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High school seniors Cady LaBrie and Cooper Murphy have yet to set one toe out of line—they’ve never stayed out all night or snuck into a movie, never gotten drunk or gone skinny-dipping. But they have each other, forty-eight hours before graduation, and a Weekend Bucket List.
There’s a lot riding on this one weekend, especially since Cady and Cooper have yet to admit, much less resolve, their confounding feelings for one another—feelings that prove even more difficult to discern when genial high school dropout Eli Stanley joins their epic adventure. But as the trio ticks through their bucket list, the questions they face shift toward something new: Must friendship play second fiddle to romance? Or can it be the ultimate prize?
“I don’t see how adults can be so naïve? I mean, they fell for my line,” she says, finally opening her gray-blue eyes.
Cady’s right. It was almost too easy. My parents had zero problems with me “spending the weekend at Cady’s house” either.
“See, it was Tuesday night, I think, and I was scraping the last of the SpaghettiOs from my bread bowl, when—”
“Your mom put SpaghettiOs in a bread bowl?” That’s just plain wrong—a crime against bread bowls.
“She’s trying to be more creative in the kitchen so she doesn’t obsess over stuff she can’t deal with, like Bradley being in rehab. See what I’m saying?”
I don’t see shit, but still yuck.
“And we can’t all have a gourmet chef in the family. Anyway, when I asked Mom and Dad if I could stay at your house this weekend, Mom said, ‘Of course you can, dear, and thank you for never giving us one minute of trouble during your high school years, the way your brother did.’”
“Major guilt-infusion, huh?”
“Um… yeah.” Cady stuffs a final stack of fries in her mouth and then unwraps her double cheeseburger. You’ve got to respect her dedication to junk food consumption. “Mom actually got up from her seat, leaned across the table, and kissed me.”
I can’t help but imagine an orange-sauce lip print on Cady’s forehead—it’s not my fault I giggle.
“So it was as if my burden of guilt was physical as well as emotional.” She frowns. “And it’s not a laughing matter, Murphy.”
“Uh, sorry… that so sucks.” This about sums it up. I take off my glasses and rub my eyes; I’m determined to keep a straight face when I put them back on.
About the Author
Mia Kerick is the mother of four exceptional children—all named after saints—and five nonpedigreed cats—all named after the next best thing to saints, Boston Red Sox players. Her husband of twenty years has been told by many that he has the patience of Job, but don’t ask Mia about that, as it is a sensitive subject.
Mia focuses her stories on the emotional growth of troubled men and their relationships, and she believes that sex has a place in a love story, but not until it is firmly established as a love story. As a teen, Mia filled spiral-bound notebooks with romantic tales of tortured heroes (most of whom happened to strongly resemble lead vocalists of 1980s big-hair bands) and stuffed them under her mattress for safekeeping. She is thankful to Dreamspinner Press for providing her with an alternate place to stash her stories.
Mia is proud of her involvement with the Human Rights Campaign and cheers for each and every victory made in the name of marital equality. Her only major regret: never having taken typing or computer class in school, destining her to a life consumed with two-fingered pecking and constant prayer to the Gods of Technology.
Contact Mia at email@example.com.