“You look—”
“Beautiful?” I finish.
She gives me a sideways glance and steps closer.
“Handsome, I was going to say.” She does the mom thing, pulling on my collar that does not need her touch, but I let her have her way. She hands me a small box with a pink flower inside.
“Corsage,” she explains.
“Ah, right,” I say. “It goes well with the baby blue. At this point, I look like a gender reveal party.”
My mom lightly slaps the top of my hand.
“The flower is for her, Jonah. You get this handkerchief,” she says, tucking a silk square into my pocket. I catch the dark blue initials stitched on the corner and move my gaze to her eyes, waiting for her to finish making the fold perfect. She nods to my unvoiced question, and I touch the tips of my fingers to the embossed R and W stitched on the silk. This was my dad’s.
The doorbell rings and a new wave of adrenaline spills down my spine. Nothing about this thrown-together gala is traditional. For example, if this were four months from now and Eleanor were not leaving for Texas, I would be backing out of my driveway and pulling into hers to pick her up for steak or lobster followed by some really bad dancing with an overpriced DJ in our high school gym.
But that’s not the prom I’m getting. And neither is she.
I ball my fists at my sides while Grandpa goes to open the door, welcoming Gemma inside. She’s still wearing her jeans and sweatshirt, which means Jake wasn’t kidding when he said this special night is solely for me and Elle.
What felt weird a second ago stops the instant Eleanor Trombley steps through my door. Her black gown drapes to the floor and fits every curve of her body as if it were tailor-made for her. A slit cuts up the side, making it more than just possible for her to walk—it also shows off her long muscular leg every other step. Silver shoes with crystals shine on her feet and lift her a good four inches, making her exactly my height. Even though in terms of attractiveness in this room, she blows me out of the water, she still blushes and looks down while biting her lip when my eyes adore every inch of her face.
“Holy wow,” I utter, fumbling my way through holding out her corsage and stretching the band for her wrist.
My mom is serenading us with her fake camera sounds, capturing every embarrassing and wonderful moment, and I already intend to use my newfound video skills to compile it all for the first email to Eleanor when she leaves.
Tomorrow.
She leaves . . . tomorrow.
I shake off the sadness and focus on the now. Eleanor lifts her wrist and smells the flower, touching the soft petals to her nose.
“My mom helped with that part. I don’t really know what I’m doing,” I stammer. Even if everyone weren’t staring at us, I’m pretty sure I would be babbling like an idiot. I’m wearing a seventies leisure suit and I’m being paired with a supermodel.
“I love it. Thank you,” she says to me, then looks over her shoulder to my mom, who the words are really meant for.
I take advantage of the twist in her neck to admire the way her hair is pinned up on top of her head, thin curls falling around her face and along her back. This must be the magic Jake spoke of in terms of Gemma’s talent. She catches me admiring her when she turns back and our eyes meet.
“Do I look okay?” she asks.
I guffaw because damn, if that’s not fishing.
“Uh, yeah. You—” I straighten my shoulders and clear my throat, glancing down to gain more composure before meeting her eyes again. “Elle, you look beautiful.”
“Beautiful,” she repeats that last word, lips closing in a deep red, satisfied smile.
I hold out my arm for her to take as everyone parts, giving us room to walk back out the door. “Shall we?” I ask. “I’m sure your parents want photos, too.”
“They do,” she confirms.
For the next several minutes, life goes slow. It’s like a little gift for the two of us as her mom fusses over how cute we are, and her dad gets misty-eyed over his little girl. We take care to pose for a few shots with Addy’s picture, too. Her spirit is everywhere and in everything, always. A new house won’t change that, but the feel of her with us isn’t what they’re running from. They’re just bringing the good parts along for the ride.
Somehow, in the middle of all this chaos with moving boxes and the business of getting two people ready for a formal dance just for them, Gemma managed to transform my garage into something damn near enchanted. Grandpa raises the door while Eleanor and I cross the street, and the space is filled with silver balloons and lights and a punch bowl that I’m pretty sure they put there for me.
Eleanor giggles nervously at my side, burying her face against my shoulder as our family and friends all look on while we step into our own private milestone backdrop. “I can’t believe you guys did all of this,” she says.
I spin her to face me and lift her chin with my fingertips. I hold her gaze for a long, quiet moment, enjoying the tension. “They did it all for you. Because you deserve the most amazing prom ever, even in December,” I say.
My mom takes the thin silk wrap that Eleanor has been wearing over her shoulders, and I hold up one hand and rest the other on her hip, electricity popping with every brush and touch of skin to skin. The music fills the garage and I begin to sway her around the room with everyone still watching. It’s her favorite song, which I hoped it would be. Behind her, flurries dance in the night sky, landing on the driveway
