“Which part?” I asked, ever so casually, as if the details of the prom planning weren’t seared into my brain.
“The part where she mentioned you getting ready. I think she really wants to help you get ready. Do the whole girly thing. And look, I know it’s not your thing. I know you’re more into sports and Phoebe was always more of the frilly one, but would you want to?”
My heart sped up, beating a wildly fast rhythm. That was weird. Why would my heart trip over itself? I didn’t like Oliver like that. I truly didn’t. Fine, now and then I’d entertain little crush-like thoughts, but that was it, that was all.
But I wanted to be sure I understood. “Would I want to go to prom?”
“Would you be my pity date?” His lips curved into a grin as he repeated Phoebe’s words.
“You make it sound so appealing,” I teased, but we both knew what the date was about.
It wasn’t about us. It wasn’t about this skip in my heart.
It was about Oliver giving something to his sister that she’d never ask him to give. Something small that he could do if I said yes.
Of course I said yes. I didn’t say it for me, though, in spite of those butterflies.
I said it for him and, most of all, for her.
* * *
A few weeks later, Phoebe did her best to help me with my hair, flat ironing it until she was too tired to hold the iron.
She applied my blush, then regarded me with the intense stare of a reality show judge. “You look smashing,” she declared, appraising my simple blue dress. No frills, no satin, no lace.
“She does,” Oliver seconded, shooting me a smile that warmed me all over.
Was the smile for her? Or was the smile for me?
I didn’t know, and it didn’t matter. Phoebe mattered.
Oliver gave his sister a hug at the door, and Phoebe said, “That Emily doesn’t know what she’s missing, Ollie.”
He simply laughed, soft and light. “I told you not to call me that.”
“Oh, you love it,” she said, waving a hand dismissively.
“No. I don’t at all,” he said, but his grin gave him away.
“Then grumble every time someone calls you that, just like you do with me. It’ll be your way of remembering me when I’m gone.”
His smile disappeared. His eyes narrowed. “Oh, shut up now.”
“Just do it,” she said, and she wasn’t mad. She was simply . . . Phoebe.
Especially when she turned to me and said, “Summer, call him Ollie now and then to get a rise out of him. Do that for me, okay?”
Laughing, I gave her my oath. “I solemnly swear to call him Ollie every now and then.”
“You’re a gem,” she told me.
“And you’re a little stinker,” Oliver told her.
She preened. “I know.”
“So stop talking about when you’ll be gone,” he said, a hitch in his voice.
“It’s the truth. I’m used to it. I’m fine with it.”
“I’m not,” he said fiercely, then dropped a kiss onto her forehead and wished her a good night.
As we left, he seemed to collect himself, to shift away from that tug I was sure he felt in his heart, that wish that things were different.
“I love Phoebe,” I blurted when we slid into the limo, just the two of us.
He offered a sad smile. “Join the club.”
“It is not fair,” I said, my lip quivering, but I swallowed the threatening tears. It was his hurt, his pending loss. I didn’t want to co-opt it.
“I know. Some days that’s all I think about.”
“I wish everything were different,” I said, my voice catching once more.
“You have no idea how much I want that. How much I hope for . . .”
“For a miracle.”
Glancing out the window, he nodded, swallowing tightly and swiping a finger across his face before looking back at me with a helpless shrug. “I’ll miss her so much,” he whispered.
I set my hand on his, squeezing. “I’ll be here for you.”
He pressed his shoulder against mine. “I know.”
“Always. I promise.”
“I know that too, Summer.”
He squeezed my hand in return, and that contact was like a seal on our friendship. A promise that we’d look out for each other. That we’d have each other’s backs.
We had a blast at prom, dancing, drinking punch, laughing, and hanging out with friends.
Later, we lounged in our chairs at our table, watching the disco ball swirl its squares of light on the floor as others swayed and we talked.
He lifted a brow in a question. “So, tell me, Summer. How was your first pity date?”
“You’re assuming it’s my first,” I teased.
“Oh, is this a service you offer other sorry boys?”
“Only the sorriest.”
“How lucky am I?”
“Very lucky,” I said.
“In that case, let me know if I can return the favor. Down the road, when you’re twenty-five or thirty, if you ever need a pity date, you call on me, okay?”
