1
It’s a question I’ve been trying to answer for the past year. With a sigh of relief, I burst through the doors to the kitchen, nearly taking out a server carrying bite-size caprese sandwiches in my haste. “Sorry,” I mumble, my rigid posture slouching now that I’m away from the eyes of the guests. I love being a Rosewood, but sometimes having to be on all the time in front of townspeople gets exhausting. “You look like a girl on a mission,” a familiar voice says, entering the kitchen behind me. “A mission to get away from Ell Claremon.” I turn, taking in my friend Miles, whose cheeks are tinged pink with exertion. “You look like you’re on a mission.” “Yeah, to find you,” he pants. “I’ve been looking for you for ten minutes. Finally spotted you and was yelling your name across the great room while you blitzed over here.” “Sorry, just needed some air.” My heels click across the spotless white tile floor toward the sliding glass door leading to the pool patio. It’s open so only the screen stands between us and outside, but between the stuffy heat of the kitchen and the muggy summer weather, it’s not much of a reprieve. Miles follows me, smoothing the wrinkles from his khaki dress pants and navy button-down. His blond waves dip into his blue eyes, the color complementing the robin’s egg shade of paint on the wall behind him. He peers through the screen at the packed backyard of the manor, quirking a brow. “Lily, what looks strange about this scene?” I take in the guests in the pool and lounging on chairs. “There’re too many people on the flamingo pool floatie?” His laugh is bright. “Okay, two things.” He points to a boy about our age sitting to the side in an Adirondack chair. “Who is that?” I ask. “I was hoping you would know.” “I should know,” I say. The boy’s dark brown skin glows teal from the reflection of the chlorinated water. He nurses a bottle of water, wearing khakis and a sweater. Overdressed compared to everyone else on the patio in only swimsuits. “I know every face here and addressed every invitation. I got hand cramps for these people.” “Thank you for your brave sacrifice,” Miles says solemnly. I elbow him in the side, glancing back at the boy. His eyes behind his square black glasses are the tell-all kind. It looks like he’d rather be anywhere than here. “He does look familiar,” I say, trying to place him but coming up short. “He’s kind of cute, don’t you think?” Miles asks. I hum in agreement, just happy for a couple of moments of peace with Miles, who’s taken up the role as my sole best friend for the past year. He’s all carefree optimism and easy distractions, and now’s no different as he gives me a conspiratorial grin. “Dare me to go talk to him?” “You’ll do it even if I don’t,” I point out. “No fun.” “Fine, I dare you to sweep mystery guy off his feet. Bonus points if he falls in love with you by the end of the night.” “And how many points if I fall in love with him?” “I will let you sleep in tomorrow and open the deli by myself,” I swear, a risky gamble because DiVincenzi’s Deli is hopping on Sundays with people visiting after church. It usually takes both of us to handle the rush. That said, I don’t think too many townies will be going to church tomorrow, given they’re getting wasted here. “Deal.” Miles opens the door, then stops, pulling something from his pocket. “Oh, I almost forgot. The entire reason I was looking for you. Your gram told me to give you this. She said something weird.” He pauses, puzzling over it. “‘Not all in one bite,’ I think? And also, ‘to eat it ASAP so it doesn’t melt.’” He drops a marble-size orb wrapped in green foil into my palm. I frown at it. “‘Not all in one—’” He’s already striding across the patio, tossing one last bright smile over his shoulder at me with a thumbs-up. I glance behind me at the chefs still busy at the enormous range passing new plates off to servers. Delicious aromas waft around me, sweet and savory and everything in between as full and empty trays are traded left and right, the vast kitchen feeling tiny from the number of workers crammed in to keep up with the flow of food. I don’t recognize any of them. Gram must have given the usual crew the night off. I roll the orb between my fingers, looking for anything that would make this one special. There’s an entire tray of chocolates by the fireplace—Gram knows I could have just gotten one myself. Peeling off the green foil reveals a dark chocolate truffle. I check the inside of the foil because it’d be on brand for Gram to put a message in there. But it’s just shiny silver. Nothing unusual. I dig my teeth through the exterior. Pieces spill into my mouth, melting as they hit my tongue. Sweetness explodes, followed by the usual delightful bitter tinge of dark chocolate. But then something else falls onto my tongue, rough and— “Ack!” I spit it out into my hand. A piece of paper was hidden in the chocolate. Because of course it was. Classic Gram. I snag a napkin to wipe my saliva off it, unfolding it as Gram’s familiar cursive script slowly appears. Disappearing ink, an old staple that Gram has always used when writing notes. It used to be how she secretly communicated potential business deals back in the day before email, but now it’s become a special thing between the two of us when leaving silly notes around the manor, like, Saved this last eclair for you and Pizza and Project Runway tonight? There’s always a bit of a smudge on the paper, which signifies the special ink has been used. It reappears when wet, and in this case, my spit did the trick. I should have known the note wouldn’t have been on the foil. That would have been too easy. Dear Lilylove, it reads. Meet me at our spot at eight. I glance at the clock above the sink. Two minutes. I was almost late. The party in the backyard is no less raucous than in the manor as I step outside. If anything, it’s worse because this is where the youth congregate. I descend the grand stone steps leading to the patio, passing the pool to get to my destination. Nearly my entire class is stuffed in the turquoise water, my younger cousin Daisy precariously balancing barefoot on the end of the diving board. With only three months separating us, we could be twins thanks to our fair skin and matching dark red hair, a staple Rosewood gene. But that’s the end of our similarities, since she inherited her mom’s brown eyes and slight frame. Meanwhile, I got Gram’s ivy-green eyes and curves. We’re different in other ways besides our looks, too. While I’m held in high esteem throughout the town as the firstborn for our generation of Rosewoods, Daisy’s kingdom is high school. To our classmates, she might as well be an A-list celebrity. It doesn’t help that she’s a TikTok star with nearly half a million followers. She throws her hands into the air, her short silver bodycon dress dangerously riding up, and cheers rise from the water. Someone hands her a flute of champagne. Half sloshes over the side and onto the head of Gram’s yard boy as she pretends to use it as a mic. “‘Sweeeeeeeet Caroline!’” she belts off tune. “BUM! BUM! BUM!” they scream back. “Jeez,” I mutter, hurrying away. Only second-borns can get away with being publicly ridiculous like that. If it were me, I’d be eaten alive by the Rosetown Chronicle. A pang of jealousy thrums through me. Unlike me, Daisy doesn’t have to worry about being perfect for anyone, not Gram and certainly not the town. It must be nice not carrying that pressure around and always being surrounded by friends who would do anything for you. The music and laughter fade as I curve around the side of the manor. Everything is meticulously manicured,
