Cooper’s smile greeted me.

“You’re here,” I said both surprised and happy.

“Do you know how tempted I was to sneak up and scare you? What had your undivided attention?”

I held up the drawing I’d been looking at. It was a girl standing under a rainbow. It was obvious it was a girl; she had more than just a circle head. She had arms and legs and a body. She wore a purple dress.

“Cute,” he said. “Did you draw that?”

“Funny. No. A four-year-old drew this.”

“Is Mr. Wallace putting it in the show?” His voice was sarcastic.

“Shhh,” I hissed. “Don’t say stuff like that here. He’s everywhere.” I looked around, but the room was empty.

“Maybe I should say stuff like that here. Maybe it will make him think.”

I sighed and pulled down the remaining drawings.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said. “What was I supposed to notice about that four-year-old’s drawing?”

“Probably nothing.” This child’s picture may have been ahead of the curve now, but everyone would catch up with her soon enough. I stacked the papers together and looked up at him. “I thought you were out with your family.”

“We just grabbed dessert this time, so we’re done. And I have something for you.”

“Okay.”

“We were leaving the Cheesecake Factory and they had one more piece of white chocolate raspberry left. One! And I thought, it’s fate. Or whatever you like to call it.” He brought the white bag with colorful stripes out from behind his back.

“You’re the best.”

“I know. Now come on. Let’s go sit on the overlook so you can share that with me.”

That night I went home and set up a small canvas. I painted a fish. At first I painted it realistic, as if viewing it underwater. But I realized it didn’t feel right. How I’d been feeling at the spa, how I’d felt at Cooper’s race that day, didn’t match up with what I’d created. I changed the painting. I made the fish warped, bent at a weird angle, its parts not aligned quite right. I made the water around it choppy, almost murky, unclear. I stepped back and studied the final product. That was how I felt.

NINETEEN

How had I never gone to a typical party before? What was I supposed to wear? Sundress? Shorts and a tank top? Something fancier? Was I supposed to put on more makeup than normal? I thought about calling Lacey to ask, but I felt stupid. I should’ve known this stuff. Plus, she was probably busy setting up for her party. I called Cooper instead.

Cooper picked up after three rings. “You’re not bailing on this thing, are you?”

“No. Elliot is picking me up in an hour.”

“Wait, what? I thought you’d drive yourself so you wouldn’t be trapped there.”

“I know. It was a moment of weakness. The real question is, what are you wearing?”

“You need to say that in a sexier voice for that line to work. Like this: What are you wearing, baby?” That last line he said low and raspy.

“Gross. I wasn’t trying to be a pervert. I meant it for real. What are you wearing to this thing?”

“Oh.”

I could almost see him look down at his outfit. Like he was just now, with the question, discovering what he was actually wearing. “Shorts and a T-shirt.”

“Not helpful.”

“Wear a sundress and flip-flops. Mascara. Some lip gloss.”

My mouth opened and then shut again.

“I pay attention to what girls wear, Abby.”

“Thank you! Now I need to go get ready.”

“I’ll see you in a bit. Look for us when you guys get there.”

“I will.” I had already planned on it. He was the conversation starter and kept the conversation going and knew when to end the conversation. He made being social so much easier.

Elliot arrived at my door right on time. He looked nice, in a collared polo and cargo shorts. His normally untamed dark curls were styled off his forehead. My grandpa answered. “Elliot, good to see you. Come in.”

“He doesn’t have to come in. I’m leaving. See.” I stepped around my grandpa and out onto the porch.

But Grandpa didn’t let go of the hand he’d been gripping in greeting. He pulled him inside. “Of course he does. He needs to meet your mother.”

I groaned. “Elliot. I’m sorry this is being made into a bigger deal than it is.”

“It’s fine,” he said with a smile.

My mom joined us in the entryway. “Hi, so great to meet you,” she said, giving Elliot a hug. “Thanks for taking my daughter out.”

“Yes, it is such a chore,” I said.

My mom playfully hit my arm. “You know what I meant.”

“Can we go now?” I didn’t need to be more embarrassed.

“Come see the living room first. People love to see the living room. It has a lot of Abby’s art. Her paintings are like windows to the world.” She talked while leading the way, and Elliot followed.

“Mom. I will get revenge for this. You might want to sleep with one eye open tonight.”

Elliot gave all the appropriate responses—turning a full circle to take it all in, oohing and aahing at the right times. My mom beamed.

“We could just stay here tonight,” I said, sitting on the couch. “I’m cool with that.”

My mom put up her hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. I’m just proud. Get out of here, you two. And great to meet you, Elliot.”

“You too.”

He smiled at me as we walked outside.

“I’m sorry about that. She likes to brag.”

“I can see why.”

Not sure what to say to that, I just shrugged.

Elliot drove a Jeep with no doors. After climbing in and driving up the street, I began to question my clothing choice. The wind whipping through the cab made it so I had to hold my sundress down.

“Sorry,” Elliot said, noticing my challenge. “I should’ve put the doors on. I was trying to be cool.”

I laughed.

He reached into the back seat and produced a blanket. “Want to put this over your legs?”

“Yes, please.” It helped a lot.

“You look really nice, by the way.”

“Thank you.” I occupied myself with the blanket on my lap, tugging down the sides so it wrapped fully around both legs.

“You really are an amazing painter,” he said after a few minutes of silence.

“I’m . . . thank you,” I decided to go with. I didn’t want to have to explain how professionals saw me—underdeveloped.

“Is that what you want to do after high school? Some sort of art school?”

“Yes . . . I think.” That’s what I’d wanted to do since I was eight. That’s what I’d wanted to do until Mr. Wallace put it in my head that I might not be good enough. Now I was worried that I wouldn’t make it at art school. That everyone would be better than me. That I wouldn’t even get into the winter program, let alone art school after I graduated. “What about you?”

“Yes, me too.”

“You too what?”

“I want to go to art school.”

“What? You paint?” He had my full attention now.

“No. Well, I mean, I paint a little, but I sculpt more.”

He was an artist. Hadn’t I told Cooper less than a month ago that my relationship goals included dating an artist? “How come we haven’t had any art classes together?”