“You know, sometimes I wish I didn’t live on Kingston Lane,” he says softly. “You do?” I frown. “How come?” “Because then . . . we wouldn’t be friends.” My eyes search his. “And . . .” He pulls my spaghetti strap back up onto my shoulder. “And what?” I whisper. “And . . . we could have just met as strangers.” Everyone else in the street disappears as we stare at each other. “And I would have asked for your number.”
