Page 98 of What's in a Kiss?

“I like your style,” I say to Masha.

“Where’s Jake?” Eli asks.

I turn and look at theWet Dream, where the crowd on the deck is now dispersing—all except for Aurora, who stands at the railing, her arms crossed, glowering at me.

“Jake’s home,” I say. “I think.”

“Well, he can come get you,” Masha says.

This is going to be about as hard as I thought. In my arms, Gram Parsons shakes off, getting dry.

“You have a dog now,” Masha says. “There should be tougher laws on who’s allowed to own animals.”

“This is Gram Parsons,” I say, extending his paw to shake hands. “He’d love to hear about your honeymoon.”

“Ugh,” Masha says and spins away. “I told Eli this was going to happen—”

“You told Eli I was going to swim from a yacht to your rented fishing boat on the high seas off of Catalina Island?”

“I didn’t predict all the specifics,” Masha says, “but I wasn’t far off. Eli didn’t believe me. I called this as soon as I saw the Instagram pictures of the baseball game. I knew you’d use the one week I’m away, on my fucking honeymoon no less, to weasel your way onto the Yankees.”

“It was an accident—”

“How do youaccidentallyplay baseball on your enemy’s team?”

My eyes widen. “You are not my enemy.”

Masha laughs at the sky like Captain Ahab. “Since when?”

“Since we were Broken Bone Sisters.”

“Don’t you dare use that phrase.”

“Masha. Please. Let me tell you my story.”

“I know your story, Olivia. It’s inUs Weeklyevery month when I get manicures.”

“You don’t know this one,” I say. “It’s truer and crazier than anything I’ve ever said.”

We look at each other, and her eyes look so much like my favorite person’s eyes that it’s hard to watch her look at me and see nothing of our lifelong happy bond. But even this Masha used to. Once upon a time, even this Masha wasmyMasha. We were the same pair of best friends, until I left for New York andwe drifted apart and then, somehow, things between us got accusatory and defensive. But the longer we lock eyes, the closer I get to that flicker of connection, the inner flame of friendship that nothing can extinguish. Gram Parsons whines in anticipation. Masha swallows and looks at her phone.

“Five minutes. You can re-bait my hook—”

“Mash,” Eli says warily. “You sure?”

I smile and hand Masha Gram Parsons, whom she allows to lick her nose before setting him down at his favorite place near the stern. On some level, in some realm, my dog and my BBSknoweach other. And in this simple exchange I can feel it. The way, every now and then, one life echoes another, like how a melody in a guitarist’s hands was formed by fingers in another space and time.

“Where’s the bait?” I ask.

Eli unzips his Los Angeles Ballet fleece, throws it to me. “I’ll be in the cabin,” he says to Masha. “Call if you need me.”

In a Styrofoam cooler I find fresh skipjack tuna on ice. “Do you have any Party Skirts?” I ask.

“In the tacklebox,” Masha says.

I thread the pink and purple bristles through the eye cavity of the skipjack. Then I hook the dead fish through the gills. Before I cast the bait into the water, I hold it up for Masha to see.

“Just like Lea Thompson inSome Kind of Wonderful,” I say. The BBS have watched that movie sixty-seven times. Then I do my best Mary Stuart Masterson: “ ‘You break his heart, I’ll break your face.’ ”

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