The Rest of the Story. Sarah Dessen

I never had, though.

      “In the winters, the water was cold, and so was the house. It felt like the world had left the lake all alone, and the girl would get sad.”

      Here I always pictured the little girl in a window, peering out. I had an image for everything, like she was turning pages in a book.

      “When the weather got warm again, though, strangers and travelers came to visit from all over. And they brought boats with loud motors, and floats of many colors and shapes, and crowded the docks through the days and nights, their voices filling the air.” A pause, now, as she shifted, maybe closing her own eyes. “And on those nights, the summer nights, the little girl would sit in her yellow bedroom and look across the water and the big sky full of stars and know everything was going to be okay.”

      I could see it all, the picture so vivid in my mind I felt like I could have touched it. And I’d be getting sleepy, but never so much I couldn’t say what came next. “How did she know?”

      “Because in the summers, the world came back to the lake,” she’d reply. “And that was when it felt like home.”

       ONE

      The wedding was over. But the party had just begun.

      “It’s just so romantic,” my best friend Bridget said, picking up the little glass jar of candy from her place setting and staring at it dreamily. “Like a fairy tale.”

      “You think everything is like a fairy tale,” my other best friend Ryan told her, wincing as she reached down yet again to rub her sore feet. None of us were used to dressing up very much, especially in heels. “All those days of playing Princess when we were kids ruined you.”

      “I seem to remember someone who had a Belle fixation,” Bridget said, putting the candy down with a clank. She tucked her short, choppy dark bob behind her ears. “Back before you decided that being cynical and depressed was much cooler.”

      “I was the one who liked Belle,” I reminded her. We all had our roles: they were always bickering about our shared history, while I was the one who remembered all the details. It had been like this since we’d met on the playground in second grade. “Ryan was all about Jasmine.”

      “She’s right,” Ryan said. “And I’ll remind you again that I’m not cynical or depressed, I’m realistic. We can’t all see the world as rainbows and unicorns.”

      “I don’t even like rainbows and unicorns,” Bridget muttered. “They’re so overdone.”

      “The truth is,” Ryan continued, “even with cute candy favors, the divorce rate in this country is over fifty percent.”

      “Oh, my God. Ryan!” Bridget looked horrified. Ryan was right about one thing: she was the biggest optimist I knew. “That is a horrible thing to say at Emma’s dad’s wedding.”

      “Seriously,” I added. “Way to jinx my future. Was my past not bleak enough for you?”

      Ryan looked at me, worried. “Oh, crap. Sorry.”

      “I’m kidding,” I told her.

      “And I hate your humor,” she replied. “Have I mentioned that lately?”

      She had not. But she didn’t need to. Everyone seemed to have a problem with what I found funny. “Despite the statistics,” I said, “I really do feel Dad and Tracy will make it.”

      “She’ll always be Dr. Feldman to me,” she said, glancing over to the cake table, where the couple in question were now posing for the photographer, their hands arranged together over a knife. “I still can’t talk to her without feeling like I need to open wide.”

      “Ha,” I said, although as the kid of a dentist, I’d heard all those jokes, multiple times. What’s your dad’s favorite day of the week? TOOTHDAY! What do you call your dad’s advice? His FLOSSOPHY! Add in the fact that my dad’s name was Dr. Payne, and hilarity was always ensuing.

      “No, I’m serious,” Ryan said. “Even just now, when they came by to say hello, I was worried she’d notice I hadn’t been flossing.”

      “I think she’s got bigger things on her mind today,” I said, watching as my new stepmother laughed, brushing some frosting off my dad’s face with one hand. She looked relaxed, which was a relief after over a year of watching her juggle the details of flowers and her dress and the reception along with her own bustling practice. Even at her most stressed, though, she’d maintained the cheerful demeanor that was her signature. If my mom had been dark and tragic, Tracy was sweetness and light. And, yes, maybe flossing. But she made my dad happy, which was all that really counted to me.

      “Nana incoming,” Ryan said under her breath. Immediately, we all sat up straighter. Such was the power of my grandmother, who carried herself with such grace that you couldn’t help but try to do the same. Also, she’d tell you if you were slouching. Nicely, but she would tell you.

      “Girls, you all look so beautiful,” she said as she came sweeping up in the simple rose-colored chiffon gown that she’d custom-ordered from New York. “I just can’t get over it. Like little princesses!”

      At this, Bridget beamed. While Ryan and I had moved on, she’d never really gotten over her own years of wanting to be Cinderella. “Thank you, Mrs. Payne. The wedding is lovely.”

      “Isn’t it?” Nana looked over to the cake table, where my dad was now feeding Tracy a bite from his fork. “It all came together perfectly. I couldn’t be more thrilled for them.”

      “Me too,” I said, and at this she smiled, reaching down to touch my shoulder. When I looked up at her and our eyes met, she gave it a squeeze.

      “Are you getting excited about your cruise?” Bridget asked Nana now as the waiters began to move through the room with champagne for the toasts. “I heard you’re going to see pyramids!”

      “That’s what I’m told,” Nana replied, taking a flute from a passing tray and holding it up to the light. “And while I’m excited, I’d honestly rather be here overseeing the renovations. Travel is always good for the soul, though, isn’t it?”

      Bridget nodded, even though I knew for a fact she’d only been on one real trip, to Disney World a few years back. “Renovations are boring, though,” she said. “We did our family room last summer. It was all sawdust and noise for months.”

      “You underestimate how ready she is to turn my room into something fabulous, like a Zen garden or formal sitting room,” I said. “She’s been counting the days.”

      “Not true,” Nana said, looking at me. “You have no idea how much I will miss you.”

      Just like that, I felt a lump in my throat. I made a point of smiling at her, though, as a man in a suit passing by greeted her and she turned away to talk to him.

      There were good changes and bad ones, and I knew that the ones ahead were firmly in the former category for both Nana and myself. After the wedding, my dad, Tracy, and I would live together in a new house they’d purchased in a neighborhood walking distance to my high school. Nana would finally get her apartment back, something she said she didn’t care about one bit, but in truth I knew she wouldn’t miss the clutter and noise that came along with her son and teenage granddaughter as roommates. After my parents split and my mom first went to treatment, we needed somewhere to land, and she’d offered without a second thought. Never mind that I’d probably racked up enough of a bill in broken china and scuffed floors to cover my college tuition: Nana said she wouldn’t have it any other way. Her home was a work of art filled with works of art, each detail from the carpets to the wall hangings curated and considered. Now it featured a banged-up bike in the entryway, as well as a huge widescreen TV (Nana didn’t watch television). After a renovation that would happen while