Page 67 of The Comeback Summer

Hannah’s eyebrows arch as she reaches for her phone. I brace myself for her reaction when she sees the length of the email.

“Elizabeth Anne!” Hannah says, her eyes growing wide. “This isn’t an email—it’s a novel!”

“It’s not that long,” I say, focusing my concentration on my zoodles.

Hannah shakes her head as she scrolls. And scrolls. And scrolls. Maybe I did write a lot, but it’s the details that can make or break a deception like this. I watch my sister’s face as she reads, her lips curving in the hint of a smile. She laughs, and I’m filled with relief—and something else, sharp and stinging. I knew she’d like Adam, and I know he’ll like her, too.

“Serious question,” Hannah says, setting the phone down. “Do you want to go out on this date?”

I bark out a laugh. “Don’t be crazy.”

“Libby, you clearly like this guy.”

“I do,” I tell her. “I like him for you. And he likes you back.”

“You’re the one he’s been talking to,” Hannah says. She’s trying to logic me into a confession that I’m not going to make.

“He’s been talking to me pretending to be you,” I tell her. “The whole thing is very meta. By the way, he’s into numbers, too—we do this little game where we rate things out of ten.”

Hannah lets out a dramatic, all-knowing sigh. “You should go on this date.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say, slipping into my big-sister lecture voice. “If I showed up, it would be like catfishing him. And I can’t—youcan’t—do that to him. Plus, I really think you’re going to like him.”

“I don’t know...”

“If you don’t like him, you won’t have to see him again. But you have to go on this date.”

Hannah sighs again, this time in defeat. I know she wouldn’t do something to purposefully hurt someone’s feelings. Adam’s or mine.

“What are we doing on this date?” she asks, and I relax a little, knowing I won.

I tell her that Adam and I planned the evening together—they’re going to meet after work at my favorite coffee shop, and then walk to the Southport Art Festival. It’s got all the ingredients for romance: a moonlit stroll, admiring local art—maybe trying on some jewelry as cover bands serenade them with love songs from the eighties and nineties. And then, when they get married, the same band can play the reception. Their love story is practically writing itself. As long as Hannah doesn’t screw this up.

“Promise me you’ll read the email,” I say, finishing. “You don’t have to memorize it all, just the sections I bolded.”

My phone buzzes, and I look down, surprised to see Adam’s name on the screen.

“It’s him, isn’t it?” Hannah says.

I look up, trying to wipe the smile off my face. “No,” I lie.

“Your cheeks are getting all splotchy and your ears are red,” my sister says.

“The zoodles are spicy,” I tell her. “I used sriracha.”

“Just admit you like the guy.”

“Thanks for doing the dishes,” I say, ignoring both her accusation and the truth behind it.

“Libby,” she says, a playful warning tone to her voice. But I can’t tell her that yes, of course, I would love to go on this date with Adam. But Hannah’s pictures are what he swiped right on—and while he clearly likes my personality, physical compatibility matters.

“We’re not done talking about this,” Hannah says.

“Good night, seester,” I say, heading back to my room.

“It’s not even nine o’clock!” she calls after me.

I close the door and try not to think about the metaphorical one that’s about to shut forever. This is the last night I’ll be able to talk to Adam. I already miss him—which I know is ridiculous.

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