I didn't recognize her at first.
The car door opened, and there she was — Aria — standing in the dusty driveway with the late summer sun spilling over her shoulders. For a second, I forgot how to breathe.
She had been gone three years, living with her parents on the coast while her father worked. I had almost convinced myself that the feelings I'd had for her as a teenager — the quiet glances, the rush in my chest whenever she laughed — had been some foolish phase. But the way my stomach twisted when her eyes found mine told me I had only been lying to myself.
She smiled. "Hey, stranger."
It should have been easy. She was my cousin. We were family. I should have hugged her like everyone else did, said something casual about how tall she'd gotten or how much we all missed her. Instead, I froze for a beat too long before stepping forward, forcing myself to keep my voice even.
"Hey, Aria."
That night, everyone crowded into the kitchen for dinner, voices overlapping, the room loud with the comfort of family. I sat across from her at the table, pretending to focus on my plate while watching her laugh with my sister. Every time she tucked her hair behind her ear, I caught myself staring.
After dinner, we slipped outside, just the two of us. The air was warm, cicadas buzzing from the trees.
"So," she said, leaning against the porch railing, "are you going to pretend we're strangers all summer?"
I smirked, trying to hide the knot forming in my chest. "Depends. Are you planning on sticking around long enough to make it worth it?"
She rolled her eyes but smiled, and for a moment it was like no time had passed — like we were kids again, sneaking out after curfew, daring each other to jump from the hayloft.
But when her shoulder brushed mine, it didn't feel like being kids again at all.
Something shifted in the air.
She didn't move away.
And that was when I realized this summer was going to be harder than I thought.