He eyes my feet. “Those aren’t exactly croquet shoes.”

Up until this moment I’ve loved these shoes—they go perfectly with my blue sundress—but I’m suddenly wishing I’d chosen something a little less girly. “Then I’ll blame them when I lose.”

Still, I slip them off and toss them beneath a garden bench. The piña colada goes beside my plate of half-eaten burger on top of the bench, and I join Reed by the croquet balls.

“Which color?” he asks, holding up a green and a yellow ball. His knuckles are flecked with a different-colored paint now. Eggshell blue.

“What if I say red?”

“Then I guess I’ll have to go wade through the creek and find the red ball.”

“You’d do that?”

He looks down toward the creek, his hair flashing gold in the sun. “You’d make me?”

I hesitate. “Yellow.”

He drops both balls at the starting post, and they make a satisfying clunk against each other. “Why’d you choose yellow?”

“I’m an artist,” I say. “Yellow is sunlight.”

“Sunlight? I don’t know. I think of lemons or butter before I think of sunlight.”

“But you’re a chef.”

“I am a chef.”

“Lemons and butter are nice but not exactly essentials. I can’t live without sunlight.”

He puts his hand over his chest. “And my chef ’s heart is breaking right now.”

I lean on my mallet, feel the head sinking into the grass under my weight, the sweet heaviness of the summer air pushing down on me.

“Who starts?” I ask.

“Ladies first.”

I line myself up and take my first shot. It doesn’t go very far. My ball only makes it halfway to the first wicket and about a foot too far to the left. “It’s because I’m barefoot. And I’ve been drinking piña coladas.”

He walks back to the bench, picks up my drink, and takes a sip. “This is virgin.”

“Shoot,” I say. “Then I guess I’m just really bad at this. Exactly like I told you I am.”

His laughter is deep and natural, not loud but melodic. I want to be closer to it. I wait by the post and watch the setting sun warm his features as he concentrates on the ball. He hits it, and it rolls through the first wicket.

“Cheater,” I mumble.

He taps the side of my calf with his mallet. “I wasn’t the one trying to distract my opponent.”

“I’m not trying to distract you.”

“You should not try a little harder then.”

Distracting. I look away, fighting the shyness suddenly warming me.

We hit the ball a few more times each. “You weren’t kidding,” he says. My ball is finally through the first thicket; his is a foot from the end post.

“About my athletic abilities? Nope. I’m not sure why you aren’t giving me the same treatment as Piper got, though.”

“You want me to let you win?”

“No. But you could at least let me think I’m catching up.”

“Sorry,” he says. “I’m not afraid of you like I’m afraid of Piper. I love her, but she’s nuts.” He hits his ball too hard, deliberately missing the post by two feet. “Better?”

“Much. So you’re painting something blue?” I ask.

He rests his mallet against his leg and holds his speckled hands out. They look calloused and rough beneath the splatter. “Yeah, I just finished the den. Moving on to the kitchen next. I should be finished with the rooms by next week, then starting outside after that.”

“At least it’s not too big,” I say, glancing back at the quaint house. It has a separate garage and a weathered fence that borders the entire property.

“Yeah, but the upkeep is still too much for her,” he says. “That’s why she’s selling it, which is why I’m painting it. I’m hoping to have it ready for her to put up for sale by the end of the summer so she can move into a place where she doesn’t have a lawn to mow or stairs to climb.”

“Sounds like a lot of work,” I say.

“I don’t mind it. I’d rather spend the summer with her than my parents, and she’s been pretty lonely these last few years. Plus I’m getting free room and board in the apartment over the garage, so I’ve got my own space and my own kitchen.”

“Where do your parents live?”

“LA.”

“Huh. You don’t sound like you’re from California.”

“I’m not. I grew up in Louisville, but my parents moved out West a few years ago. I did my last two years of high school there, then came back the second after I graduated.”

“But California’s the place everyone wants to escape to.”

“I wasn’t exactly living in Beverly Hills.”

“Oh.” I slap a mosquito off my leg.

“What about you?” he asks.

“What about me?”

“Born and raised here?”

“Yeah.”

“And your family? Any crazy sisters, neglected grandmas? Now you know all about mine.”

“Oh.” I stare hard at the mallet in my hands. “My family’s small.”

“Siblings?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“Just a mom who used to teach Victorian Lit,” he says, “and a dad who doesn’t like it when you get home too late.”

“That’s pretty much it.”

He squints at me. I know I sound dumb or aloof, but I don’t want to talk about my family.

“So, what time is officially too late tonight?”

I smile and hope it’s dark enough that he doesn’t notice. “Actually tonight they’re out with friends, so they’ll just be texting me every hour.”

He laughs. I should probably tell him I’m not kidding. Instead I say, “So we can finish our game, at least.”

“Theoretically.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, no offense, but at this rate I’m not sure your ball is ever going to make it to the post and back.”

I glare at him as I walk over to my ball, put my bare foot on top of it, roll it toward the next wicket, and push it through. “I actually do much better at this game when I’m playing in the dark.”

“I can see that.”

I nudge and roll my ball through the next few wickets with my toes, aware of Reed’s eyes on my bare legs. It’s dark enough now and we’re far enough from the lawn torches that I’m probably just a silhouette.

A high-pitched laugh floats over, and I glance at the center of the party, where people look like they’re pulsing in the moonlight. The voices are getting louder as the sky darkens and the drinks flow, but it’s the sound of orderly drunkenness. Occasional cackles and hoots are as bad as it gets—a grown-up party, as opposed to the few high school benders Mo and I have made brief appearances at. Nobody half-naked on the couch, nobody puking in the bushes.

We’re on the edge of the gathering, visibly separate. I can’t see Reed’s grandma anymore. She must’ve gone inside, and Vicky has finished with the gifts and is shouting for Soup to get her more pink lemonade.

“I’m glad you came,” Reed says. “Aside from the work people, I don’t know many of them.”

“They seem nice,” I say.

“They seem about ten years older than us.”

He has stopped playing entirely and is sitting on a large rock, leaning back on his palms, watching me cheat. It’s too dark to see much more than his eyes, but I can still feel them warming my skin.

“So, you’re a chef. What do you cook?” I ask.

“Food.”

I roll my eyes. “Really? How fascinating.”

“I’m still reeling from being told butter and lemons are nonessentials.”

“If I take it back, will you tell me what you like to cook?”

“Sure.”

“Good. I apologize to butter and lemon lovers everywhere.”

“I’ll accept your apology on their behalf.”

“So, answer my question.”

“I like to cook whatever makes people happy. For my grandma that’s hot browns, cheddar grits, and derby pie. For Soup and Vicky, ribs and chocolate anything. For Piper, mac’n’cheese.”

“What do you cook at culinary school?”

“Uh, mostly unpronounceable French sauces.”

“And what do you cook for people who don’t know what makes them happy?”

“That’s my specialty. I make them something so good they realize that’s what they’ve been wanting their whole lives. They just never knew it before.”

“Pretty sure of yourself.”

“Not really,” he says, giving his glasses a nudge and looking embarrassed. “I just love making food.”

“Okay, one more question,” I say. “When you cook for yourself, what do you make?”

He squints and I can feel his eyes evaluating me. “Something different. But I don’t believe in exotic just for the sake of exotic. It has to taste good. Have you ever had Moroccan food?”

I shake my head. “I’ve had Jordanian food a few times.”

“Oh, right. Your friend. Moroccan flavors are warm—lots of cumin and cinnamon and turmeric. And you’ve got to sit on the floor and eat it with your hands for the whole experience to be authentic. I’ll make it for you sometime, if you’ll try it.”

“I’ll try it.”

He smiles, and I feel warm and weak at the same time.

“So, what about you?” he asks.

“What about me?”

“Are you going away to college this fall or staying here?”

I turn my mallet upside down and twist it, digging a hole into the grass. I should’ve already told him I’m still in high school. I know he saw my age on my job application, and I let him assume from there. “I actually have one more year of high school.”

“Oh.”

“But then I’m going to art school in North Carolina.”

I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t, so I just roll the ball back and forth under the arch of my foot. He’s doing it right now, making the assumption people naturally make about a girl who’s a year older than her classmates and headed for art school. Dumb. It is, I think, the same assumption my parents make, though they don’t come right out and say it.

“So, tell me about your mural again,” he says.

I bend down and pick up the ball. It’s surprisingly heavy. “What have I already told you?”

“That it’s an ocean.”

“Oh. Yeah. Or it will be an ocean, but for now it’s just water and some coral. I work slowly. I want it to be exactly how I want it to be.”

“And how’s that?” he asks.

I swallow and stare up at the starlit sky. I’d have an easier time describing how stars are made. Mo suffers through my mural ramblings like they’re physically painful, reminding me regularly that he has no idea what I’m talking about. Maybe that’s why Reed’s curiosity feels so foreign and terrifying. I’m not used to genuine questions about it or having to squeeze my images into words. “Like long sheets of silk parachutes,” I try. I didn’t realize I was talking softly, but I see him lean in so I try to speak louder. My voice falters, though. “Different shades, I mean, but all twisted up together. It’s . . . it’s hard to explain. I’m not good with words.”

There is just enough silence between us to convince me I’ve made no sense, that he’s picturing some grade-school art project that looks like a SpongeBob backdrop. I shouldn’t have said anything. The idea is still too young. Before my art is done it’s just an eggshell in my open palm, so brittle that the weight of the night air could crush it. I squeeze the yellow croquet ball in my hand. It’s solid, no give at all.

“Show me,” he says.

My heartbeat throbs in the tip of each finger. Yes. No. Yes. No. I need just a few seconds to think, but my pulse is pounding reason away and I don’t know what to say. What I should say is no. I haven’t even let Mo see it yet, and the wrong reaction from Reed could make me doubt it, or hate him, or both. But then I imagine Reed in the center with me, feeling the water swirling all around us, and I know what I want. “Now?”

He glances over to where Soup is poised on a ladder, tying a pink diaper-shaped piñata to a tree. Below him Flora’s holding a Louisville Slugger bat, and some guy in a cowboy hat is blindfolding her. “I don’t think they’ll miss us.”

“Okay.”

We don’t bother telling anyone that we’re going. The piñata chaos is loud enough that we don’t have to. I scoop up my sandals, looping my fingers through the straps rather than putting them on, and down the melted piña colada.

“I’m parked over there,” I say, pointing down the street. My knees feel a little weak, but I look down and lead the way. The grass tickles, and when I feel the cool concrete under my bare feet, I stop to put my sandals on. With each step I feel a little more nervous. Why am I doing this? If he sees my mural and says something stupid, I won’t be able to like him anymore. It would be much safer to just go somewhere and make out.