Wrong, was all Lilly could think as she blazed down the shoreline saturated in whatever drink Miley had been casually sipping on at Rico's. It was cold and sticky and served as a competent adhesive for every minute sand particle the frolicsome wind happened to heave in her general direction. She booted shells and soft-edged stones out of her way, then a wayward volleyball, and even someone's misplaced shoe.

"Hey!" yelled an untidy tan boy as he tumbled after the sneaker.

Lilly roved on unapologetically, cursing the stupid boy, and the stupid sun, and the stupid beach, and Rico's stupid fruit drinks, and most of all, stupid, stupid Miley. Said brunette was trailing behind her, bug-eye sunglasses pushed up over her forehead and flats loosely clutched in one hand. "Lilly," she called out. "Lilly!"

Lilly entertained the notion behind Miley's sudden interest in stopping her. Was the other girl feeling remorseful? The thought of being on the receiving end of an apology—any apology at this point—made her guts twist with anticipation, and a premature grin spliced her face wide-open. She allowed Miley to sidle alongside her and held her breath expectantly.

"Aren't you going to buy me another drink?"

Those were the 8 words that sent Lilly Truscott spiraling over the threading threshold of sanity. She turned to Miley, face the color of pomegranate pulp, and shoved the girl into the wafting and waning tide, past the salty spume and lone bushel of slimy seaweed. Miley let out a formidable shriek as she plopped into the water with enough force to embed each finger in the sand. Her knees sunk as she tried to scramble upward, but Lilly only pushed her down a second time. It became an indiscernible game of sorts with Miley struggling for footing and Lilly daunting every attempt.

It wasn't until the brunette spotted her pretty little flats floating out to sea like ornate driftwood that she looped her arms around Lilly's leg and wrenched the girl downward. Some of the smoothie Miley had spattered across her impromptu Lilly-shaped canvas washed away, along with any of the girls' winded restraint or thinning composure. They went at each other, tumbling and heaving, jerking and pinning, until a swarm of spectators packed around them, and an uneasy lifeguard pushed through, heralding his whistle. The blonde teenager quickly abandoned the futile tool and with a sour frown tugging at his face, dutifully resigned himself to watching.

At the mention of a cat fight, Jackson scrambled away from his post and barreled through the wall of bodies. Rico kept behind him, snaking through the pathway. You could hear the mechanical ca-chings sprouting up behind his eyes as he surveyed the scene. "Get me my camera," he ordered, digging his spindly elbow into Jackson's gut. "This would make a great human interest piece!"

Jackson squinted at the girls. They were moving so quickly it was hard to put his finger on their familiarity. "Sweet nibblets," he groaned, dashing forward to pry Miley's wriggling form off of Lilly. "Miley," he yelled, "Miley, calm down!"

"My shoes," she growled, kicking and thrashing.

"It's alright," he cooed. "We'll get you new ones. Just relax, little sis."

The crowd was thinning, losing any post-climatic interest. Lilly scrambled onto her feet, swiping salty hair off her face as she glowered at Miley. "I hate you," she hissed, and she'd never meant it more.

Miley inwardly winced. Visibly, she was cold, unaffected. Didn't blink twice when Lilly twisted her back around or whine as her retreating figure dotted out of view. Jackson slackened his hold on his little sister. "Miles, are you alright?"

The tears came all at once and Miley buried her face in her brother's chest. Jackson stiffened, but quickly sympathized with the girl, doing something he hadn't done since Miley was 8 years old, held her. "Shh, it's okay, Miles. Everything's gonna be fine, don't you cry," he whispered, patting her trembling back.

He drove her home and made her hot chocolate as she changed into her rainy day pajamas. He set her mug on the coffee table and gently plopped down beside her. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, voice smooth and delicate.

Miley tugged her arms tighter around her chest. She stared at the coffee table, counted grains of wood until she ran out of numbers to assign, and wiped at her glistening eyes. "I love her, Jackson," she whispered so softly she wasn't sure if she'd said it out loud or in her head.

"I know," he smiled and they shared a short lighthearted laugh.

She leaned her head on his shoulder and confessed, "I think I really screwed things up this time."

"Maybe," he said, lifting his mug. The candidness stung, but Miley figured she deserved it. She wiped at her eyes again and frowned as he took a long sip of cocoa and dabbed at his whipped cream moustache.

He roped her in closer. "But," he sighed, "There's no doubt in my mind that Lilly loves you just as much as you love her."

"Really?" She sniffled.

"Oh, yeah. I reckon anyone that can put up with you 7 days a week even though they really don't have to has got to love you something fierce."

Miley slapped his arm. "Thank you."

"That's what I'm here for. After all, I do love you, Miles."

"I love you, too."

"If you tell anyone I'm anything but a rotten older brother, I'll hurt you."

"Are you kidding me? If I told Daddy about this conversation, I'd lose all my credibility… Speaking of Daddy, how the heck am I going to tell him about Lilly?"

"You're on your own with that one. The love train can only go so far, Miles, I'm not David Blaine."

"Right."

"I can tell you this much, Daddy loves you. He'd love you if you were purple, or had antennas coming out of your head, he'd love you if you turned into a hamster-eating goblin or decided to quit Hannah Montana and start working at Rico's for minimum wage. He'll love you when you're ready to tell him that you like girls and happen to be in love with one. Sure, you can probably kiss sleepovers goodbye and he'll probably whip out the old shotgun and give Lilly the same talking to that he's given all your ex-boyfriends, but those are small prices to pay."

"You seriously have to stop coming up with this sensitive Hallmark-y crap, Jackson. I don't think I can afford to cry anymore."

"I don't know how I'm still doing it. I guess when it rains, it pours, huh?"

"Ugh. I'm leaving before you start with the idioms again."

"But I'm on a roll, baby!"

Miley laughed to herself as she sprinted up the stairs. Jackson was a goof and had a knack for screwing up the most stupid-proof of situations, but sometimes when the weather was right and the sun was perfectly aligned with the rest of the cosmos he sure knew just what to say to make a little sister feel better. Heck, maybe it was the power of her rainy day pajamas. Mr. Stewart had told her the pajamas were crafted out of handpicked fibers from the Good Luck Tree and threaded together by the wisest, most revered Shaman of the Louisiana bayou—despite the 'Made in Switzerland' sticker and unmistakable feel of cotton. She smiled and thanked her rainy day pajamas anyway.

Miley stared at her cell phone as she sat on her bed, fingering the spangly doohickey dangling off the end, a present from Lilly of course. She picked at the touchpad and hesitantly dialed Lilly's number. It was the only number she had memorized and Miley rationalized that keying the whole darn thing in was more personal than stabbing at her quick dial key or highlighting Lilly's name in the call log. She also liked the speckles of time dialing bought her. Upon hitting the last digit, she sucked in a breath and jabbed at the hang-up button. She decided she needed practice saying sorry out loud so that Lilly didn't think she was being a big Fakey Fakerson, but ultimately lost her nerve again when the first ring bleated against her eardrum. She chewed on her fingernails and tossed the cell phone on the bedside table. "It's no use," she grumbled, hugging her rainy day pajamas tighter. "Oh, rainy day pajamas, I wish you could talk."

Her phone shimmied to life, blinking brightly and buzzing in a wayward stripe across the tabletop. "Lilly!" she squealed, fanning her face and wiggling against the mattress. She held her breath and answered the call, "Hello?"

"Miley?" Lilly's voice was dry as Melba toast.

"Uh, hey, um, Lilly."

"Are you trying to prank call me? Letting my cell ring once and then hanging up is not very funny, no matter how many times you do it. I counted three. Irritating? Highly, but the haha factor is just not there--"

"I'm sorry."

"What?"

"I said I'm sorry."

"Did I hear that correctly?"

"Yes! I'm sorry! I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry… I'll say it as many times as you want… I just want my best friend back."

"Miley—"

"I know I messed up big. The iceberg that sank the Titanic big. Jupiter big. Kanye West's ego big. I know all that, and I promise that I'll make all of it up to you, even if it means being your bitch until I'm 80. I miss you, Lil. I need you in my life, okay? Even if that means watching you and Lexi suck face on the weekends or eating chocolate ice cream until I puke from listening to you bitch about how much you hate it when she does something annoying until you come to realize that you actually think it's more cute than annoying because that's what best friends do, and I know you'd do the same for me--"

"Miley?"

"Huh?"

"Shut up. I'll be over in ten."