Page 26 of The Reunion

I assume she means Ford, but I can’t stop staring at Ransom. I’m not at all surprised he remembered my birthday—he always made a point to make a big deal out of it. But he remembers April, too: how, each year on the twelfth, we’d split a strawberry shake in honor of my father, who should have been celebrating another year around the sun.

“For the record, I remember your birthday, too,” Ford says, stealing a sweet potato fry from my plate. “September ninth. And Ransom’s is—”

“December eleventh,” I fill in. I never could forget, even the years when I wanted to.

“And mine?” Ford says, stealing two more fries.

“Ju… ly?” It’s a wild stab in the dark. A wrong one.

“November twenty-eighth.” Ford gives me a look of faux disappointment. “Not even close, Livvie.”

Suddenly, an all-too-familiar sound starts up from the wall just behind our booth, a subtle and rhythmic creaking not audible from anywhere but our beloved corner. Ransom and I turn to each other on instinct, wide-eyed with delight.

“Guess it’s still haunted,” Ford says, reaching for yet another of my fries.

“Would you like the rest of these?” I say, pushing my plate across the table.

For the longest time, none of us knew what to make of the creaking—until one day, Ransom accidentally walked into the single-room bathroom on the other side of the wall while it was very muchoccupied—by two people. A postage stamp–sized bathroom in a hole-in-the-wall diner hardly seemed like the ideal place to fulfill unresolved romantic tension, but I guess desperate times called for desperate measures. Long days on the lot and limited privacy meant those hookups happened way more often than you might expect.

Marjorie returns with another cookies ’n’ cream shake, sliding it over to Ransom. “Better get started on that before it melts,” she says to me, spoken like someone who’s never had to endure the joy of a wardrobe fitting where everyone has an opinion about your body.

My milkshake is beautiful and decadent, served in a tall, frosty glass with whipped cream and a fresh strawberry on top—completely Snapaday-worthy. I’ve been trying to take more opportunities to post, per Attica’s requests, so I pull out my phone and open the app.

A little notification pops up that indicates new followers, and it’s a dizzying number—six digitsof new followers since I last opened it yesterday—

“Everything okay?” Ransom asks.

“It’s… yeah.” I tilt the phone so he can see, and his eyes grow wide.

“Guess the Snapaday chat really did go well this morning,” he says. His eyes—his smile—they’re so close to me, so unexpectedly gorgeous that my breath catches. If he notices, he doesn’t show it.

I snap a quick picture of my shake—it’s definitely starting to melt—and then take a sip. It’s heaven in a cup.

“Want to give them something toreallygo crazy for?” Ransom goes on, with a mischievous grin. “Let’s do some stories. Post your shake, post one of Ford, and then let’s do one together. They’ll love it.”

He’s right—it’s exactly the sort of thing Attica would suggest. It’s also what makes me hesitant. Where’s the line between posting what’s happening in my life versus posting my life for the sake of making people talk? Like everything else that’s begun to blur lately, the boundary between what’s private and what’s not feels less clear than it always has.

I snap a photo of Ford, who’s purposefully exaggerating his look-off-into-the-distance-while-sipping-a-milkshake pose. It’s hilarious, and honestly, it’s this that decides it for me: this isn’t a date—so it’s notcrossing any romantic lines. And it’s not some manufactured publicity stunt. It’s slightly outside of my comfort zone, but it’s going to be fine. I make the rules for what I’m comfortable with, and I decide when to break them.

It’s just that I’ve never broken them before.

“Here, lean in,” Ransom says, putting his arm around me, pulling me so there’s no space between us. The warmth of him, the weight of his arm, all of it sends chills coursing down my arms. He’s so familiar, even though it’s been a million years since we’ve sat like this. Never as more than friends.

We were so close for so long, but now there are parts of him I don’t know yet. Parts of him, despite our history—despite the small voice in my head telling me it could be a mistake to let down my guard—I want to know. I lean closer, breathe him in. He smells like ginger-peanut sauce and, underneath that, fresh laundry.

I center our faces on my screen as we give our best smiles to the camera, then snap. It’s a great shot, a keeper on the first try.

“Tag me,” Ransom says. “I’ll share it, too.”

“Same,” Ford says, right before stuffing half a taco in his mouth.

My fingers fumble over the screen—why are my hands shaking? I silently count to five, calm myself. When I’m steady again, I post three quick stories, no captions, tagging them in each. It’s done.

“I should probably get going so I’m not late to my fitting,” I say, noticing both the time and a missed notification from Jimmy saying he’s waiting outside.

“Beware of Tabitha and her straight pins,” Ford says, in a considerably better mood than when he sat down. “Ask for Melody if you get your pick.”

“Noted,” I say. I take a few final sips of my shake, stopping just short of brain freeze. “Thanks for inviting me, guys, this was a blast.” I pull out my wallet, looking for some cash to leave for the bill.

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