Page 70 of The Surprise

A friend I dream about.

A friend who makes my palms sweaty.

A friend who makes my heart race and my knees weak.

Just a friend.

But when he smiles, it’s hard to remember anything at all. “Happy birthday.” He waves. “Now you’re finally able to vote.”

“Yeah, but who do I vote for?”

Ethan throws his hands up in the air. “Ah, ah, don’t ask that. Have you met Amanda Brooks?” He cringes. “Politically, we’re a house divided.”

I can’t help laughing as I walk up the porch steps.

“Now, Izzy says you told her not to go overboard, so I got my deposit back on the jugglers, the petting zoo,andthe bouncy house. But.” He lifts one arm to block me.

I’m forced to look up and meet his eye. “What are you talking about?”

“She texted me to tell me you’re coming, and well, winters are slow on ranches, so I had some time on my hands.”

“What does that mean?”

“I whittled you a chair out of an old oak tree.”

“You—what?”

He laughs. “I’m kidding, but I did make you a cake.” He drops his hand and gestures all in one big movement, and I duck past before he can do or say anything else ridiculous.

On the counter, there’s a chocolate cake.

Sort of.

It’s supposed to be a three-layer cake, I think, but instead of being smooth and round, it’s peaked and high on one side, and saggy in the middle, with a kind of lumpy spot on the other end. The frosting’s sliding off the low side, and it’s pooled in the center. The closer I get, the worse it looks.

“Wow,” I say. “I mean, really, wow. Is it the first time you’ve ever made a cake?”

“Why would you think that?” His forced smile shows me that he knows it looks terrible, at least.

“It’s. . .unconventional.”

“I was trying to copy the cake Hagrid made Harry.”

“Right,” I say, “well, then you nailed it. Except, there’s no frosting writing on it.”

“That part was harder than it looked,” he says. “Besides, we all know who the cake is for, right?”

“And she’s welcome to it.” Maren’s leaning against the counter by the sink, a look of pure contempt on her face.

“I’m sure it tastes great,” I say. “And that’s the only thing that counts.”

“What if it doesn’t?” Izzy asks. “Because in my experience—”

“Hush, you,” Ethan says. “It’ll be great.” He pulls ice cream out of the freezer and plonks it on the table.

“Are we eating it now?” I ask, a little surprised.

“I mean, it’s kind of starting to collapse.” Ethan points.

---