I just laughed when I looked at how I ended the last entry. So dramatic, Orly! I guess I just wanted to end on the high note of the evening. It’s been three nights since we went to LACMA. I’ve texted with Silviu every night since, but it hasn’t been flirty and our conversations have felt short. Like we don’t know what to say. Are we holding back? Yes. I am at least. I’m scared to push it. I wish he would. Should I worry that he isn’t? I’ve texted with Vance too. Would I say that’s been flirty? Maybe not, but it’s still been flirtier. There were heart eyes emojis and things seem to be more about us. Sigh. I don’t know. The nights just pass and I don’t know where anything is going.

  I’ll tell you what else isn’t going anywhere—that guy with the ball gripping shorts I named Slate, the one who fell in love at first sight with Rosanna when we were at the Third Street Promenade. He didn’t just slide into her DMs, he dug his grave there, messaging her nonstop, asking her out, every night. He even DM’d dick pics which I didn’t think was possible on IG. She finally had to block him. He’s probably agonizing over losing his dream girl, but little does he know, Rosanna blocking him probably saved his life.

  Where is Rosanna anyway? I know she’s in the house, but she’s supposed to be out here with me. Tonight we’re gonna sit out back with our moonflowers and watch the fireworks from here. It’s her first Fourth of July. Hisato and company are going to some warehouse rave thing, but I didn’t feel like doing that because we’d miss the fireworks being stuck inside. Rosanna said she didn’t want to miss the fireworks either.

  OMG. Rosanna just walked out here wearing a Stars and Stripes bikini. She said it’s so warm out that I should change into a bikini too even though I don’t have one that looks like the American flag. So I guess I’ll be back.

  And I’m back. I’m inside now. Fireworks are over. Except for the illegal ones still popping off so steadily it hums; they’re heard but mostly unseen. Gotta love LA.

  So Rosanna and I went out in the backyard and lay out wearing bikinis and sunglasses. My bikini being black was less patriotic, and Rosanna filled hers out much better of course, but we totally looked like we were at a resort or maybe even on a cruise ship. Oh, I forgot to mention Rosanna also wheeled a bar cart outside and parked it at the feet of our sun loungers (moon loungers?) so she could make a drink called an Americana that she researched earlier just for the holiday. Southern Comfort, grenadine, lemonade, blue cura?ao, and something else that we didn’t have. Gotta love Rosanna.

  As we reclined with our red, white, and blue cocktails, Rosanna asked, “Think any neighbors can see?”

  “Do you want them to see?”

  “No. I prefer to know about my perverts.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it. No one can see us. Yelena was very particular about her privacy. Plus, the stuff I’ve done back here.”

  “Really, Orly? Like what?”

  “I’ll tell you some other time. Believe me, it’s nothing to light fireworks over.”

  “So, when do the big fireworks start?”

  “Not sure. I don’t know if there’s a set time.”

  “There’s not a law about it?”

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  “A law?”

  “America seems to make laws for everything. I thought maybe there was a law about when the fireworks have to start.”

  “I think the laws are more about when you can’t shoot off fireworks than when you need to. But I think in some states you can shoot ‘em off whenever you want, so who knows? Let’s just drink more.” And while Rosanna was mixing another round of Americanas she told me she didn’t really think there was a law, that she was being sarcastic but it didn’t work. I apologized for not catching on. Then I said, “Fireworks are popular in Japan too. A little after we arrived, Berthold and I went to a festival with Mayuko and many of the Ketsuen. It was the first time I wore yukata.”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “It’s like a kimono, but lighter and more casual. It’s for summer. I think they’re usually made out of cotton. You would’ve liked mine that night, it was pink. Anyhow, at that festival, I learned the word for fireworks in Japanese is hanabi and that it literally means fire flowers. That night was magical and I remember thinking that I agreed with the Japanese—fire flowers better described their beauty.”

  “Sometimes your scribbles look like black fire flowers.”

  “Hmmm. I never looked at them like that. Sea urchins maybe, but, yeah, I can see it.”

  “I wonder if that’s what mine would look like. If I’d look like a black fire flower. Is there a reason you haven’t ever scribbled me, Orly?”

  “Do you want me to scribble you?”

  When I asked that, the way I asked it annoyed me with myself. It felt like a repeat of me asking her if she wanted to be seen in by neighbors in her bikini. It made me feel like I was playing a contrarian interrogator, if that makes any sense. But then my feelings shifted to a less annoyed but now gloomy state when she answered: “No. That’s not what I’m asking. I just wonder why you haven’t. You seem to have scribbled lots of the other people close to you.”

  “Oh Rosanna! Do you think I don’t feel close to you? I totally do!”

  “No. I know you do. But that’s why I was wondering.”

  “Mirela had me scribble all the Cob?lcescu Ancients to find traitors among them. I think some part of me doesn’t want to get into the habit of scribbling within the coven.”

  Rosanna said she understood as she thumbed the petal of a moonflower near her.

  “This drink is good. We should have July 4th more often.”

  The first firework whistled and exploded red and gold against the hazy yet star flecked night. Then another, bright green, crackling into a silver shower. Rosanna lifted her sunglasses and pushed them above her hairline. I set mine down. I turned my head toward Rosanna as she looked up to the celebrating sky. Her dark eyes flashing brilliant with each colorful ignition. She smiled. “They are fire flowers!” Her wide-eyed fascination stolen back from childhood.

  Rosanna turned to me. She had felt me watching her. “Look! Before they’re all gone!” she exclaimed, sounding desperate to share the heavenward spectacle with me. I looked up. I felt my own eyes alight as our fire flowers continued to burst into bloom, one after the next and sometimes many at once. But repeatedly, I diverted my eyes to her. My dear Rosanna, we’ve only just met. How long will our eternities concur? Up in that sky all that ripe color and glitter and cracking thunder sustained for so many of your held breaths brought a creeping awareness of its own end. That this dazzling bombardment, now chaotic and colossal, signals finale. And then only memory.

  What I felt about who I was with is what I’ll remember most. At that festival it had been me standing between Berthold and Mayuko. All looking up, our eyes brightened by shared wonder. This forever felt like it was starting over. If I could hold hands with that night, I would. I’d hold it in place and hold us there. I wouldn’t let go.

  Tonight will be me with Rosanna. Her first Fourth. Rosanna—momentarily childlike, joyfully captivated. Covertly, in my heart, that’s what I’ll remember—how secretly beautiful that was—watching her watching. But openly, if reminiscing aloud, especially among our friends, especially if intoxicated, I’ll scream and laugh and poke fun about that time in our bikinis.

  And FUCK. I just looked at Vance’s Instagram. He’s with Vanessa tonight. In San Francisco. A close up pic of them holding sparklers up to their smiling faces. Having their own fireworks. Giving their happy fangs. Now I’ll remember this too. How it made me feel sick. Someone I wasn’t even with.

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