Maybe This Time(34)

I rolled my eyes.

Micah gestured toward the lake in front of us. “And now you get to enjoy the real life. Simple and uncluttered.”

The lake (at least what we called the lake) barely qualified as such. It was more like a watering hole. People could fish in it and swim in it. Right now, in fact, it boasted a couple of colorful inner tubes and their owners, lingering from the hot day. As the sun went down, the lake would empty and the park around it would fill up with people ready to watch the fireworks that happened every year, right here. Hank was bringing the barbecue and Mr. Williams (and Jett Hart this year) always provided the side dishes. Every Occasion, of course, provided the flowers.

“Is that what real life consists of?” Andrew asked, eyeing the lake. “Or is that what you say because you have nothing to compare it to?”

Micah’s brows shot down. “Going out of town was not good for you. Maybe I need to go baptize you in that lake and hope it cleanses the grump out of you.”

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then opened them again. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Bad day.”

“What’s your excuse for all the other days?” I asked.

“Mostly you,” he said.

I laughed a little. I could appreciate a good comeback.

“Well,” Micah said, rolling her shoulders back, “I’m going to have a great day. Do you know why?”

Andrew and I waited for her to finish.

“Ask me why,” she demanded.

“Why?” Andrew said.

“Because look at me. I’m wearing real clothes.” She wore a pair of jean shorts and a red T-shirt instead of her usual cater waiter uniform. “And I don’t have to work today. People will get their own food. I just have to refill empty dishes when necessary. And Sophie doesn’t really do anything either. Just puts flowers at each table and waits to be bossed around by Caroline. It is my favorite event of the year!”

“Well,” Andrew said, “I still have just as many pictures to take, so try not to rub it in too much.”

“Oh please,” Micah said. “You take entirely too many pictures. You only use like ten on the website. Stop being such an overachiever.”

“My dad looks at every single one.”

“He does?” I asked. “But you were putting them online before we’d even left the Valentine’s Day event.”

Andrew ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. “He reviews them and sometimes has me trade them out.”

“That’s when you say, ‘Dad, you stick to cooking, I got this picture thing down,’ ” Micah said.

I let out a single laugh. “Have you met his dad?”

“He’s just a perfectionist,” Andrew said, defending him, like always.

“Is that the word they use instead of jerk in the city?” I shrugged. “I’m just a sheltered country girl so I don’t know these things.”

“You’re impossible,” he said. With that, he turned and walked away.

Micah was quiet.

“What?” I asked. “He said it himself. He’s grumpy today.”

“You didn’t help.”

“It’s not my fault he lets his dad walk all over him and doesn’t seem to recognize he’s being trampled.”

“Sophie! Just play nice.”

“I make no promises.”



The party was in full swing. People were eating and laughing, throwing Frisbees and footballs, or standing around Hank’s huge barbecue. It was so big that it had its own wheels and was hauled in behind a truck. Ribs and steak were sizzling on the grill, smoke rising into the sky. And Micah was right, we had nothing to do. She and I were sitting on lawn chairs watching my brother throw rocks into the lake. I had my phone out and was reading a sample application on one of the New York City design school websites.

“Unique,” I said.

“What?” Micah asked, understandably confused.

“This is the third time I’ve read the word unique when they are referring to the portfolio we’re supposed to submit.”

“Yeah … so …”

I swatted at some gnats buzzing by my ear. “My pieces aren’t unique, I’ve decided.”

Micah shook her head. “Your pieces are absolutely unique. They’re originals! How can they not be?”

I narrowed my eyes and pulled up a photo on my phone. “What do you think about this sketch?” I asked, showing her the sketch of a skirt I had designed a couple of weeks ago.

Micah looked at it. “It’s gorgeous. You should use that one.”

“What about this one?” I scrolled to the next picture.

She narrowed her eyes, studying it. “It looks very similar to the last one, but it’s pretty too.”

“This one isn’t mine,” I said, the same sick feeling I had felt the week before settling in my chest. “I saw this on a design site I like to visit. And that’s when I started to notice the word unique in almost every application I read. Did they just add that word like yesterday?”

Micah didn’t know what to say. I could tell from her expression that she was searching her brain and coming up empty. “Those are two different skirts” is what she settled on.

“Not different enough,” I muttered. “I need something that makes me stand out. Something that makes my designs one hundred percent … me.” Which was exactly what Andrew had told me a couple of months ago. I hated that he was probably right.