Page 64 of The Summers of Us

Everett and I sit at a table near the edge of the tent, sipping the last drops from our sweaty soda cans. Haven brings out a sheet cake decorated with yellow piping and fifty lit candles. The guests sing a birthday song I don’t know, but I clap along to the beat, hoping the candles don’t erupt.

When the song ends, Saray blows out the candles and some partygoers chant, “Mordida! Mordida! Mordida!” before Holden pushes her face into the cake. Though she was expecting it, leaning before the cake with her hands behind her back, Holden timed it in the middle of the word to catch her off guard.

I join in on the booming applause and laughter while Saray licks the frosting from her lips.

Holden cuts the cake and brings us our pieces first. It’s theirabuela’stres leches, cherries and all. While we pick at our slices, I notice a smear of frosting on the corner of Everett’s lip. I wipe it off with my thumb. He smiles at me in silent appreciation. If I had told myself about this moment—this soft explosion in my chest—the last time I atetres leches, I would have been sure I was dreaming.

But this is real.

The guests slowly unwind from dinner, dessert, and drinks. They dance the grass into disarray. Santiago is going to throw a fit in the morning, but in the meantime, he and Holden are the number one culprits.

A song comes on that makes a few more stragglers jump up and rush to the makeshift dance floor.

Everett raises his eyebrows with a smirk. “You want to pretend to know this dance?”

I want to tell him that sounds like my worst nightmare, but I don’t want my mood ring to change colors. “Maybe later,” I say, hoping to buy myself the courage.

Everett doesn’t prod and heads for the dance floor.

Holden pulls Everett in with him and Jorge. Jorge pretends he doesn’t know the moves, but Everettreallydoesn’t know the moves, and Holden laughs as Everett stumbles over his own feet. I bite my smile down and scratch a few lines in the tablecloth to distract myself from him, calm myself down. Everett’s just as dorky as he was last year at karaoke, mouthing along to the song even though he didn’t know Spanish. My phantom friends from that night tease me from the treetops.

He’s always been yours. Why don’t you grab him before he slips away? The universe is not transactional.

I’ve ripped my section of the tablecloth to shreds, my cheeks now a rosy mess, and I decide to divert my attention to the rest of the party.

A little boy sprawls out on a few folding chairs, drooling onto the grass despite the pounding music. A few other kids play tag in the dark pockets of the yard. That used to be us, turning the real world into our own imaginary universe.

The twins’tiofrom the infamousquinceañeraincident is here from Mexico, and I see Haven hand him more beer before he’s done with the last. Theirtiohas a beer in each hand now, doing some hip gyration next to theirabuela, who already took a few shots with Santiago. Mason brings Santiago and Saray another round of shots. Holden attempts to take one before Saray slips it from his hand and scolds him. Holden laughs and kisses Saray on the cheek as if to say, “I’d never do that.” Santiago rolls his eyes and gives his son a noogie.

Haven joins them, an already half-eaten slice oftres lechesin her hand. Holden tries to steal a bite from her fork, but she swats him on the head. She offers him a stray cherry, pops it into his mouth, and wipes the leftover frosting on his shirt.

The Rivera-Sanchez family slips back into the line dance like they never left.

A heartstring plucks within me. What would it be like to have a family so vast and playful?

Watching the twins and their family sparks something within me. My family may not be vast or playful, but they’re mine. And I do love them, even though it’s hard to say sometimes. Although it’s inching toward midnight—Mom will certainly think I’m wasted and Blair will wake up despite needing the sleep—I grab my phone and send two identical texts, ten letters from the heart.

I almost put my phone away until an idea pops into my head. I’m trying to be more vulnerable in my life, more open. There’s still family out there who I can show this part of myself to, even if the feeling isn’t mutual.

I type out a third text, same as the other two. This time, to the only number not saved under a name. My thumbs grapple with what my brain wants them to do, but they manage. The cursor leaves and comes back and leaves and comes back. I finally hit send when the cursor comes back. For good luck.

I picture my father getting the ping on his phone. I picture what his new life might look like. Does he still eat fluffernutters? Does he watch the stars at midnight? Does he think of me when fireflies flicker in the darkness?

Am I a name or a number in his phone? Does he have the number memorized like I do?

I picture him reading the three words sitting on his lock screen.

I love you.

It’s too late to take it back now. I’ve sliced open my chest and invited the world in. Suddenly, being exposed on the dance floor is the least of my concerns. Suddenly, it’s all I need to steady my mind from the spiral and keep me from crying at a birthday party that isn’t mine. I brush my bangs out from behind my ears, smooth the wrinkles in my dress, tack a smile on my face, and walk toward the chaos.

This summer, keep doing that living you do. Maybe fall in love while you’re at it?

So what if I’m a few summers late? The universe isn’t keeping score.

When Everett notices me walking over under the string lights, happiness strikes across his face.

“Let me show you how it’s done,” I say with a smirk.

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