“It’s okay!” I said. “Gretchen was, uh, imparting some of her dancing wisdom.”

“Where should I put this?” He skillfully closed the door behind him with his foot.

“In the kitchen,” I said. “Come on, I’ll, uh, help you.”

“It’s all right, I’ve got it,” he said as I trailed him down the hall to the kitchen.

I didn’t care if he had it, or not, I wanted to talk to him for a second. “So. How have you been?” I asked.

“Busy,” he said. “You know.” He carefully set the cake box on the counter, sliding it toward the wall so it couldn’t be knocked off by a small child or a dog. Or a very klutzy eighteen-year-old named Kirsten.

“Can I look at it?” I asked.

“It’s nothing special.” He shrugged. “Kids’ birthday cakes, you put a big number on them, decorate a little…”

“Did you do the decorating?” I asked.

He nodded. “Check it out after I leave,” he said.

“Why—”

I heard Brett’s shrieking before I heard his footsteps thundering down the stairs. He was chasing Bear. And my new golden dress was draped over Bear’s back, and my scarf was wrapped around his neck tightly, like a fancy collar.

Brett, of course, was wearing one of my new shoes.

“Connnnnnoooorrrrrr!” he screamed, right before he slammed into Conor’s legs.

“Hey, buddy. How’s it going?” Conor asked.

“Let’s make a snowman!” Brett cried.

“I can’t today. I don’t have time. Sorry,” Conor said.

“Please?” Brett begged.

“Brett, I have to get back to work,” Conor said. “Anyway, aren’t all your friends coming over soon? For your birthday party? That’s why I brought the cake.”

Bear was still racing around with my gown on his back. Gretchen was hopping around after him on her good leg, trying to pull it off with one of her crutches.

“Bear. Bear,” I said. “Come here. Bear!”

Conor grabbed Bear’s collar on his way back down the hall. He got Bear to stand still, and removed the dress and scarf. He held them out to me. “Yours?”

“Uh, yeah. Thanks.” I was standing there, doing nothing, completely stupefied.

“Sure. Hope it’s still wearable. Well, good luck with the dancing. Rock on.” He tipped his baseball cap to me and Gretchen, and went out the door.

“How embarrassing,” I said as I peeked out the window to watch him drive off in the bakery’s delivery van.

“Who cares? It’s only Conor.”

Only Conor.

I walked back into the kitchen and went over to investigate the birthday cake. We hadn’t had cake in the house since I got here. If Brett’s friends didn’t show up on time, there would be a piece missing.

I opened the box. To my surprise, inside were two boxes: one large, and one small. I opened the large one first. It was a large layer cake with strawberry frosting and a snowman saying, “Happy Birthday, Brett!” and a giant number 4. It was perfectly decorated.

Then I opened the small box. Inside was a chocolate cupcake, with chocolate icing, and chocolate sprinkles on top. And a note that said:

Here’s your favorite, and Brett’s favorite.

See you at the party tomorrow night?

—Conor

I smiled and felt this incredibly happy glow come to my face. He didn’t hate me anymore. He was going to the Snow Ball, without me, but he was still going. So I’d know someone else—I’d have a friend there.

Or maybe more than a friend.

I quickly grabbed the little box and took it upstairs to my room without showing Brett and Gretchen, where I could gaze at—and eat—the cupcake later, while I reread Conor’s note a few more times.

“How does the cake look?” Gretchen asked when I walked back down into the living room. She was perched on the sofa, watching a video of her wedding.

“The cake looks…wonderful,” I said. Especially the little cupcake in my favorite flavor.

As I sat down beside her on the sofa, I wondered what to do next. Should I cancel my date with Sean? Probably. But it was so last minute—that seemed mean, even if Conor had assured me that Sean would get over it.

I wasn’t sure what to do. I couldn’t talk it over with my sister. If I broke the date with Sean, nobody would be more upset about it than Gretchen. But it wasn’t as if the shoes and the dress would go to waste…though the waltz lessons definitely would.

So I’d go to the dance with Sean. I’d have as nice a time as I could, but at some point during the night, I’d have to tell him that things had changed. That we wouldn’t be going away for the weekend after all, because, as Conor pointed out, I couldn’t have it both ways. I wasn’t sure how to tell him that I might be falling for his brother. That wouldn’t go over well. But I wouldn’t be fake about things, either.

“Look at you.” She pointed to me and Jones on the TV screen. We were jumping around the dance floor, doing the mashed potato, pumping our arms up and down. “All I ask is, tomorrow night?”

“Yeah?” I asked.

“You dance a little better than you did at my wedding.”

We both laughed, and then Gretchen reached for a tissue, because she was starting to cry. “God. I haven’t been able to look at this video in a long time. It makes me sad—but it’s sort of fun, too.”

I’d hardly ever seen her cry. It was strange. She was usually so tough, acting like she didn’t care.

“I know you’re in love with Sean and everything, but promise me you won’t get married until you’re older,” Gretchen said.

“Oh, don’t worry,” I told her, dropping onto the sofa beside her. “I’m not getting married anytime soon.”

And another thing, I could have added. I’m not in love with Sean.

Chapter 18

I’d forgotten to ask Sean how we would get over to St. Paul for the Snow Ball. I could take the minivan, though I didn’t really want to drive. I wondered if Conor was going to drive the three of us again, but that would be beyond awkward. Besides, it was hard to imagine the three of us crammed into the pickup in our dressy clothes.

My hair was blown and brushed out straight, falling on my shoulders. Gretchen had helped me put some small sprinkles of ice-like glitter in my hair and on my bare shoulders. She’d also done my makeup, again, which she was getting pretty good at doing.

I shifted by the doorway in my high heels, and glanced at my watch. It was almost eight-fifteen, and Sean had said he’d pick me up at eight.

The night wasn’t exactly off to the best possible start, but oh well. “Being fashionably late—that’s something Emily Post recommends, right?” I asked Gretchen as I came back from the front hallway, where I’d been pacing.

“I don’t know. But I think anything over ten minutes is rude.” She frowned, then reached for the telephone. “I think I’ll call over there, see what happened to him—”

“No. Don’t!” I cried. “I mean, if anyone should call, it’s me, but I’m giving him five more minutes.”

“I don’t approve,” Gretchen said. “For the record. He should be here on time.”

I walked back over and peered out the window. A long, black station wagon was pulling up at the curb. It wasn’t a limo, but it was close. “Hey! That might be him,” I said. Don’t tell me he rented a car for this, I thought.