Page 23 of That Time I Kissed My Brother’s Best Friend

“Mac and Daisy are going with you!” My mother pauses. Probably to turn down the Christmas music. “They’re already here, Kasey!”

“Be right there!” I blow my nose, wipe a stray mascara streak, and toss the tissue in my Nicolas Cage trashcan. Sure, I’ll paste on a smile, but my heart’s clearly not up for float judging today. In fact, I feel more like the Grinch. Or whatever you’d call someone who hates the 4thof July.

A monster.

But I can’t help it. I’m already way over celebrating Independence Day. I’ve spent twenty-three years as an independent woman. Do I really need to attend another party celebrating singleness? A nation busting out on its own?Love the one you’re with, Kasey Graham. That means you. Alone. Just you.

As soon as Ms. Witherspoon hires me, I can forget all about relationships and jump headlong into work. I’ll be the biggest success story in journalism. The youngest department head in history. Well, maybe not in history. But atThe Chroniclefor sure. Yes, once I get that call, I’ll fly back to California, back to my real life. To a job that matters. Who needs love when you have a career, right, Kasey?

“KASEY!”

“Almost ready!” I take a deep breath and slip on a pair of red suede sandals that match my bright red sundress. This dress has pockets, so it’s my favorite. Two quick spritzes of perfume. One last slick of cherry lip gloss. Fresh. Natural.

Go time.

* * *

Let the record show, I beat Beau to the docks.See, Kasey? You’re winning already.Betty Slater is already there, posted up at a folding table by the first boat slip, so Beau must be coming separately. Whatever. I don’t care. Okay. I care. A little. In fact, I feel kind of seasick looking at Mrs. Slater. So when Mac and Daisy stop to chat with her, I take advantage of the distraction to snag a judge’s clipboard from the table without having to talk to her myself.

So far so good.

I just wish my stomach wasn’t in a twist worrying that Beau might appear at any moment. It’s not realistic to think I’ll finish judging all the floats without running into him. What will he say when he sees me? And how will my body react? I’ll probably break out in hives. Or blush myself to death. Maybe I should just shove him into the water.

Did I mention the floats are actually boats, and that the parade happens in the water? Yes. The floats literally float. That’s how we do it here in Abieville. On the 4thof July, the people who aren’t boat owners line up along the shore, across the bridge, and on the beaches. Then the people whodoown boats ride around the lake, blasting patriotic music and cheering at the docks. Some Abieville boats get decked out with lights a week early. We saw those displays last night. But the real decorating—the stuff that gets judged—starts in the wee hours of the 3rd.

Why?

So the winner can be picked and ride in the first position of the water parade on the 4th. We call it the Boat Float Gloat.

And if you think there’s not much anyone can do to decorate a boat, you’d be wrong. This town goes all out. Flags and banners. Ribbons and bows. Streamers. Blow up dolls. Even stuffed animals. No joke. Mr. And Mrs. Gootch’s boat—the first one up for judging—has teddy bears dangling around the perimeter. Each bear is wearing a tiny uniform. Like old-time military stuff. An homage to Teddy Roosevelt? That’s my best guess. It’s been a long time since I took an American history class. All I know is each boat picks a theme, and this year’s craziest has to be Auntie Mae and Uncle Cubby’s.

Their boat looks like Santa’s Village, and they’ve got Elvis Presley’s “Blue Christmas”blasting over their sound system. Totally normal. Mac moseys up to their slip holding Daisy’s hand. She’s hopping along beside him, her crooked pigtails bouncing. Mac nods at our aunt and uncle’s boat. “You can’t pick theirs to win, right? That would be nepotism.”

“Maybe.” I shrug. “But it doesn’t matter. My plan is to wait to see whichever float Beau picks, then vote for a different one.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing.” I look down at Daisy. “Hey there, little cuz. Do you like lollipops? Come with me.”

Every inch of Margery and Glenn Wrightwood’s boat that isn’t under water is covered in red, white, and blue Tootsie Pops. How these boat owners manage to attach things to the sides without ruining the paint is a mystery. As we approach their boat, Daisy’s eyes bug out. Margery comes down the ramp with a basketful of donuts. She’s eyeing my judge’s clipboard, so she’s probably expecting to bribe me.

Along with getting to ride in the Boat Float Gloat position, the first place winner scores a free dinner at The Merry Cow. It’s a highly-valued prize. And I’m not one for bribery, but I do love free donuts. So I take a cruller.

“Thanks, Mrs. Wrightwood.”

“My pleasure, Kasey. Nice to see you back in town.” She turns to Daisy. “Would you like a sucker?” Mrs. Wrightwood hands Daisy a blue Tootsie Pop.

“Tell the nice lady thank you,” Mac says. But instead of speaking, Daisy bows. I’m starting to dig this little weirdo. She’sreallyfitting in here.

As I make my way along the dock, the air is thick with the smells of different sunblock. Almost every boat owner is slurping down coffee after getting up to decorate well before dawn. I stop at each float, taking detailed notes and nibbling at my cruller. When my donut-scarfing and float-judging is almost at an end, I glance up and spot Beau a few slips down.

He’s wearing red- and blue-striped swim shorts and a fitted white tank top. I can’t help noticing the stretch of muscles underneath. Not to mention the swell of bare biceps. His hair’s raked back from his bright eyes. In his hands he’s carrying a judge’s clipboard and… is that an apple fritter? Good old Margery got to him too.

Mac follows my gaze to the end of the dock. “You all right?” he asks. Instead of answering, I consider bowing. But I’m not a silent four-year-old, so that would be too weird. Even for me.

“I’m fine,” I say, widening my stance. Beau finally looks up and sees me. Ugh.As he starts strolling toward us, I remind myself I’m a strong, independent woman. Beau Slater didnotget to me last night. Nope. I don’t care about him. At all.

To make sure he knows this, when he reaches us, I frown. Extra big. ExtraI don’t care. “Apple fritter, huh,” I say. “Take bribes much, Beau?” I lick my sticky lips to get rid of any traces of glaze on my mouth.

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