Ten Trends to Seduce Your Bestfriend

Byron absconded to New York the very next day, sending me a text message while I shoveled a lunch of leftover salmon and quinoa into my hungry mouth.

Byron: I’m going to New York a few weeks early, boarding now. See you in July

On a whim, I’d made the salmon for myself last night after Byron had turned down my offer to cook for him. I didn’t want to push, so I’d left him alone at his house after our conversation in his bedroom. I guess now I knew why he didn’t want to have dinner with me, he’d been arranging travel. EXTREMELY SAD FACE.

Upon initially reading his message, I couldn’t decide how I felt. The planned trip to New York was just under four weeks away, which meant I wouldn’t see him or talk to him in person for four weeks . . .?! I made a sound of distress, my lungs constricting.

But at the same time, if he needed to leave, then weren’t these feelings of distress selfish?

Several follow-up texts arrived in rapid succession, interrupting my conflicting thoughts.

Byron: Text or call anytime while I’m gone

Byron: Also send pictures

Byron: Let me know how the interview goes

Byron: Or if you need anything

Byron: I’ll miss you

Ah . . . Okay.

My confusion dissipated and my sorrow was cut in half. Now I understood. He felt overwhelmed and needed space but didn’t want all the space. Got it.

I supposed I was beginning to understand Byron-speak, which I further supposed made me a Byron-whisperer. If I wanted a future with him, I’d have to learn how to walk this tightrope.

Staring at the last few texts, I bit my thumbnail. It was also possible he believed leaving would benefit me in some way. Maybe he thought my feelings weren’t lasting and would fade in four weeks, or that I’d forget all he’d confessed while drunk and while sober.

I shook my head, frowning. My lunch forgotten for now, I debated how to respond to set the tone for these next few weeks. I wanted to let him know I understood and respected his need for space, that I was in this for the long haul, and four weeks apart wouldn’t make a difference to my feelings. And I didn’t want to pressure him or push him outside of his comfort zone.

No! ASK HIM TO STAY!

I shook my head at the selfish thought, reprimanding myself. If he needed physical distance, I didn’t want to encroach on that.

But my attention snagged on his request, “Also send pictures,” and I blinked, a glorious and wicked idea hitting me upside the head. I sat up straight.

Should I?

Nibbling my bottom lip, I considered the merits and the wisdom of this glorious, wicked idea. I trusted Byron completely, so the danger of him sharing photos with others was a nonissue. He’d asked me to send pictures, so I wouldn’t be swerving outside implicit or explicit boundaries. And friends sent each other pictures all the time.

That said, these pictures wouldn’t necessarily be friend appropriate. Then again, I’d sent photos of me in a bathing suit to Amelia and Lauren before, asking their opinion on the fit, and this wouldn’t be all that different. Friends did those kinds of things . . .

Am I really going to do this?

I slipped off the stool, marching to my bedroom before bravery could fail me, sending two quick texts on my way.

Winnie: I will miss you too. But if you need to go, I understand. Interview isn’t until later in July, so you should be home for that

Winnie: Also, first picture incoming. I need your advice

Even though Amelia wasn’t yet home from her weekend with Elijah, I shut the door to my bedroom, stripped, and quickly dressed in a matching red lace bra and panty set. Then I snapped several selfies, trying my best not to crack up at my imagination’s depiction of Byron’s reaction when he received them.

Picking the most flattering of the shots, I added it to our text message exchange, and then—taking a deep breath—I sent it.

No going back now.

Hurriedly, I typed out another message.

Winnie: So, friend, before you go, your opinion is needed. This is for the Jupiter Awards (under the dress). Do you like?

I tossed my phone to my bed like a hot potato and covered my face. I’d never done anything like this before and now I felt scorching and sweaty with uncertainty, but I refused to regret it. Worst-case scenario, I’d just made a fool of myself and he didn’t want those kinds of pictures from me. If that were the case, I felt certain he’d say so. And then we’d both have four weeks of distance and space before seeing each other again, which should ease the sting of embarrassment on my side.

But I truly did not believe that would happen. Byron would be thousands of miles away. He’d have all the physical distance he needed. And even if it was selfish of me, I needed him to know I was committed and my feelings were lasting. This—sending sexy photos—would be a good compromise.

Yes. This was a safe plan.

Surrendering to my impulsive actions, I grabbed my bathrobe, slipped it on, grabbed my phone, and returned to my half-eaten salad. Keeping one eye on the cell’s screen as I ate, my heart jumped when three dots appeared, then disappeared, then reappeared, warning me of an incoming message from Byron.

Eventually, after what felt like hours, though it couldn’t have been more than five minutes, he responded.

Byron: I like.

The lovely swirl in my stomach sent heat to my cheeks, and I laughed my relief. And then I sighed.

Yeah . . . This was a good compromise. And this was going to be fun.

I scrolled back up to the photo I sent, smiling at my sultry expression paired with the sexy lingerie I wore. But then a seed of doubt had me squirming in my seat. I quickly texted him back.

Winnie: In all seriousness, if I send you something and you don’t like it, or if you feel like I’m pushing, please let me know

I’d just turned off the screen when a chime announced his response.

Byron: You don’t ever need to worry about that

Byron: You know how much I enjoy offering my opinions

The reply made me unaccountably hot and breathless, but the sound of keys in the front door ripped my attention away from obsessing about his answer.

“I’m home! Is everyone fully clothed?” Amelia shouted, distracting me from my mooning.

Setting my phone on the counter, I hopped up and met her at the door. “Hey! Did you have fun?”

She passed me her laundry bag. “Yes. Both the play and dinner on Friday were awesome, and Saturday was spent lazing around, doing all the laundry. How about you? Is Byron here?” Amelia craned her neck as though trying to peek around me.

“No. Byron is not here.” I carried her laundry into her room while she juggled bags filled with groceries. I called over my shoulder, “I actually just got a text from him. He’s heading to New York early.”

“What?” Her question was sharp. “When?!”

“Today.” Wandering back into the kitchen, I smiled at Amelia’s grumpy expression and grabbed the grocery bag filled with perishables.

“Ugh! He is so infuriating!” She growled this at the ceiling.

Her overt display of frustration made me laugh, and I placed the sliced meats and cheeses in the deli drawer of the fridge.

“Why do you look so happy about it?” She inspected me. “Are you . . . glad he left?”

“Well, kinda.” I thought back to our text exchange from moments ago. The back and forth made me certain communicating via text message was likely better for a few weeks, given the nature of our conversation yesterday and Byron’s difficulty with sudden changes. And feelings. And trust.

I needed to be careful with him.

The written word was explicitly voluntary in a way face-to-face exchanges were not. Text messages required consent of both the sender and the receiver. With face-to-face, the person who talks has all the power, and the listener gives, at best, only implicit consent.

Byron never had to see my messages if he didn’t wish to. He could block my number or ignore me until—if or when—he was ready. Or he could just ask me to stop. It was a fail-safe way to protect him.

“You’re happy he left?” Amelia sounded disappointed and concerned. “Did you two have a fight?”

“Let me, um, tell you what happened this weekend.” I tucked my hair behind my ears and launched into the story.

While we unpacked the food, I filled her in on the events of the weekend. I told her about the leggings video and the crush kiss video too, but without including the hot and heavy details—only that he’d kissed me back without realizing the phone recorded us. I also told her how he’d left suddenly.

She shook her head, her lips pressed in a firm line. “He’s terrified of losing control, but at a certain point he’s got to realize it’s not just about him. Byron’s hard shell might protect him in the moment, but it will ultimately hurt him and others.”

I returned to my salad, planning to eat while we chatted and she fixed herself lunch. “No, let him have his hard shell if he needs it. I don’t mind.”

“But you should mind. He’s not the only one in this relationship, his boundaries and needs don’t count for more than yours. You should crack that shell! Get a sledgehammer and smash it wide open.”

I couldn’t help but laugh at Amelia’s hammer-meet-nail approach to almost everything. “Just let me finish telling you what happened.”

Her eyes widened. “There’s more?”

I nodded. Reluctantly digressing from the current subject, I filled her in on all the sordid details about Jeff and his being gross, kissing my neck and hugging me. I didn’t particularly wish to discuss it and had considered not telling Amelia at all, but I wanted to make sure I hadn’t overreacted when I slapped him.

Once she’d ascertained that I was truly okay after the encounter, she called him many colorful names. None of them were skeevy celadon or conceited chartreuse, but they amounted to basically the same thing.

We then returned to the second half of what had happened with Byron. Instead of detailing how I’d found him drunk and all the particulars of his middle-of-the-night confessions, I provided a benign summary. Byron’s privacy paramount in my mind, I told her I went over to his house without specifying when and that he’d admitted to having feelings for me without specifying he’d used the word love. As well, I explained that he was hesitant to jeopardize our friendship, which I understood.

Stabbing her newly made pasta with a fork, she grumped. “You understand? I don’t understand. There’s being cautious, there’s being risk-averse, and then there’s Byron Visser. This is a pattern with him, this self-denial. It’s like he’s so afraid of anything good, of wanting anything, hoping for anything. He sabotages it before it can start.” Amelia eyed me as she chewed. “So. What are we going to do about it?”

“Glad you asked.” I grinned, clasping my hands together. “I told him that we would remain friends—”

“What?! No!”

“—and behave as good friends do, by holding hands, giving each other kisses on the cheek, hugging, cuddling, and so forth.”

Amelia’s eyes narrowed and seemed to dance with giddy suspicion. “Oh, I get it. You’re going to seduce him.”

My expression flattened. “No. I’m not going to seduce him. I don’t want to push him—”

“No, no. Hear me out. You told Byron about your plans? Of course you did! Now he’s expecting it—which is good since he doesn’t do well with sudden change—but now that he’s expecting it, he’s also anticipating it, which means he won’t do anything to stop it. To stop it would mean a sudden change. Brilliant.”

I laughed at her sinister summary. “Not really.”

She gave me too much credit for being devious. My plan hadn’t been to trap or manipulate him into anything but rather to ease him into the idea, proceed at a pace he found comfortable. I knew he didn’t want to lose our friendship or jeopardize it. If we moved super slow, I hoped he’d trust our friendship would survive whatever came next. Or, if he wanted to pull the escape hatch and stop the deliberate march toward more than friends, we’d be going slow enough that he comfortably could.

And if he did pull the escape hatch, then I’d just have to settle for friendship and figure out how to be okay with that. Just like—if he didn’t ever want to be more than friends—he’d have to be okay with the possibility of me moving on with someone new . . . like that would be possible if Byron was still in your life.

Shoving that errant thought away, I focused on being supportive and reasonable. I would take one day at a time. What I wanted was for Byron to feel good about the direction of our relationship, not terrified that he’d lose me—

HE WILL LOSE YOU! If he doesn’t want more than friendship, there’s no way you can go back to simply friendship.

I wanted that internal voice to shut the hell up. I refused to give Byron ultimatums, I refused to be unreasonable or—

Winnie! Wake up and smell the inevitability. It is not unreasonable to tell him how you feel. You cannot remain “just friends” with Byron Visser. You can’t—

The clatter of Amelia’s fork as it hit the counter pulled me from my misbehaving thoughts, and she rubbed her hands together. “Okay, so. What’s the plan? How do we do this if he’s all the way in New York?”

“Uh, well.” I pulled back the collar of my bathrobe and showed her the strap of my red bra. “I was thinking pictures.”

Her eyes bugged out and her mouth fell open. “You sneaky genius.”

I giggled nervously. “There’s nothing unusual about sending friends pictures of outfits and asking for their opinion.”

“Nothing at all,” she said primly, barely containing her glee. “And didn’t you need a new bathing suit? I believe you were thinking about buying a string bikini, weren’t you?”

“Oh yes. You’re absolutely right.” I was not thinking about buying a string bikini, but now I was definitely going to try one on.

“We’ll need your friend Byron’s opinion on those.” Amelia put on a silly affected tone, beaming at me. “And the dress for the Jupiter Awards. He’ll need to see all the options.”

“Quite, quite,” I said with a terrible British accent, lifting my pinkie finger as I ate another forkful of salad and smiled at my friend.

Between my plans with Byron and the call I should be receiving this week from Amelia’s work, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so hopeful and excited about the future.

Amelia and I went bathing suit shopping on Wednesday. She met me at Westlake Center after work and snapped photos of me in various bikinis that I’d never, ever actually wear in public. I was a teacher, and if I was spotted on Alki Beach in a string bikini and skimpy thong by a school administrator—or worse, a parent and student—I’d have some ’splaining to do.

And I didn’t particularly like thongs. Some of my friends loved them, but they’d never felt comfortable to me. I always felt like I walked funny when wearing them—both the underwear and the bikini bottoms. But they did serve a purpose for my current, specific aims.

“Which one should I send him?” I scrolled through the most recent photos as we left the swimsuit area in search of the formal wear section.

“Why only send one? Send them all. Oh! But send only one a day, at the same time every day. Then he’ll be watching his phone like a hawk every night at 10:00 p.m. He’ll be like Pavlov’s dogs, but happier, with both saliva and a boner.”

I snort-laughed at her vulgarity and opened the messenger app to my texts with Byron. Selecting a photo of me in a truly daring red bikini that was all tiny triangles and strings, I sent it through, and then added a message.

Winnie: Shopping for bathing suits. I would love your opinion about this one, friend

Over my shoulder, Amelia guffawed after she read what I’d written, wiping her eyes as we stepped off the escalator. “I swear, my entire friendship with Byron has been leading to this moment. This is the payoff, seeing him love every minute of being tortured by you. I can’t tell you how happy this all makes me, for you both.”

“You don’t think the photos are a bit much?” I didn’t think they were, and each time I checked in with Byron about it since Sunday, he’d voiced no complaints. But I wanted Amelia’s critical, honest opinion. She’d known Byron longer than me. I’d stop if she advised me to stop.

“Are you kidding?” She wrinkled her nose. “Absolutely not! This is so good for him. He needs this. You are doing the Lord’s work here. He needs someone who is persistent and trustworthy, someone he can count on to be honest and push him outside of his comfort zone, not make excuses for him or enable him to hunker down and keep avoiding life. But also someone who will stick in there for the long haul, get creative when faced with these walls he puts up.”

Something about the way she said “stick in there for the long haul” made the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. I thought back to that night Byron dyed my hair, when he’d asked me if Amelia had ever discussed his family.

Amelia had mentioned in passing once that Byron’s mother was some sort of engineering genius, a research professor at a big East Coast university, but she’d never mentioned anything about his father or—if he had them—his siblings. Now that I thought about it, Byron never mentioned his family either, except for that one time. And how could Byron be raised in Eastern Oregon if his mother had been a professor on the East Coast?

Before I could fully formulate or order my questions, my phone buzzed, announcing a text and sending my heart to my throat.

Since the photo of me in the red bra and undies, Byron and I had been texting back and forth. Nothing scandalous, just very normal chatter between good friends. We’d even talked briefly on Monday night, a quick ten-minute phone call about how loud New York traffic was. He’d said he wanted to hear my voice. Sigh. He was so sweet.

Narrowing my eyes on my friend to let her know I wanted privacy to read Byron’s response, I peeked at his message.

Byron: More samples are needed. I require additional information before committing to an opinion on this subject. You’ll need to send supplementary data points (i.e., pictures of various alternatives) ASAP

Trying not to squeal, I quickly responded.

Winnie: Fair enough. I’ll send more data points this week.

I paused, swallowing around a bundle of nerves as I considered Amelia’s statements from a few minutes ago. I wasn’t sure I agreed with her assertion that Byron needed to be pushed out of his comfort zone. I didn’t want to push him. More like, I hoped to leave a trail of breadcrumbs for him to follow should he want to step outside of his hard shell.

Maybe he wasn’t ready to step outside his boundaries. Maybe he never would be ready. That was fine. I knew I had to protect my heart against that possibility—and I would, I would guard my heart, I would not allow myself to fall in love with him—but in an effort to provide that trail of optional breadcrumbs, I texted him again.

Winnie: Of note, I want to make sure you know that I am also here for you in a similar capacity, should you want my opinion on underwear, swimsuits, or even the sizes of hotel bath towels. But no pressure.

Grinning like a maniac—which seemed to be my baseline whenever texting with Byron these days—I lifted my gaze and found Amelia watching me, her eyes bright and her lips rolled between her teeth, clearly fighting the huge smile threatening to overpower her face.

“What?” I asked innocently.

“Nothing,” she said, her voice equally innocent. Amelia looped our arms together and added, “I was just going to say—before we were interrupted by your very important message—that although Byron has me in his life, I’m like a sister from another mister, I irritate him just as much as I make him laugh. But he adores you. He’s got banana pants for you. And he needs to know he’s someone who can be adored, and that you have kiwi pants for him.”

I cut her a sidelong look. “Kiwi pants?”

Amelia tilted her head as though considering my question. “You know what I mean. Fuzzy, juicy, fleshy, and tangy.”

I scrunched my face, huffed a laugh, and sighed. I loved Amelia. She kept me on my toes, and I could always count on her, no matter what. But her brain certainly did work in mysterious ways.

“Come on.” I tugged on her arm. “Let’s go find the dresses.”

We walked into the formal dress section of the department store just as my phone vibrated again. Amelia, content to dig through the racks, left me to check my phone without so much as a suggestive wink. Mentally preparing myself for another of his cute responses, my mouth fell open in shock, blood rushing to every sensitive part of me as I beheld his latest message.

Byron. Staring with his hooded, gorgeous eyes at the camera. A faint smirk on his face. A wee little towel wrapped around his narrow hips. And that’s it.

I was still gaping, and probably drooling, when his next text arrived.

Byron: Opinion needed. Is this towel too small?

Certain I would pass out if I didn’t remind myself to breathe, I heaved a shaky exhale and responded immediately.

Winnie: Really glad you asked. If anything, it’s too big.

I was trying not to worry.

Three weeks had passed since the Friday night Amelia had mentioned I should expect to be contacted soon about the community manager interview. I hadn’t received a call or email yet.

I’d triple checked the telephone number and email address I’d sent in with my resumé.

I’d circled back with Amelia last Friday, trying to be casual about my questions, asking if she’d heard anything about the interviews. She’d given me two thumbs up and said they were still working on scheduling everything and confirmed they would all take place after I returned from New York in mid-July, so I should relax and enjoy my summer. I tried to, but I couldn’t shake the sense something was wrong, and it was definitely affecting my mood.

So when Jeff texted me after radio silence since his morning of drunken bad decisions—

Jeff: Can we please get together for lunch? I’m really sorry about what happened. I was drunk and not acting like myself. Are you going to tell Byron?

—I did not message him back. As much as I felt bad for him about Lucy, I did not believe my stomach could handle eating food while looking at his face. I hadn’t told Byron what had happened, but not for any reason other than I simply didn’t wish to rehash it. Or think about it. Or discuss it. So I didn’t.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t doing a great job of hiding my bad mood. During my live videos—which I’d started up again once the mean comments about my Byron worthiness mostly subsided—I’d get comments asking if I was sad or if something was wrong.

Even Byron, thousands of miles away, must’ve sensed my worry. He’d started calling me almost every night. We didn’t talk about the sexy photos we’d been sending back and forth, and he never asked what was wrong, but he’d end each call with something like, “I hope you realize how extraordinary you are.”

His sweet words would bolster my mood for a bit, but then I’d crash-land back into worry within an hour, toss and turn as I tried to sleep, and fret during my early morning jogs through Volunteer Park.

For the first time since surpassing one hundred thousand followers, I worried I wouldn’t get the interview, and that made me sick to my stomach. I never should’ve taken for granted that I would. They didn’t owe me the interview or the position, and it had been silly of me to pin all my hopes on the opportunity. Not wanting to count on grants that might never materialize, I’d pushed the Parent-Teacher Organization to let me have that auction for the science fair, hadn’t I? I should’ve approached this community manager position with just as much skepticism.

Old fears resurfaced—about whether the additional content I’d been doing for my accounts had been wise, about whether the fashion, makeup, and romance challenges undermined my credibility as a scientist—and I found myself shoving them away repeatedly, making myself restless with anxiety.

Byron had helped me logic through these fears weeks ago, and I hadn’t second-guessed my decision since. Until now. Until I was three weeks past a phone call, wondering what I did wrong—if I did anything wrong—and wishing there were something I could do to end this restless, listless discontent.

What I needed to do was formulate a backup plan. Counting on one person or one solution always spelled disaster. I knew this. I could only ever count on or expect things from myself. Over the course of my life, I’d learned this lesson too many times. Relying on anyone but yourself always led to disappointment.

Which was why, on the Friday that officially marked three weeks since Amelia said I should be expecting a call—the same Friday that Byron and I had shared our first kiss—I marched myself to the downtown Seattle Library with an iced tea, opened ten tabs in my internet browser full of potential leads on similar positions, and got to work.

I applied for anything and everything remote, STEM focused, part time with flexible hours, and social media based. Several hours later, finished with my job search for now, I rolled up my sleeves and got to work emailing local businesses about donating items for my science fair auction. I’d been so mired in sadness about the community manager job, I hadn’t been as proactive with the auction as I should have been.

Starting tomorrow, I’d hit the pavement and go door to door in Downtown, First Hill, Capitol Hill, Madrona, and Montlake, asking businesses for donations. It would take me all week to cover every neighborhood, but so be it.

A new spring in my step, I decided to walk all the way home instead of taking the light rail but talked myself out of stopping into Phoenix Games to check out their new inventory. It had been well over a year since I’d bought a new board game, but I couldn’t take for granted I’d get any job I’d applied for. I couldn’t afford to waste money on something nonessential.

Instead, I contented myself with looking at the window display and blatantly ogling the box illustrations of a game called Everdell. The display version in the window had the 3-D tree. I’d been lusting after it for several months. So pretty.

“Winnie?”

My head turned at the sound of my name. I scanned the busy, sunny sidewalk and told myself for the hundredth time that I needed to buy some sunglasses. During the dark wet of winter, I always lost my drugstore sunglasses and spent the first half of summer squinting.

A woman I recognized walked toward me, her hand around a leash with an adorable-looking dog at the end of the lead.

“Oh, hey Christy. How are you?” I waved, kneeling to pet her dog as he arrived first.

Christy Burgess was my school’s drama teacher and one of the most brilliant people I’d ever met. An expert on all things Shakespeare, she usually had a colorful quote for every occasion. One time, she’d had me in stitches with a list of her favorite Shakespearean insults. In order to help pay back her student loans, her side-hustle jobs included directing performances of Shakespeare in the Park, teaching drama summer camps for the performing arts center, and running a Saturday improv class for both adults and kids. I admired her so much.

“I’m good!” She smiled broadly. “Just stopping by Mud Bay to pick up a new brush for Iago here. How are you? Are you getting a chance to relax?”

I gave Iago my ear in order to avoid getting a tongue in my mouth, laughing at his slobbery friendliness. “A little bit. I’m just about to get started on the auction for the science fair, and—”

“Oh! Congratulations on funding the science fair. I was so happy when I heard. What a relief. I was worried it’d be canceled this year, and I know how much the kids going in to eighth grade were looking forward to it.”

“Hey. Thanks.” I stood, but I kept my fingers in Iago’s fluffy mane. I’d always wanted a dog and had accepted it would be at least a decade before I’d be able to afford one. But I never passed up the chance to soak up some of their unconditional love. I also held out hope that—as a selfish upside to Amelia and Elijah eventually moving in together—I’d get to finally be a dog aunt. Amelia had always wanted a dog too. “It was a bit of a battle, talking the PTO into letting me do the auction, but it’s going to be great. In fact, I sent out a bunch of emails today to local businesses and will be going around in person tomorrow to follow up.”

Her eyebrows pulled together. “Why?”

“You know, for donations.”

She gave me a confused smile. “Winnie, you don’t need any donations. The science fair is fully funded.”

“What?” Now I gave her a confused smile.

“Yeah.”

“But how? And when?”

“Oh, sorry, sir.” Christy wrapped the leash tighter around her hand as Iago tried to get fresh with an elderly man walking by and then turned back to me. “A few weeks ago. It was a line item in the budget planning meeting for next year and was marked as being funded by an outside source. I was at the meeting to lobby for three car washes this fall instead of just two. There’s no way I can fund the sets needed with just two car washes.”

“No, no. The science fair isn’t funded. They must’ve meant it would be funded. I haven’t—”

“No. It’s fully funded for the next ten years.” She patted Iago on the head when he didn’t nosedive into the crotch of another passerby. “There was a note in the margin. I specifically remember Chen asking for clarification, and Bhavna said—oh shoot, what’d she say?” Christy covered her mouth with her fingertips, frowning at the pavement, clearly trying to remember what Bhavna, our school secretary, had said about the science fair. “Sorry.” She let her hand drop. “It was something about a private donation, or a bulk donation for the wider school auction. Something like that. Anyway, you should email Bhavna.” Her focus moved to some point behind me. “Listen, I have to go. But have a great summer, okay?”

Speechless, oscillating between hopeful confusion and pragmatic denial, I nodded and waved farewell as she and Iago continued on their way. As soon as she turned the corner, I pulled out my phone and emailed Bhavna.

Christy must’ve been mistaken. If the science fair had been funded, I would know about it.