“Oh my god,” she said, still looking stunned, shaking her head. But then she smiled, and I saw that her blue eyes were shiny with tears as well. “Oh my god,” she said again, and reached out and hugged me close. I hugged back, and couldn’t tell if I was laughing or crying, or both, but whatever it was, it sounded like Sloane was doing the same. “What are you doing here?” she asked when we broke apart. “How did you find it? I mean . . .”
“It’s a long story,” I said, still looking at Sloane, trying to take her in. I’d expected to see the Sloane I remembered—wearing some fabulous vintage dress, with red lipstick on and earrings that jangled when she turned her head. But she was dressed in a pair of jean shorts and an old T-shirt that she’d only ever worn before as a pajama top. Her hair was back in a messy ponytail, and her pink toenail polish was chipped almost to the point of no longer existing. She was still Sloane, of course . . . but not a version I was familiar with.
I took a breath to begin to explain when the truck door slammed and we both looked in its direction. Frank was walking around to the hood and leaning against it. Anyone else would have probably stayed put—or at least looked deeply uncomfortable, but Frank seemed like he was taking this in stride, like helping to reunite friends was just a normal thing he did. “Hi,” he called, raising a hand in a wave.
Sloane squinted through the darkness. “Emily, I might be hallucinating,” she said calmly, as she turned to me. “Because I could almost swear that was Frank Porter.”
I nodded and motioned Frank over. “Like I said,” I told her as she turned to me, jaw dropping once again. “It’s a long story.”
Twenty minutes later, it was just the two of us, sitting on the house’s back porch.
The porch was wide, with a screened area just off it, and a swing, flowerpots, and wicker chairs with patched and sun-faded cushions. It looked out on the brook that the street was named for, that I could now hear better than I could see, as night was falling, a blue night with fireflies already lighting up intermittently from all sides. Sloane was on her own in the house—Milly and Anderson and her aunt Laney had gone to Charleston for the weekend. Because it seemed that they lived with her aunt now—they’d been living here the whole time.
Frank had claimed that he was exhausted, and asked if he could crash on the couch for a while. I wasn’t sure if this was because he was giving Sloane and me some time to talk, or if he was actually tired. As I thought back on the day, and the fact that he’d been driving in the sun for hours—and hadn’t taken a nap, like I had—I realized it might have been some of each.
Sloane had gotten us both Diet Cokes, and was walking around the porch barefoot, lighting citronella candles and plugging in the twinkle lights that she’d told me her aunt absolutely hated, but that she’d gone ahead and covered the porch with anyway.
When the lights had been lit, she came and sat next to me, and we looked at each other. It suddenly seemed like there was so much to say—so much to get through—that it was hard to even begin.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” she said, tucking her legs up underneath her and shaking her head. “I keep thinking this is a dream, and I’m going to wake up at any moment.” She studied me, tilting her head to the side. “I love the hair,” she said. “It looks amazing.”
I smiled and brushed my bangs back. There was a piece of me that wanted, so badly, to just jump back into being Sloane-and-Emily again, for as long as I was here. I could see it would be easy; she’d already been giving me several We need to talk about this looks in terms of Frank, and I could feel the pull to keep things light, just have fun and let things go back to how they were. But I needed answers, and I hadn’t come all this way to leave without them.
I reached into my bag and pulled out the list, the paper deeply creased from a summer of folding and refolding. “I got your list,” I said. “I did them.”
Her head snapped up. “All of them?”
“All of them,” I said, handing it to her.
“Really?” she asked. She looked shocked—and a little skeptical. “Even the skinny-dipping?”
“You just left,” I said, hearing my voice shake, remembering her disappearance, the weeks of silence, and then what it had been like to get the list and nothing else, no explanation. “I had no idea where you were or why. Just this.”
Sloane just looked at me for a moment, and I could practically feel the part of her that hated confrontations shrinking away. But, surprising me, she nodded. “I know,” she said. “And I’m sorry. I just thought it was for the best.”
“How could it be for the best?” I asked. “I’ve spent the whole summer wondering what happened to you, and why you somehow didn’t care enough to tell me.”
“It’s not that,” she said quickly, her voice hurt and a little sharp. “Are you kidding me?”
“Then what?”
Sloane glanced out to the brook, where I swore I could hear what sounded like frogs somewhere in the distance. As I waited for her response, there was a piece of me that still couldn’t believe that I was here, with Sloane again, on a humid night on a porch in South Carolina, finally getting my answers.
“When you move as much as I have,” she finally said, still not looking back at me, “you know how it ends. You promise to stay in touch with people, but it doesn’t work out. It never does. And you forget about what the friendship used to be like, why you liked that person. And I hated it. And I just didn’t want to do it again. Not with you.”
I looked at her, her head still turned away from me, but I knew her well enough to hear the tremble in her voice, the one she was trying to hide. “So what, then?” I asked, trying to keep my voice gentle. “You just leave without an explanation?”
“I just thought it would be better,” she said, running her hand over her face and turning back to me. “To remember it as it was. As really great. Not anything else. Just the best friend I’ve ever had.”
I felt my lip start to tremble and bit down on it, trying to marshal my thoughts. I could see where she was coming from, in theory. But only in theory. And before I’d worked it all out, I was speaking, my words coming out in a jumble. “No,” I said, shaking my head. My honesty hat was on, and I was calling her out on this. Sloane glanced over at me, and I could see this had surprised her. “You can’t just leave people behind because you think it’s going to be too hard to commit to a friendship. You can’t live your life that way.”
“You don’t understand,” Sloane said, her voice quiet. She looked out to the water for a second, and I knew that the role I’d played in our friendship before—the one I could feel her wanting me to move back into, like the way you try and force your feet into a favorite pair of shoes even after they’ve gotten too tight—would be to let this go, not push her, smooth it over, go on to other things.
“So help me understand,” I asked, looking right at her, not letting her off easily.
Sloane let out a long breath that had a hitch somewhere in the middle. “You know why we move so much?” she finally asked. She was looking at the ground, not meeting my eye. “Because my parents blew through their trust funds and have never had real jobs. So we just go wherever people or relatives will let us stay in their summerhouses or second homes. And sometimes Anderson actually makes a good investment, and we have a little money, but of course, it’s gone immediately. . . .” Her voice trailed off, and I heard in that moment, just how tired she sounded.
I just looked at her for a moment. Suddenly, it was like I didn’t even recognize the person sitting next to me, the person I’d thought I’d known better than anyone. While I’d been sharing all my secrets with her, she’d been keeping huge ones from me.
“So you lied,” I said, and I could feel my anger start to come back again, and my voice begin to rise. I thought about how dazzled I’d been by Sloane since the first day, how much I’d wanted to be like her—and it hadn’t even been real. None of it had. “Why would you—”
“Because it’
s embarrassing!” Sloane’s voice broke on the last word, and I could see her hands were shaking. “You have this perfect family. And I’ve got Milly and Anderson.” She let out a short, unhappy laugh. “You were always telling me how great you thought my parents were, how glamorous our lives were, how wonderful the house was. . . .” She shook her head. “You know it wasn’t even our house? The heirs were fighting over it, and Milly’s a second cousin or something, so she talked them into letting us be the ‘caretakers.’ And when the will was settled, of course, we were out of there.” She looked at me, then back down at her hands again. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I just . . . wanted you to like me.”
I sat back against the step, trying to process all this. And I thought, for some reason, of the spec house—the structure that was perfect only from the outside. I looked at Sloane, and saw the hunch in her shoulders, and suddenly understood how hard it must have been for her, not letting anyone—even me—know any of this. And I realized it didn’t matter.
“I don’t care,” I said. She looked up at me, and I shook my head. “I mean, I wish you would have told me. But the house? None of that stuff’s important.”
Sloane looked at me, and I saw her eyes were wet. “Really?” she said. It was more like a whisper than a question. I nodded, and she wiped her fingers beneath her eyes.
We sat in silence for a minute, and it felt a little bit like the start of something. She was telling me the truth, and I had refused to just go along with her. It felt new. It felt like maybe now we could start the next chapter of our friendship—whatever that ended up looking like.
Sloane leaned against me, and I leaned back, until, after a few moments, you couldn’t tell who was holding up who.
“So,” Sloane said after a long moment. I saw, to my surprise, that she was looking down at the list and smiling. “Skinny-dipping,” she said, sitting up and turning to face me. “Spill.”
I laughed. “It was your idea,” I said, thinking back to the night on the beach, how I knew it was a great story, one she’d never believe.
“Emily,” she said, “I’ve never even gone skinny-dipping!”
“I can give you some pointers, if you want,” I said, with a grin. “Like . . . always keep an eye on your towels.”
She was still just looking at me like she wasn’t entirely sure who I was. “And you really used Penelope? And you kissed someone? Oh my god. Who?”
“I tried to steal your sign from the drive-in,” I said. “But it fell and I almost got caught. Frank bailed me out.” Sloane looked at me, alarmed, and I added, “Not literally. He just covered for me.”
“I really can’t believe you did all these,” she said, still sounding a little awed. “You actually rode a horse?”
“I guess I thought they would lead me to you,” I said, “somehow.”
Sloane looked at the list for a long moment, then smiled. “Maybe they did.”
I thought of how I’d gotten here—and how I probably wouldn’t have spent the summer with Frank if I hadn’t gone to the Orchard that first night. Or become friends with Dawn on my quest to hug a Jamie. I thought about all the things her list had given me over the course of the summer, and everything that had happened because of it. “Maybe you’re right.”
When the mosquitos started attacking us, we went inside to find Frank waking up from his nap. Sloane heated up a frozen pizza, bemoaning the lack of delivery options in River Port. We ate standing around her kitchen counter, and after Frank polished off three slices, he headed to bed in the guest room that Sloane had made up for him. We discussed—but I was trying not to think about—the fact that we were going to have to be on the road again by seven. I needed to get back before my parents, so they wouldn’t realize I’d left to travel over many state lines with a boy.
Sloane lent me sleep clothes and a toothbrush, and when I unfolded the T-shirt, I realized it was actually mine—the Bug Juice movie shirt.
We were sleeping on the screened-in porch, where she’d set up an ad hoc bedroom during the heat wave that River Port was currently going through. Sloane was on the porch’s couch, and she dragged in a foldaway bed for me, and we pushed them close enough so that we wouldn’t have to raise our voices to hear each other when we talked.
“Okay,” she said, when we’d turned out the last of the lights and I could only see her by the moonlight coming in from outside. “Frank. Start talking.”
I smiled against my pillow and filled her in on the broad outlines—our friendship, my crush, the kiss, the Lissa-breakup bombshell. And us, together, here. Now.
“Oh my god,” she said, once I’d finished. She had reacted just as I’d hoped she would throughout. She’d been responding at the right moments, making me realize how much I’d missed telling her things—her enthusiasm, her complete lack of judgment, the way that, even when you were wrong, she was on your side. “I mean,” she went on without waiting for me to answer, and though I couldn’t see it, I could hear the smile in her voice, “what are you thinking?”
“I don’t know,” I said slowly. If Frank and I tried to be something, it would be real, in a way that was scary—but also really exciting.
“He did just get out of a really long relationship,” Sloane pointed out. “Is this going to be a rebound thing?”
“No,” I said automatically, without even having to think about it. And I realized as I did that Sloane didn’t know Frank. And she didn’t know the me I was with him. “It’s more than that.”
“But . . .” She propped herself up on one elbow. “Frank Porter is like the most serious guy we know. If you’re going out with him—you’re committed.”
“But that’s what I want,” I said, again without thinking about it.
“Really?” Sloane asked. Not skeptically, just with surprise.
“I know things might not work,” I said. “And I know it’s scary, but the things that are worth it are. It feels right.”
“What is that like?” Sloane asked, her voice quiet, genuinely curious.
I knew the answer to that immediately. It was like swimming under the stars, like sleeping outside, like climbing a tree in the dark and seeing the view. It was scary and safe and peaceful and exciting, all at the same time. It was the way I felt when I was with him. “Like a well-ordered universe.”
We were silent for a few minutes, and I realized it was okay. Maybe we didn’t have to share every single feeling we were having, and analyze it. “Em,” Sloane finally said. “I’m only asking because I don’t want you to get hurt. But what if it doesn’t work out?”
When I answered her, I could hear the hope in my voice. “But what if it does?”
I woke up when it was still dark out, and reached underneath my cot to check the time on my phone, cupping my hand over the screen to shield the light from Sloane, who I could tell was still asleep, her breath coming slow and even. It was five-thirty in the morning, and I was amazed I was awake, considering that Sloane and I had talked for hours.
There had just been too much to cover, and every time one of us would mention that we should probably stop talking and get some rest, something else would come up that had to be addressed. As we talked, trying to fit three months’ worth of conversations into a few hours, it felt like we were fighting against the dawn that was coming, and if we just kept talking, and filling up the hours, maybe we could hold it off.
But then the pauses had gotten longer, until there was just silence between us, and I drifted off with the knowledge that if I thought of something else I needed to say to Sloane, she would be right there to hear it.
But as I climbed out of bed now, I was trying my best not to wake her as I walked onto the back porch. It was still dark out, but the stars were fading, and I had a feeling the sun was going to be up before too long. I looked over and saw my list, folded up, where we’d anchored it under one of the candles. I picked it up, planning on putting it back in my purse for safekeeping, when I had an idea. I ducked back into the screened porch, r
etrieved my purse, and brought it back outside with me. I found a pen and my schedule for next week at Paradise in my bag. I turned it over to the blank sheet on the back, lit one of the candles so that my handwriting wouldn’t be too illegible, and started to write.
1. Call your best friend twice a week.
2. When your phone rings, answer it.
3. If you meet someone you like, wait two weeks before kissing him.
3a. (Okay, one week.)
4. Date someone who’ll wait to make sure you get inside before driving away.
5. If you’re mad at someone, tell them. I promise nothing bad will happen.
6. Get your license. (This way, you can drive me when I come and visit.)
7. Hug a Carl.
I kept on writing, filling the list out, trying to do for Sloane what she’d done for me. When I’d finished, I added at the bottom, When you finish this list, find me and tell me all about it.
I heard the door from the screened porch slam, and I turned around to see Sloane, in her vintage silk pajama set—I’d been with her when she bought it—crossing the porch and sitting next to me on the top step.
“Hey,” she said, around a yawn. “I woke up and you weren’t there.”
“Yeah,” I said, raising my eyebrows at her. “That’s really awful, isn’t it?”
Sloane laughed and I saw she’d understood me. She nodded at the paper in my lap. “What’s that?”
“It’s for you,” I said, handing it to her. She unfolded it and I watched her expression change as she read it. “I just thought I should give you something to start on,” I said. “You know, since I’ve finished all of mine.”
Sloane smiled and bumped her shoulder into mine, but then left it there, and I leaned into her as well. “You should probably get going, right?” she asked after a few minutes, her voice soft and sad.
“I should,” I said. But neither of us moved, despite the fact that across the brook I could see the first ribbon of dawn at the bottom of the horizon, and the day that had come after all.