I check my watch as I jog upstairs after the bell rings a second time. It’s the day after the ballet and not late, but I wasn’t expecting anyone. I open the front door and chuckle, taking in a paint-splattered Gen on our porch.
She gives me side-eye. "Can I come in?"
Stepping back, I pull a gigantic chunk of congealed paint from her ponytail as she walks by.
"Ow! What’s your problem?"
I hold up the piece of paint. "You’re covered."
Gen cringes. "I totally forgot about that. I must look like a four-year-old."
I shake my head. She looks cute, but on the other hand, it’s unusual for her to be in public looking anything less than model perfect.
She stares at me a moment. A moment too long.
I raise an eyebrow.
"Band fund-raiser," she squeaks out, turning pink. "I was helping someone
