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"I have to drive home later," I grumble to my sister.

She groans. "Make Max take you."

"My car's here."

She blows out a dramatic breath. "Fine. But Mabel's gonna be pissed."

"That I'm not getting drunk?"

"That you're not staying."

In perfect timing, Mrs. Joplin hands us each a white styrofoam cup full of hot liquid that instantly warms my palm as quickly as the cinnamon wafting toward me warms my senses.

Bridget and I thank her and step aside to let Johnny Noble in—the nice but spunky teenage newspaper boy we still have—to try his best at getting served underage.

"You just said Max was going back," I say, bringing my second hand up to join my other in the warmth.

"A girls' night was proposed," she says, air-quotes around the last word. She uses her Mabel voice that's too prim and proper to actually be our mother's but that she still consistently pairs with high brows and pursed lips when imitating her. "Didn't you read the emails?"

I stare at her blankly knowing that's enough of an answer.

"Well, whatever." She breaks character, sniffing at her cider. "I guess it's just me then. Great. Instead of sleeping next to my hot wife, I'll be snuggling with Mabel." Gulping from the cup too eagerly considering the steam rising from it, she winces as the hot cocktail pours down her throat. "I'm definitely gonna need a few more of these."

"Where is Zuri today, anyway?" I ask, bringing the cup to my lips and tipping it slowly. "She wasn't invited to girls' night?"

Bridget takes another—much more cautious—sip and shakes her head. "She has some big fall flower show the whole family's prepping for."

I laugh over the rim of my drink. "I still can't believe your in-laws own a flower farm."

"Pretty cool, huh?"

"Oh, very. But you hate plants, so the irony's hysterical."

"What?" she shoots back. "I do not hate plants."

"Sam said you used to trample through our garden yelling 'Die!' and 'Walk the plank you wenchy weeds!' Mom thought there was a groundhog out to get her and her Zinnias for years."

Bridget snorts as she attempts to take another sip, cider sloshing in her cup and nearly coming out her nose. "I was a kid—and in my pirate phase, clearly. It was fun. And driving her crazy was a bonus."

"Uh huh," I say, unconvinced. "And you've had poison ivy how many times?"

Her eyes narrow. "Like four. But again, I was young—adventureous."

I lower my cup away from my mouth. "You got it as a senior in college on like half your body."

"Only my legs," she spits back, her voice louder than she expected. She looks around the square to see if anyone but us noticed, then cranks the volume down. "Maybe an elbow. Let's not be so dramatic."

I huff out a laugh, the tartness from the apples still fresh on my tongue. "My point is, you sure have a rough history with gardens to be married to someone who clearly adores them."

"Well, I adore Zuri," she says, her tone matter-of-fact. "Sometimes history doesn't matter as much as you'd think."

She means it snarky—your typical sister comeback—but the words hit me like a much-needed revelation.

Jace and I are together again for the next three weeks.

Well…together may be a strong word considering the stadium conversation consisted of us doing nothing more than agreeing to savor the time we have while we still have it.

But we won't be actively avoiding each other or volleying friendly banter back and forth that's actually more painful than anything.