Excerpt from The Lightness of Hands by Jeff Garvin, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

I watched Dad step off the stage and circulate among the attendees, picking cards and finding coins to their delight. Most of the guests were older, probably friends of Princess Becca's parents. The bride herself sat at a high table next to her pasty, corn-fed husband, smiling for pictures and picking at her salad. Overhead, the clouds threatened to break open, but luckily for her, they hadn't yet.

I spotted Liam near the stage, holding court with a pair of girls. I recognized the pretty blonde; she'd been one of the baseball groupies at Eastside. She took his arm and started to lead him into the house, but then he glanced up to where I stood on the balcony.

Reflexively, I shrank away from the railing—but I was pretty sure he'd caught me watching him. God, I was embarrassing. What was I doing? Liam had been nice enough to me during Damn Yankees rehearsals, but once the show was over, he'd ignored me completely. Besides, that had been a year ago. It was ancient history now.

Liam and his girls had looked like they were making plans to escape the reception. I envied them; I had never had a group of friends, or any hope of escape. I had precisely one friend, who I knew only by his avatar and his voice.

I pulled out my phone and found the Millers' Wi-Fi, thinking I should call Ripley as promised—but the network was password protected. So I sent a text instead.

Me: No Wi-Fi. :( Can you text?

I stared at the screen for two solid minutes, but Ripley didn't reply. I imagined him lying back on his bed, texting with someone else instead, some new IRL bestie at his IRL high school who not only could afford reliable internet but could actually be present in his life. I pictured her as a pretty girl, taller and more elegant than me. His very own Princess Becca. It was a ridiculous thought—Ripley wasn't like that—but the idea ricocheted around in my head anyway.

Ella, ella, eh, eh, eh ...

The chorus of "Umbrella" had resumed its loop. For the umpteenth time, I wondered: Why that song in particular? I'd been a toddler when it came out, and as far as I could remember, it didn't have any special meaning for me. Yet somehow it had burrowed itself into my brain like a Lyme-disease tick.

I was about to head back to the RV when I heard the sliding glass door open behind me. I turned. It was Liam.

He paused in the doorway, one hand in his front pocket, looking like a model from the J.Crew catalog.

"Mind if I join you?"

I pressed my lips together. Was he serious with that pose?

"It's your house," I said.

He closed the door behind him and crossed to the railing, leaving a respectful distance between us.

"It's my father's house, actually. He reminds me all the time."

"Probably beats living in an RV, though." Shut up, Ellie. Shut up.

Liam raised his eyebrows. "I don't know. You kind of live like a rock star."

"More like a senior citizen."

He laughed. It was a soft, deep sound, and it caused an unfamiliar warm sensation in my midsection.

"You look different," he said. "Your hair is longer."

"Yeah, that happens."

"Still a smart-ass, though." He laughed.

The truth was I couldn't afford to get it cut, but I wasn't going to tell him that.

Liam turned to face me, leaning his elbow against the railing. "It's good to see you again, Ellie."

I bristled when he used my name; it was such a bro technique. Use their name, make them feel special.

I turned away. "Your house is huge."

"Like I said, it's my father's. Well, technically, it belongs to his trucking company. It's a tax thing." He was quiet for a moment as he looked down at the wedding below. "He still treats her like she's five years old. Hence the backyard wedding in October." He gestured at the tents. "For favors, we're handing out umbrellas."

Excerpted from The Lightness of Hands by Tim Garvin. Copyright © 2020 by Tim Garvin. Excerpted by permission of Balzer + Bray. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.