Free Summer Days and Summer Nights by Stephanie Perkins

branches that spread far on either side, its trunk covered with knots.
    She jumps up onto a welcoming branch, climbs a little higher. I touch the bark and find a place where a tiny green shoot is beginning.
    â€œI have a story to tell you,” I say.
    Mimi nods.
    She reminds me of Alice in the tree, before she goes to Wonderland. I climb onto a branch and sit with my legs dangling. We could hurl ourselves into the ocean with just one push of our limbs, but it also feels safer, more peaceful, than any place has felt for a very long time.
    It feels the way I thought summer school might feel.
    â€œIt’s about me and my mom and our house.”
    â€œI want to hear it,” Mimi says.
    I feel like I do in Jessica’s office when I’m starting to tell a story and already wondering why I’m telling it. But, as Jessica always says, I have to start somewhere.
    â€œWe bought the house when I was in seventh grade,” I say. “And it was something that my mom had wanted really badly for a really long time. We lived in a fine house before that, but it wasn’t a beautiful house, and my mom wanted all of these things, like a front porch and natural light. Room for a garden and nooks and crannies. She loves nooks and crannies. I do, too.”
    Mimi smiles. “I’ll remember that.”
    â€œMy dad works a lot of weekends, so my mom and I were the ones who went to all the open houses. We looked for months for the right house, and then we found it. It had everything we wanted, and it was on a pretty street lined with oak trees, and it was just a tiny bit more than my parents had wanted to spend. They put a bid on the house, and they got it, and that’s when my mom and I really got started.”
    A breeze picks up, and I take a moment to look at the branches sway above us. I try to remember what it felt like back then, back when every day was a day I wanted to spend with my mother.
    â€œWe made plans for each room—the paint colors, the furniture arrangements. We held up all the paintings to all of the walls to find the perfect spots for each of them. We made long wish lists of things to buy. We chose wallpaper for the nooks and crannies. I got to pick the paper for under the stairs. I chose this retro pattern, dandelions against a pink background. We put a little chair and reading table there, and it was my favorite spot in the house for a long time.
    â€œWe went to thrift stores to hunt for antiques. We went to auctions to bid on more art. We went to galleries and chain stores and showrooms. I learned about colors and how to mix patterns. I learned about layering textures and caring for houseplants. Every time someone complimented my mother on the house, she said, ‘Flora and I decorated it together.’”
    Now they’re just throwing it all away. All of it. As though it never mattered. But I can’t find the words to explain what it means to me. There are tears on my face, and I didn’t even know that I was crying. The end of love. The end of love.
    Mimi slides off her branch and climbs up to mine. She takes my hands in her hands, but the gesture isn’t consoling. It’s more than that. “I remember when I first saw you,” she says. “You were this happy, confident girl. And I wished I could yank Blake’s arm away from you, put mine around you instead.”
    â€œI would have liked that.”
    â€œEven then?”
    â€œCouldn’t you tell? I feel so obvious around you. I always have.”
    â€œI knew you felt something.” She lets go of one of my hands and touches my cheek.
    I lean my face into her hand. I want her to keep it there forever.
    â€œI wanted to kiss you then, when you were happy. And I want to kiss you now, while you’re sad.”
    She just keeps looking at me, though. She doesn’t move.
    â€œI want that, too,” I say. “A lot.”
    And then we tilt our faces, lean toward each other.
    I am