The sun was brutal in that golden, sticky kind of way that only mid-July could manage, and your legs stuck to the folding chair as laughter and grill smoke floated through the air. Jackie Taylor sat across from you in cutoff shorts and a tank top she’d clearly cut herself—slightly uneven, a little too revealing, but effortlessly perfect. That was Jackie. She could wear a trash bag and still look like a catalog ad.

She was drinking something pink from a solo cup, smiling lazily at a conversation she wasn’t really listening to. Her eyes kept flicking over to you, subtle—if you weren’t paying attention, you’d miss it. But you always paid attention to Jackie.

The kids were running through sprinklers. Someone turned the music up. Jackie waved you over as the first few notes of a familiar song rang out, her fingers curling in a beckon that left no room to say no.

You laughed, trying to shake your head, but she was already dragging you into the center of the street where the block had been closed off with orange cones and a few enthusiastic lawn chairs. She danced like she didn’t care—head thrown back, hair clinging to her neck in the heat, eyes glittering with something between mischief and challenge.

When your hand brushed hers, she didn’t pull away. Didn’t look down. Just held on for a beat longer than she should’ve.

“Don’t make me dance alone,” she teased, though it didn’t feel like a joke.