owe it to music itself, a fail like that,” Jules says.
“Yeah,” I say through a giggle. “My abuela would have been after you with her rubber sandal, asking what kind of manners your mother taught you.”
Before my mouth even closes, my words strike faces. Orion’s head drops away, nodding slowly. Remy’s whipped out his phone but it’s as upside down as Jules’s posture when I met her. The songwriter studies her lyric book again.
¿Qué hice?
My fault. I did it, but I don’t know what it is.
After what seems like centuries, Jules chimes in, “You’re from Miami, then? A few years back, my parents took me to Los Angeles in July. You know, the typical holiday. Hollywood Walk of Fame, Beverly Hills. There was a heat wave and my makeup dripped off everywhere. I was going for, you know, aloof British rocker, but it came out more like Hampshire skunk face with sweaty pits takes on West Beverly.”
I’ve only just met her, but I have a sudden urge to bake Jules-never-Juliana “thank you” cookies and “you saved my ass” pastelitos.
Remy grins; it steals his whole damn face. Orion steps closer, features starched and ironed, awkward wrinkles a memory.
I realize I’m twiddling my fingers. Actual twiddling and my words race over my own curiosity and everyone’s awkwardness. “Miami in the summer is like taking LA and dunking it into a vat of boiling tar topped with a steam sauna and hot rain. Gordon can tell you, he’s—” But Gordon has moved to the broad lip of the dormant statue fountain—probably a saint—in the center of the courtyard. Next to him, a girl who looks a couple of years younger than the rest of Orion’s friends is chatting with him. “Anyway, why do you hang out in here?”
“We all live close and the Crow grounds are off-limits except for guests,” Orion says. “Most of the year it’s too cold to hang outside at night.” He shrugs. “Winchester summer is short. We catch up here and take in our little season of agreeable weather while we get it.”
“This isn’t my usual definition of agreeable weather.” Cold-edged night wind dashes over rain-soaked pavement from an earlier downpour. Dashes over me. I can barely feel my toes.
Orion’s gaze travels up and down my outfit. “This is how Mrs. Wallace told you to pack for England?”
Grumble. “More like how I told myself to pack for England.”
“Well.” He shrugs out of a gray cable knit cardigan with a wide collar and large buttons. Off his body, it’s something a British grandpa might choose. But on Orion, it looked like it had been imagined and crafted just for him. Casual and modern and perfectly arranged about his lanky frame. He holds it out, sheepishly. “Watching you chattering your teeth and gathering goose bumps has made me even colder. So, you wearing this while you’re down here would actually benefit me as much as you.”
¡Ponte un suéter, que te vas a resfriar!
It hurts worse at night. And in the morning, when I’m blanketing dough with damp cloths to rise. And all of the time.
Still, my limbs betray me. They need more warmth than I’ve been able to give them lately. The sweater is in my outstretched arms and a smile is on Orion’s face and, Dios, the wool is so soft. At first I just drape it around my shoulders, but my arms have to tunnel deep and long, folding the long cuffs over my fingers like mittens.
“Thanks.” But we’re all looking at Jules, who’s scratching inside her book.
“Really? That inspired lines? A cardigan and a cold Floridian?” Orion says.
“Never you mind what I’m doing.” Jules writes some more. “At any rate, chivalry is far from dead.” Her entire face blinks. “Chivalry. Ha! That reminds me about Sunday.” She elbows Remy and tips her chin at Orion.
“Right,” Remy says to Orion. “My dad’s all set on that, um, thing you need for that person at your place.”
Jules smacks the heel of her hand on her forehead. “Don’t be such a twat! What’s wrong with saying Orion’s ‘entertaining’ ”—she uses actual air quotes—“a girl and Remy’s dad agreed to provide a nice meal he can warm up?”
“It’s a good second date,” Remy says. “Thoughtful. And you’ve already done the cinema.”
I thought the batter bowl incident provided a solid reference point to Orion’s blush. That was only a preview. A red fruit-punch stain, louder than Gordon’s music, spills from Orion’s cheeks to the patch of exposed chest under his collar. “Will you two