Page 49 of Roses in Summer

“Are we going to talk about this?”

“Nope,” I answer, turning up the volume on the radio to drown out the possibility of any conversation.

19

Seraphina

“You look fine; it’s going to be great. They’ll love you. You love books. It’s a win-win,” I say to my reflection in my bedroom mirror, hoping the confident, if somewhat juvenile, pep talk works. “You have your power suit on. Nothing can go wrong in a power suit, right?”

Smoothing down the lapels of my black, seventy-five-dollar Zara suit, I wince slightly at my clothing choice. While it is my power suit—the one I wore to my graduate admissions interview—I also look like a middle-aged lawyer with the black cigarette pants, oversized jacket, and high-necked white pussy-bow blouse.

I may also look like Benjamin Franklin, and that thought has me ripping my blazer off and attacking my shirt.

“Don’t you have to leave in five minutes?” Liv’s voice slams into me from my doorway, and I sigh, my fingers working overtime to unbutton the shirt.

“Yes, but this shirt makes me look like a founding father, and I can’t show up to my interview looking like I’m about to invent a lightbulb.”

“He invented the lightning rod, but Nikola Tesla perfected it,” she muses, tilting her head as she looks at me. “And, anyway, you don’t look like a three-hundred-year-old man, so I think you’re fine.”

“It’s this shirt, Liv. It’s supposed to be a pussy bow, but it looks more like ruffles down my chest. I—”

“Are you going to start reciting the Declaration of Independence?” Bianca cuts me off, humor lacing her voice.

“I hate you. So much, I really do.”

“You don’t, but here.” She throws a shirt at my head. “Just wear a silk tank under your shirt so no one asks you to produce the Bill of Rights.”

“That was a decade after the Declaration of Independence. I’m worried you don’t know your history, B,” Liv comments.

“Stop being a know-it-all, Olivia. It’s annoying.” There’s no bite to my sister’s voice.

Finally wrestling the shirt from my body, I pick up the silk tank Bianca threw and pull it over my head before picking my blazer up from the floor and pushing my arms through. Turning back to the mirror, I survey my appearance, relieved with the results. “Okay, is that better?”

“Dr. Harrington will hire you on the spot, my friend,” Liv comments, her voice soft and emotional. She knows how much I want the graduate assistant position at the Marymount library.

The impending interview served as a distraction from thoughts of Lincoln. In the days since I saw Lincoln in Ava’s kitchen, I’ve only thought about him fifty or so times. Which, by my estimate, is significantly less than if I didn’t have my library interview as a distraction. Bianca tried to corner me and force me into a confession that I had no intent of giving, but my refusal to speak gave her no traction. I’m lucky because my sister is nothing if not persistent.

But when I’m alone, in the solitude of my bedroom, I let those thoughts flow freely. When I’m out, functioning like an adult—or trying to function—I keep those thoughts in a vault. I don’t think about his warm hand on my face. I really don’t. But sometimes, there’s a crack, a slip of a whisper of a memory or recollection that bombards me, or the curiosity of needing to know what he was going to say to me in the kitchen. Still, for the most part, I’m doing a good job of keeping him from the forefront of my mind.

Okay, a decent job.

Some may say subpar.

Just as I think to myself that I’m doing well, not thinking about him, my eyes snag on a sweatshirt folded in my closet, and I’m forced to remember the night we met.

Dante and Lincoln got out of the truck, leaving just me and Celeste inside. Confusion forces my brows to draw down as I take in the unfamiliar area. “C.” I grab her hand, stopping her mid-step. “Where are we?”

She looks over at me, squeezing my hand before extracting herself from my grip. “We’re at the guys’ house. Ava and Grey are inside.”

My eyes widen at her admission, and I whip my head back to the house, taking in the flower boxes and black shutters. “You’re telling me three guys live here?”

Nodding, she laughs at my disbelief. “I know. We were all shocked when we first came here.” Offering me a final smile, CeCe trails after Dante, yelling, “You better have food in this house, Dante. I can’t be held accountable for my actions when I’m hangry.”

I shake my head as their forms disappear through the front door. “Okay then,” I murmur, internally hyping myself to go inside.

“Hey.” Lincoln’s voice breaks through my thoughts. “Do you want to take a drive?”

“Have you been drinking?”

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