In the morning, I went to see Grandma before meeting Brendon. I downloaded some meditations for lowering blood pressure, which was what the doctors said caused Grandma’s stroke in the first place. The nurses had moved her to a different room, and she was agitated. I tried to get her to eat some applesauce, but she just wanted to know when she could go back to her old room. My mom went to talk to the head nurse, and Grandma got concerned about where my mom went.

“Where did she go?” Grandma asked.

“Just in the hall,” I said. “Do you want me to turn the TV on for you?”

But Grandma wasn’t listening to me. She kept craning her neck, trying to see Mom.

“She’s just outside the door at the nurse’s station,” I said. “See? She’s right there.”

“Gabrielle?” she called. “Gabby?”

My mother poked her head in the room. “Yeah? Do you need something, Mom?

“Just wanted to know where you went,” Grandma said.

I exchanged a look with Mom. She shrugged and went back to talk to the nurse.

“Gabby? Gabby? Where did she go?” Grandma asked, leaning forward.

“She’s still right outside the door,” I said. “Do you want some more water?”

We left at one o’clock, when she started falling asleep. I didn’t want to go, but the nurse practically shoved us out the door, saying Grandma needed her sleep. It seemed like all she did was sleep, but I didn’t want to cause problems.

I hated seeing Grandma acting out of it and so dependent. It was like she was a little kid. Grandpa was starting to be more reliant, too. It was beginning to scare me. They used to take care of me, and it made me nervous how suddenly I was the stable one who needed to be responsible. I couldn’t even rely on myself, so how could my grandparents rely on me for anything?

When I got home, I tried to focus on other things, but it seemed stupid to worry about what I was going to wear when I went out with Brendon while my grandma was dealing with health problems. I knew she wouldn’t want me to stay home and worry all afternoon—and honestly, it wouldn’t help her—but why did she have to go through it? It wasn’t fair. I tried to take my mind off things, and I went outside to see what the temperature was. It was cool and seemed like it was going to rain, which was good because I hated myself in shorts. I used to wear them all the time in middle school, but now I felt weird about it, even though a lot of girls wore them to class. I was thankful for air conditioning so I didn’t look completely stupid wearing jeans to school.

After debating what to wear, I decided to put on my khaki jeans and a blue-and-red shirt, which was like a formfitting baseball jersey. I considered cute red sandals, but I switched to a more comfortable pair of sneakers. After all, I could barely walk in those shoes on a good day, and the last thing I needed was to trip over my own feet in front of Brendon. I still didn’t feel quite right, so I put on the red lipstick Margaux gave me for Christmas, which always made me feel more confident. Brendon texted me to say he was in the driveway.

When I got in the car, Brendon told me to pick out something to listen to. It sounded easy except for the fact I had the worst taste in music. Everybody knew I loved any stupid song written for a six-year-old girl, but I couldn’t help it. Margaux always made fun of me because I used to have a sleeping bag with a girl band called the Sweetie Gals on it. I still used it as a blanket when I got cold. However, I didn’t want Brendon to know I counted the days until the Sweetie Gals reunited, so I tried to find a song I thought he’d like. Then I saw it—Sweeties for Always. He owned a Sweetie Gals album, too.

“Do you have a sister?” I asked.

“Nope, just an older brother. Why?” he asked, and I held up the phone showing the album. “Oh, I downloaded it when it was on sale for ninety-nine cents. It’s not bad, though.”

“I know, I have the same one,” I said. “Oh wow, you have the same TV theme song album I have, and we have a lot of the same chick flick movie soundtracks. So weird. If I find a Paulo Estevez song on your playlist, I’m gonna start to wonder.”

“I didn’t even know the TV one was in there,” he said laughing. “And I don’t own any music by Paulo or anyone who wears leather pants, but I have to admit I do own another Sweetie Gals album.”

“I went as one of them for Halloween once. I was Bridget,” I said. I wished my mouth and brain worked together a little better under pressure, but luckily he laughed.

“She was my crush when I was thirteen,” he said. “I had her poster on my wall.”

“Seriously?”

“I wouldn’t lie about something so important. Then she started dating a basketball player and broke my heart. I’ve never fully recovered.”

“Her loss,” I said, and he laughed.

He parked on one of the side streets, and we walked down to see some of the different art displays. I began to relax.

“Some of this stuff is super ugly,” he said.

“The sculpture over there looks like someone threw macaroni and cheese on it.”

“Fun fact: gluten-free, dairy-free mac n’ cheese is Bridget’s favorite food,” he said.

“You’re kidding?”

“Hey, the Sweetie Gals’s Web site doesn’t lie,” he said, smiling.

“Is that how you knew she was your soul mate?”

“Soul mate is such a strong word, and no, considering she chose some athlete over me.”

“In her defense, you’re still in high school,” I said.

“Hey, what happened to ‘her loss’?” he asked.

“You’re right. She should have waited for you.”

He gave me that smile where his eyes shone and the world dropped away. “Exactly. I am worth the wait, aren’t I?”

I swallowed. “I’m sure you are.”

“That whole section of iron zombies over there is freaking me out,” he said. “Let’s have a contest of who can find the weirdest stuff.”

“Okay, but I have to warn you, I’m super into art—even the odd stuff. I just feel like if someone put all their creative energy into something then we should—” I stopped. “You’re laughing at me!”

“No, I’m not, I just think it’s cute how, I dunno, idealistic you are…and sweet.”

“Another way of saying, ‘naïve’?”

He squinted. “Naïve? No. You don’t strike me that way at all. Why?”

I shrugged. When I was dating John, he told me how much he loved my sense of humor. Then one day, in front of everyone, he said what he liked best about me was how funny I was and how I had this “adorable naïve quality.” I felt so stupid and immature. Kylie told me to blow it off, but Margaux said she got a weird, controlling vibe from him. She said, “There’s a reason he always dates younger girls.” I tried to ignore it at the time, but there was something to what she said. Plus, his ex-girlfriend always followed him around like a little puppy, and he didn’t like it when I questioned him or didn’t go along with his opinion on something.

“All right, I think I found something even you’d have to admit is a little strange. It’s a five foot tall, completely rusted rabbit. Looks like a tetanus shot warning sculpture,” he said.

He was right—it was odd and seemed like you could take a layer of skin off just by touching it. But I wanted to mess with him a little.

“My great-grandparents used to have one,” I said. I tried to look serious.

“Uh-huh…wait, for real?” he asked.

“Yeah, my great-grandfather bought it for a fiftieth wedding anniversary gift right before he died,” I said. “We have it now in our backyard. I’ll have to show it to you when you drop me off.”

He didn’t know what to say, so I took pity on him and told him I was joking.

“Not cool. You had me believing I insulted your dead great-grandfather’s taste in lawn art,” he said.

“Actually they did have lawn art,” I said. “They had those little girls on a swing and the little Dutch boy and girl who lean over like they’re going to kiss. I used to push them together so they could actually touch.” Could I puh-lease just shut up now?

“But no five-foot rusted rabbits?” he asked.

“Sadly, no.” It was getting easier to talk to him, and I almost felt relaxed around him. Almost.

“Oh man, there’s a clown,” he said.

“Yeah, cute.”

“Seriously? I’m about to flee to the safety of my car, and you think those things are cute?”

I shrugged. “When I was a kid, my grandpa took me to the circus and got all the clowns to sign autographs for me. They were nice clowns, so I guess I never got scared of them. But are you? I mean, is it an issue?”

“Stop smiling!”

“I’m not smiling,” I said, biting my bottom lip.

“You are so smiling. It’s not unusual to be afraid of clowns,” he said.

“It is a little unusual when you’re, you know, the age you are,” I replied.

“I wouldn’t say I’m ‘afraid,’ in so many words. It’s more like their presence makes me uncomfortable.”

“Oh, much better. More mature than the whole I-wet-my-pants-because-I-saw-a-clown thing.”

“You don’t know the back story to my terror, okay? You wouldn’t be so quick to judge if you knew what I had been through,” he said. “You see one of those—”

“Cheerful bringers of joy?”

“More like terrors in rubber noses. Anyway, one of them scared me as a kid. My dad was on the campaign trail, and this clown was trying to make a point with him, so he came up and scared me, just to see if he could get a rise out of my dad in front of a crowd.”

“How awful! I’m sure it goes against the clown code of honor,” I said.

“Well, you might be right because later the company who supplied the entertainment claimed the guy was never on the list. He snuck in just to terrify me to prove a point. Ever since then, I think about who is hiding behind the makeup—the mask, you know? So that’s what it’s all about.”

“What a crappy thing for someone to do to a little kid.”

“And now I can’t date girls who wear heavy makeup—I get flashbacks,” he said, smiling.

I cracked up. “No wonder all your girlfriends have had the natural look.”

He tilted his head. “You know who I’ve gone out with?” How did he not realize how many girls were into him?

“I’m joking,” I said. Well, I sort of was. “You went out with Lauren, though, and she fits the look.”

“Yeah, we dated for a while. Some people seriously were saying we’d end up married. So crazy.” Everyone said those things because they were both high achievers with perfect looks and backgrounds. It was like the daughter of the peanut butter dynasty being promised to the jelly tsar’s son.

“Yeah, insane. You’re both in high school.”

“I know, right? People always try to map out my life for me. They assume I’m going to follow in my father’s footsteps: get married young, run for office, work my way up the ladder, have the perfect family—only unlike my dad, they assume I’ll eventually run for President. Although I think my old man’s still got designs on the Oval Office.”

“So is any of that what you want?” I asked.

He blinked. “I don’t even know what I want. It’s hard to explain, but when you grow up in a family where your dad and your grandpa were known for something, it’s like everyone assumes you’ll pick up the baton and finish the race. I know it sounds like, ‘oh, poor little rich kid crying because his family has connections,’ but it’s overwhelming.”

“Wow, I never thought about it that way. I guess I just assumed you had all these doors open to you, and your life was, well, planned. But also like you had it made—you were set.”

“That’s what most people think, and in some ways it’s true, but is it what I want? I honestly don’t know.”

“What would you do if you didn’t have any family pressure on you?” I asked.

“You’ll laugh at me.”

“If I didn’t laugh at the Sweetie Gals or the clown thing, then I think you’re safe.”

“True, you have proven yourself worthy of my trust,” he said, smiling. “Okay, I would like to be a journalist. This sounds weird, but I am super into current events. Pretty much all of the apps on my phone are news. As a kid, I loved sitting with the press on the plane when there were big events. My dad wouldn’t be into the idea, though. He hates the media with a passion.”

“Does he know you’re into journalism?”

“Nah. I mentioned something once after a negative story about him came out and said how they were just doing their jobs, and he cut me off. He said it used to be about reporting the news and staying neutral, but now everyone tried to make a name for themselves, and it was somehow okay for journalists to give their opinion. That is exactly why I want to do it. I want to go back to how it used to be, getting both sides of the story, staying neutral, and putting the facts out there. And yeah, I’d love to be a part of the big moments in history, too. See it firsthand and report so people know exactly what went down.” His brown eyes were shining, and I had never seen him get so animated. There was something about seeing someone’s face light up when they were passionate about a subject.

“Sounds like it’s your calling.”

“Yeah, well, when your family’s into social causes, it’s like you’re meant to carry on the legacy, and they’d never understand—especially me siding with the enemy? No way.”

“You should see yourself when you talk about it. Your voice changed; your face lit up. This is something you’re seriously passionate about.”

“For sure, but my dad would never pay for me to study journalism in college. He’d die first.”

“What if you took an intro class? Just told him it was a requirement and went from there? Will he check your schedule every semester?” I asked.

“Knowing him, yeah. There’s a path set for me. I’m not sure there’s anything I can do to get out of it. I have three relatives who are in office, and my younger cousins and I have all done at least one government internship. My brother’s the black sheep of the family for going off to a third world country to help orphans. I think my dad was okay with it because he thinks it looks good for Jayson to care about the needy. Don’t get me wrong, my dad’s a good guy, but he’s always concerned with how we’re coming off to the public.”

“I bet he loved Lauren,” I said and then slapped my hand over my mouth. Those words were not supposed to come out.

“Yeah, he did. Why?”

“Nothing, she just seems like the perfect first lady type.”

“You aren’t the first person who has said that, and it weirds me out.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“No, I mean, not you saying it, but the idea. You know, I’ve never told anyone other than my brother any of this, but I sit here with you and pour out my guts.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I can’t quite figure you out,” he said. I prayed he didn’t finish the thought with, “So glad I’ve found a therapist in you. You’re like the little sister I never had.”

“You were trying to figure me out?”

“All the time.”

My heart flipped. “And? Any conclusion yet?”

“Nope, so I’m going to have to spend a lot more time with you,” he said, moving closer. He put his hand under my chin and lifted my face to meet his. Then he kissed me, and I tried not to pass out. The smell of his cologne, the way he held my face—it was like a scene from a movie. This kiss was what romance writers wrote about.

“Any objections?” he asked.

“Huh?”

“To me spending more time with you.”

“I think I might be able to work you into my schedule. Have your people call mine,” I said.

“They told me they’d get back with me and never did.”

“I’m firing my whole incompetent staff,” I said with a smile. “So looks like I’m free.”

“Perfect,” he said, and we kissed again.