat between them like a giant toddler. Once at the theater, Danny bounded to the concession stand while Sam paid for all three tickets.

“You don’t have to buy my ticket anymore, Sam,” I protested.

“Years of habit, Millie.” He smiled down at me as Danny returned, carrying a bucket of popcorn the size of a silo and a vat of soda that contained enough fluid to hydrate a human for a week. We found our seats, me again in the middle.

“So what made you boys think of old, decrepit Aunt Millicent tonight?” I asked as Danny waved to three girls a few rows in front of us. They giggled in response and began whispering furiously, casting playful glances back at Danny as he devoured the popcorn with shocking speed.

“Oh, well,” Sam said, looking a little bit embarrassed. “I just thought maybe you felt a little, uh, down after Friday night.” At my blank stare, he said, “You know, your friend canceling on you and all.”

“Oh!” I said. “Actually, we saw each other last night.” At the words, a blush warmed the tips of my ears as I remembered making out on the couch with the lovely and delicious Joe Carpenter.

“Millie’s got a boyfriend, Millie’s got a boyfriend,” my nephew chanted, tossing some popcorn at the girls, who shrieked obligingly.

“Children should be seen and not heard, Daniel,” I said, smiling as I said it.

“Really?” blurted Sam. “You’re seeing someone?”

“Try to conceal your surprise, Officer,” I said sharply.

“No, I just…you didn’t say anything, that’s all. So who is he?”

“Never you mind, Sam-I-Am,” I replied, enjoying my moment of mystery.

“I’m gonna say hi to those girls,” Danny announced as he unfolded his lanky frame from the seat. As soon as he was out of earshot, I turned to Sam.

“Did you talk to him about Rich Guy Prep?”

“Yup. He doesn’t want to go,” Sam answered, the relief clear in his eyes. “Doesn’t see any point in it. I did try to put it in terms of being an opportunity and all that crap.”

“Which he saw right through,” I surmised.

“Yup. Trish wasn’t happy, but I sure as hell was. I can’t imagine why she thought he’d want to leave his senior year, but he talked to her.”

“I’m glad,” I said, patting Sam’s arm. “We can’t have you rattling around in that house alone.”

“Well, it would have been okay, if Danny had a real reason for going, not just some new idea of Trish’s.” Sam smiled. “But, yeah, I was glad.”

“Good thing Danny’s so sensible.”

“Yup. Always been a smart one,” Sam agreed, nodding.

“And handsome,” I added.

“Just like his old man,” Sam said. I laughed. Danny returned to his seat and the previews started.

About halfway through the movie, which, I must confess, I was thoroughly enjoying, Sam got up and climbed over Danny and me, presumable to hit the loo. Danny leaned over to me.

“Can you keep a secret?” he whispered.

“I hope so,” I whispered back.

“It’s important.”

“Okay. What is it, big guy?”

“I need help on a college application,” he whispered, taking a quick look around.

“Sure,” I said. “Why is it a secret?”

“It’s for Notre Dame. Early decision,” Danny concluded. “I don’t want my dad to know in case I don’t get in.”

My eyes grew wet as I imagined Sam’s joy if Danny went to his alma mater. “If you don’t get in, there’s no justice in the world,” I said. “Of course I’ll help you.”

“Great. You’re the best, Aunt Mil.”

How was it that a compliment from a child, albeit a rather old, very tall child, could make me feel so humble? I squeezed Danny’s arm as Sam clambered back to his seat. He handed me a box.

“Milk Duds,” he whispered, opening his own. “It’s just not a movie without Milk Duds.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

A FEW DAYS LATER, after several dozen kisses for her boys and myriad instructions for her parents, Katie climbed into my car for our sleepover.

It was the end of June, a perfect, clear summer afternoon, the temperature about seventy, the breeze just stirring the leaves. Katie and I hadn’t had any real time together for a while, and I felt a rush of love for her as we drove to my house. Each time I thought about my idea that she needed a husband, I felt slightly ashamed. She did seem happy, the boys were wonderful and her apartment clean and cheerfully cluttered. Who was I to say she needed more?

Once home, I showed her the newest changes and additions, pointing out the recent picture of Corey and Michael that I’d had matted and framed. She blushed with pleasure at seeing their photo hung so prominently in my living room and accepted the beer I handed her.

“Is it too early for alcohol?” she asked.

“Oh, no,” I answered. “It’s thirteen minutes after four. Perfectly acceptable.”

“Don’t even think about it, dog,” she said to Digger, who was gently preparing to mount her leg. He slunk away, dejected, and I slipped him a chew stick as a consolation prize.

“Look what I brought, Millie. Just like old times.” From out of her overnight bag, Katie pulled an array of containers…mud masks, moisturizers, nail polish.

We spent a happy hour (so to speak) applying various products to our faces and lounging around, looking at the InStyle and People magazines I had bought for the occasion.

“So things are good, Katie?” I asked, somewhat hesitantly.

She smiled. “Yeah, things are really good. The boys aren’t so demanding, although they tend to bicker a lot these days. And I talked to the bank about a house. My parents will help, but I want to do most of it alone. They’ve already helped me so much.” She leaned her head against the arm of the sofa and looked at her fingernails, now polished a deep red. Her blond hair fell in a smooth curtain, almost touching the floor.

I was struck, as I often was, by her effortless beauty, and even more by the fact that she was completely unaffected by it. Knowing Katie’s merciless four older brothers, I imagined whatever vanity Katie might have once had had long been erased.

She smiled at me. “So, Millie, I’ve been dying to hear. How’s Operation Joe?”

I sat up straighter in the chair I was lounging in. “Well, Katherine, funny you should ask.” I told her about last weekend’s big dinner, Joe’s screwup in nights, the macaroni and cheese, all of it.

“And tell, me, Millie,” my friend asked, “did you…do it?”

I paused for effect. “Yes. We did it.”

“Oh, my God!” she shrieked. “Oh, Millie!” We burst into a fit of adolescent giggling, clutching hands and snorting. “Fifteen years in the making! I can’t believe it!”

“It was sixteen years, thank you very much, and you have to believe it, because it’s true. I videotaped it.”

“Oh, my God, did you really?” Katie sat up abruptly.

“No, no, for God’s sake…well, not yet, anyway.” We laughed some more.

“So.” Katie took another swig of her beer. “How was it?”

My face grew warm. “Well…um, well, it was actually…you know…it—it wasn’t great.”

“Wasn’t great? Not great? Oh, my God! How could it not be great? You’ve been dreaming about this since we were teenagers! What happened?”

“Nothing, nothing.” Needing to look away, I gathered our beer bottles and straightened up the magazines. “It was fine. He was fine. It’s just—I don’t know, I was nervous or self-conscious or something. All the parts went into the right places, you know, but…it just wasn’t…shut up, Katie.”

My oldest friend in the world was shaking with laughter, tears streaming down her face. I glared for a moment, then gave in and laughed with her.

A FEW HOURS LATER, WE WERE at the Orleans Prison, a cute and reliable restaurant that used to be, obviously, a prison. Thick stone walls and barred windows made up the bar, and the restaurant spread out in a new wing behind us. We were deep into a discussion of reality dating shows.

“I’d like to see one that’s really real,” Katie said. “Like, I could tell a guy how my life really is, and then see if he’d want to share his trust fund with me.”

“What would you ask?” I took a slug of my wine.

“Oh, like, ‘Bachelor Number One…my son has diarrhea and missed the toilet. Do you wipe his crusty little bottom first or clean up the floor?’”

I laughed. “Or ‘Bachelor Number Two…I haven’t had time to shave my legs or underarms in six weeks. Do you feel this makes me less attractive?’”

“How about, ‘I have dry, itchy winter skin, Evan. How do you feel about scratching my shins?’”

Heads turned at our laughter, but we didn’t care. We ordered some Frangelico for after-dinner drinks, feeling very sophisticated, despite all evidence to the contrary.

“Guess what Mikey told my parents the other day?” Katie asked, smiling.

“What?” I had a definite soft spot for my younger godson.

“He wants a vagina.”

I choked on my drink and then exploded into giggles. “Oh, no! What did they say?”

“They told him to ask Santa.” Katie wheezed with laughter.

“I’m sorry. I should never have given them that anatomy book,” I said, wiping my eyes.

“Yes. ‘Winky’ and ‘down there’ sound so much better,” she answered. “Speaking of vaginas and winkies, tell me more about Joe.”

I grinned, happy for a chance to discuss J.C. “Hmm. Well, he’s very sweet,” I said.

“What does he do that’s sweet?” She took another sip of Frangelico, only to find her glass was empty.

“Oh, he stopped by yesterday on his way home,” I said. This was a mere four days after our first time, and I’d been absolutely thrilled that Joe was seeking me out.

“Stopped by for not-great sex?” Katie asked, smiling wickedly.

I blushed. “It’s not him, I’m sure. And yes.”

We heard a murmur go up from the bar, and there he was, my very own Joe Carpenter. He called a hello to the bartender and looked around, waving when he saw us.

“He really is gorgeous,” Katie murmured appreciatively.

I sighed with lust. “I know.” Wearing only blue jeans and a worn T-shirt, Joe was nonetheless breathtaking. Every single woman at the bar, regardless of age, checked him out, and so did some of the men. He extricated himself from the crowd and came over. “I told him we were coming here,” I explained to Katie.

“Mmm hmm.”

“Hey,” Joe said, smiling down at us. “How was dinner?”

“It was…you know…not great,” Katie answered with a wicked smile, and I choked a little.

Joe straddled a chair and leaned in to kiss my hot, no doubt scarlet-colored cheek.

“Don’t make yourself too comfortable, Joe,” I said, patting him on the leg with feigned casualness. His leg was warm and firm under his age-softened jeans. I caught a whiff of Ivory soap and wood and nearly swooned. “As I believe you were told, this is girls night out. No boys allowed.”

“Oh, you don’t have to—” Katie began.

“No, no,” I insisted. “We don’t get too many nights out together, after all.”