Fifteenth Summer - By Michelle Dalton Page 0,19

make definite (okay, definite-ish) plans to put on my cutest vintage sundress and head to Dog Ear.

The next minute, I would talk myself out of it. I wondered if I’d misread what he’d said. I pictured myself showing up at Dog Ear, clutching my long to-read list like a total dork, only to have Josh be all casual and brush-offy.

Or maybe, I thought, I’d show up and he wouldn’t even be there. Then I’d have to go back. It might take multiple attempts to pin him down. The next thing you know, I’m a stalker.

The idea that it could all go well—that was the scenario I couldn’t quite envision. I knew that kind of thing happened all the time. It had been the easiest thing in the world for Emma and Ethan. But it had never happened to me, and I just couldn’t bring myself to believe that it ever would.

If I just put off going to Dog Ear, I told myself, I could delay the inevitable disappointment.

So that was how I ended up joining my family for an endless series of day trips. We went wild mushroom hunting in the Michigan woods. My parents had read about it in some foodie magazine, and they would not be deterred by the fact that choosing the wrong mushrooms could kill us all. (Somehow we survived. And the mushrooms actually weren’t bad, if you could get past the lingering taste of dirt.)

After that we spent an afternoon churning butter at a living history museum a few towns over.

We rode inner tubes down the South Branch Galien River.

We cooked massive breakfasts and elaborate dinners, each involving new and difficult recipes that my parents had squirreled away over the course of the year.

And, oh, the antiquing. I knew we’d gone overboard with that when I found myself having a serious internal debate about which kind of quilt pattern I liked best, Double Wedding Ring or Log Cabin.

But toward the end of June it all fell apart. Abbie slipped out one morning for a “quick dunk” in the lake and never came back, so I was sent to look for her.

When I got there, she was still in the water. And even though she was just bobbing around in a bikini instead of seriously training in her Speedo, I decided I’d better not disturb her. I had no choice but to flop onto the sand and start texting with Emma. I’d just happened to stash my phone in my bag on my way out the door, along with a giant tube of sunscreen, Granly’s old copy of Sense and Sensibility, and my bathing suit and cover-up.

You know, just in case.

One by one the rest of my family arrived. First came my dad with a soft cooler full of soft drinks. Then Hannah, who had a beach blanket and a mesh bag of clementines. And finally my mom, wearing her purse and a confused expression.

“But we’re going to that artists’ colony to watch them make fused glass,” she complained. She was decked out in touristy clothes: capri pants, walking sandals, floppy-brimmed hat—the works.

“That sounds fascinating,” Hannah said, shielding her eyes with her hand and squinting up at Mom. “But you know what would be an even more interesting way to spend the day?”

“What?” Mom asked.

“Lying on this beach doing absolutely nothing,” Hannah said.

Without looking up from my phone—where Emma had just finished a long, dramatic story about getting caught making out with Ethan in the parking lot of the LA Ballet—I raised my fist in silent solidarity.

“There’s not another glass demonstration until August,” my mom protested feebly. I couldn’t help but notice, though, that she kicked off her sandals as she said it.

“Maybe Hannah’s right, hon,” my dad said. “It’s been a long few weeks. It’s been a long year. Maybe it’s time for a breather. We can go see them blow glass next time.”

“Fuse glass . . . ,” my mom said. But her teacherly voice trailed off as she gazed out at the blue-green, sun-dappled lake.

She sat down gingerly on the blanket.

“Cold Fresca?” Hannah asked, digging into the cooler for my mom’s favorite drink.

Mom shrugged as she took the can and popped it open. She took a sip. It turned into a deep swig. Then she dug her toes into the sand, flopped back onto the blanket, and said to the sky, “Oh. My. Gawd.”

“See?” Hannah said to her. “Nice, huh?”

I held up my hand so Hannah could high-five me, then returned to my