“I like them,” she says suddenly.
“The potholes?”
“Your family,” she says, like that was obvious. “They’re fun.”
“They’re fun because you’re their guest,” I say, sounding grumpier than I really am. “You don’t get shouted at about cake knives and you’re not the one facing the inquisition later.”
“What inquisition?”
“Are you serious right now, Violet?”
She twists against me, her eyes looks up into mine.
“Well, the first question is going to be how come Mom had to be the one to invite her?” I say. “Next it’ll be when’s she coming again and after that so are you moving out yet and why don’t you take her somewhere nice and —”
I stop, because I almost say that the next questions are when are you getting married and what are you going to name your kids because if there’s something my brothers don’t know, it’s how to shut up sometimes.
“And none of that applies here,” she says, her voice flat, like she’s far away.
It could, I almost say. What if it did?
But then I remember last night. I remember practically begging to kiss her by the fire, holding her hand.
Not here, she said.
Because I’m only good for two things and being a boyfriend isn’t one of them, no matter how many times I ask.
“Nope,” I say. I say it like it’s a joke, my voice light against the weight in my chest.
We’re quiet for a while, the air slowly cooling around us. The trees move in the breeze, the stars wink in and out and she stays there, nestled against me, her hand in mine.
I force my mind to quiet. None of this bears thinking about it. It simply is, and that needs to be good enough.
“Tell me more constellations,” she finally says.
I shift on the roof, my arm still around her, fingers still through mine. Her hair is soft against my chin, but I don’t think about any of that.
“Why?” I ask. “So you can give them B minuses?”
“Only if they deserve it,” she says.
I sigh dramatically, for effect. Then I point at the sky and start telling Violet stories.Chapter Thirty-EightViolet“You mean turtle doves,” I say, scrolling through a seating chart. This one’s more complicated than most: color-coded by nobility rank, something I had to crash-learn in the past four days.
I swear, I don’t understand why brides want me to do their seating charts. I must have sent the princess’s people fifty emails, trying to figure out whether an English marquise was higher in rank than a Swiss baron or not.
And did you know that a marquess is actually a male title? Thank God for America, where we at least pretend that we don’t have different classes.
“No, I mean turtles,” Lydia says on the other end of the phone.
She sounds stressed.
“They’re very slow,” she goes on. “They have shells. In fact, they’re mostly hiding in their shells right now, and I have a feeling that they’re not going to suddenly take flight at the correct moment in the wedding ceremony.”
I’m still staring at the seating chart, but I’m not seeing it.
“You’re kidding,” I say.
“No!” Lydia yelps.
“We got reptiles and not birds?” I ask. I’m baffled. I have literally no idea how that sort of thing happens.
“That’s what I’m telling you,” she says.
I stand from my desk, because the seating chart is just going to have to be good enough as it is.
“I’ll be right there,” I say.* * *Five minutes later I’m standing next to Lydia, staring at several crates filled with turtles.
I’m well and truly speechless.
“What?” I ask. “How?”
She just shakes her head.
“Did you…?” I ask.
“Martin was in charge of the turtle doves,” she says. “I haven’t seen him since these showed up.”
It’s a small, cold comfort, but it’s comfort: at least he screwed up his own responsibility for once, and not mine.
In one of the crates, a turtle sticks its head out and glares at us. It’s kind of cute — about six inches in diameter, some okay colors on the shell — but then it pulls its head back in.
“All right,” I finally say. “If you figure out where to put them and how to care for turtles until someone comes and gets them, I’ll tell Montgomery and see if we can find any birds in the next —”
I check my watch.
“ —Three hours,” I finish.
“Montgomery knows,” Lydia says. “He’s the one who took Martin off.”
“Oh,” I say.
I keep my voice as neutral as I can, though on the inside I do a cartwheel.
“I hate that slimy turd,” Lydia mutters.
“Same,” I admit.* * *“Fifteen pounds of lettuce?” Zane asks. “How much lettuce is that, even?”
“I think it’s fifteen pounds,” Brandon says.
I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or not. He’s perfectly straight-faced.
“Do you have it? I’ll take any greens you have,” I say, because beggars can’t be choosers.
They look at each other, then Zane shrugs.