Dream On(57)

“Let’s go then.” I begin trudging over the uneven ground, but Perry’s not behind me. I stop.

“You go ahead. I think it’s best if I stay here,” he says.

“Nonsense. You can’t watch fireworks alone. It’s the law.”

“Oh really?” He chuckles.

“Oh yes. Ohio Revised Code, section 375, subparagraph D, clause twenty-nine.” Sticking my finger in the air, I clear my throat. “No person shall witness, observe, or engage in any public display of fireworks, unless in the presence of at least one other person, of any age, at a distance of no greater than ten feet.”

“I can’t argue with that.”

“Smart move. I’m a lawyer. Arguing’s kind of my thing.” I wink.

“I thought painting was your thing?”

“Only on nights and weekends.” I grin. “And hey, we can avoid your dad if that’s what you’re worried about. You don’t have to talk to him if you don’t want to.”

“It’s like you can read my mind.” Perry cocks his head as he studies me. “Okay, you win. Give me a minute to run to my car—I wouldn’t want anything to happen to my new favorite painting.” He taps the canvas against his chest. “Then we can find Devin.”

My gut scrunches as I return his smile. “Sounds like a plan.”





Finding our way back through the party is considerably more difficult than I anticipated. By the time Perry stashes my painting in his car and we hike back from the concrete plant, full dark has settled in. More people have arrived in the last hour—there’s at least two hundred people milling around in the moonlight—and the mood has turned downright bacchanalian.

Searching for Devin, we pass half a dozen middle-aged women dancing drunkenly along to music from a Bluetooth speaker, and a pair of twentysomethings engaged in a chugging contest with a crowd cheering them on. Empty beer cans, plastic forks, and napkins litter the trampled grass. Someone must have brought an industrial-sized box of glow-in-the-dark accessories, too, because neon necklaces and glow sticks dot the night like Technicolor fireflies.

I spot Mr. Szymanski lounging in a lawn chair next to the same blond woman who beckoned him earlier, and I quickly tug Perry in the opposite direction. There are so many people I gather a fistful of his shirt at his waist just so I don’t lose him. A bottle rocket whistles nearby, momentarily illuminating the sky in a burst of red sparks.

“Coma Girl!” someone croons. I stiffen. A swirl of neon green, pink, and blue bobs toward us, and I recognize the newcomer as one of Devin’s friends from earlier—the short-haired blond.

“What did you just say?” Perry’s voice is sharper than I’ve ever heard it.

The guy—I can’t remember his name—squints one eye in Perry’s direction. “Holy shit, is that Perry? What’s up, Pear Tree?” He lifts his hand, offering a high five.

Perry folds his arms across his chest. “Not much, Mikey.” Even in the meager light cast by Mikey’s multiple glow-in-the-dark necklaces, which he’s wearing on his head like a lopsided crown, I can tell Perry’s face is as stony as a statue.

Mikey drops his hand. “Long time no see. Still slinging flowers?”

“Still crushing beer cans with your face?”

“You know it.” Tipping his head to the sky, he howls like a coyote.

“Where’s Devin?” I say, cutting in.

“Dunno. Last time I saw him, he was over there.” Mikey motions widely, indicating half the party. Helpful.

My phone vibrates against my hip. Maybe it’s Devin.

It’s not. It’s a text from my mom wishing me a happy Fourth of July. A photo pops up—a selfie of her, Rob, and the twins waving tiny American flags while they stick their tongues out at the camera. My chest aches. I miss my brothers. At least I’ll get to see them tomorrow when I go to Mom’s house for brunch. I text her back, Thanks, you too Hug Liam and Jackson for me! and fire off a text to Devin.

I’m back. Where are you?



I stare at the screen for a few seconds, but he doesn’t respond. Sighing, I add another text—Meet me by our cooler, k?—before stashing my phone in my pocket.

“We should get going,” I say.

Mikey sways as he lifts his beer. “Right on. Catch you later, Coma Girl—”

“Cass. Her name is Cass.” Perry looms over the shorter man, his hand balled into a fist at his side. Gratitude fills me, as warm and sweet as honey.

Mikey backs up a step. “Sorry. Cass. Got it.” Saluting us with two fingers, he clicks his tongue. “Gavin, you son of a bitch, where’d you go with my brownie?” he shouts as he stumbles away.

Perry watches him leave with narrowed eyes. “Sorry about Mikey,” he yells over the drunken chatter.

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. People shouldn’t make light of what happened to you. Calling you Coma Girl isn’t cool.”

Unbidden, tears prick my eyes. I blink them away. I didn’t realize how good it felt for someone to understand my situation without having to explain. “Thanks for sticking up for me.”

“Anytime.” His eyes gleam in the moonlight.

“If you had waited another second, I would have grabbed his beer and dumped it on his head.”