Page 110 of Just Like Home

Lucy appeared at her side, opened a different cupboard, and pulled out a tall glass vase, the perfect size, then handed it to Charlotte. “Here.”

“Thanks.”

“I don’t know,” Quinn went on. “He was unsure, I think. It seemed like it really mattered to him.”

“Well, they’re just flowers,” Charlotte said, trying to wave off the idea that it was something more.

“I don’t think that’s how he saw it,” Quinn said. “He made me put the roses back.”

Charlotte filled the vase with water, found a pair of scissors, and began cutting the stems to the perfect length. “So, he chosenotto get roses? Should I be offended?”

Quinn shrugged. “I wouldn’t be. He said he wanted something sweeter. Less pretentious.”

Verbal reactions from the peanut gallery—loud ones.

“I’m sure it was nothing,” Charlotte said, setting the vase on the counter next to the sink.

“Judging by the way you’re admiring them,” Haley said, “I’d say they’re not nothing.”

They all laughed, and Charlotte picked up a plate. “Are you sure it’s okay if I crash your girls’ night?”

Lucy bumped her with her shoulder. “Are you kidding? We’ve been waiting all night for you to get home and give us the scoop about cranky Cole Turner. You’re a part of this group now, whether you want to be or not.”

Joy rose up inside her as she piled steamed vegetables and chicken onto her plate.

So this was how it felt to have friends.

The other girls made their way back into the living room, where they piled on to the sofas and chairs and put their plates in their laps. They talked over each other, teased each other, and just generally turned the air in the little cottage into something buoyant.

Charlotte watched from her place in the kitchen, where she poured a big glass of ice water from a pitcher Lucy had set on the counter.

“Charlotte, get in here!” Lucy hollered. “We need to dish about your hot football coach.”

She set down the pitcher and picked up her plate. “He’s notmyhot football coach,” she called back.

And then, before crossing the threshold into the other room, she glanced back at the colorful spray of flowers in the vase by the sink.

And she couldn’t deny the feeling of hope that maybe one day . . . he would be.

33

The Harbor Pointe High School football team was comprised of very large, very loud, very sweet boys. And by their fourth rehearsal, it was clear that they were committed to making their number, which she’d choreographed to “Uptown Funk” by Bruno Mars, the most memorable one of the evening.

“All right,” she said now, after they’d run through what they’d learned at their previous rehearsals. “We’re going to finish this up today—are you guys even ready?”

The boys responded with cheers, and she had to wait for them to quiet down before she could speak again. She ran them through the last section slowly, answering their questions and trying not to giggle when one of them improvised. She wasn’t sure how, but they all seemed to be having fun—even her.

Teaching the tribute dances for the recital had been a surprising source of joy.

“Let’s run it!”

The boys groaned, chiming in a chorus of “We’re not ready yet!”

She held up her hand. “Look, it doesn’t have to be perfect. Just do what you can, and we’ll practice it so many times it becomes second nature.”

“Can we just watch you do it, Miss Page?” Hotchke asked, a gleam of inappropriate flirtation in his eye. “I think we’d get more out of that than tripping over our own feet.”

She shot him a look. “You want me to tell your coach you just asked me that?”

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