Beach Reads Box Set

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  An odd lump of emotion forms in my throat. Ren’s saying what I’ve wondered so many times in my social life. My empathy for his confusion cuts my frustration in half.

  “I would have preferred you to say, ‘Frankie Zeferino and I are not together. We’re colleagues, and I was giving her a ride to work. That’s it.’”

  Ren stares at me for a long moment, then nods. “Okay. I’m sorry. I can go find Mitch and tell him.”

  “It’s your call. It’s your public life.”

  He narrows his eyes. “It’s your life, too, Frankie. I don’t want something being said about you that you don’t want.”

  At some point in our discussion, while trying to stay out of people’s way as they passed, I got myself rather smashed to his front. Now the hallway’s quiet, leaving only the two of us and the heat pouring off of his suit, his clean, spicy scent. Warmth runs through every part of me that’s touching him and jolts me with awareness. I take a step back.

  “It’s okay, Zenzero. Maybe…maybe you did it right. Time will tell.”

  “Either way, I’ll find Mitch. Tell him what you said.”

  I grasp his arm. “Ren, wait.”

  He really doesn’t mind that people would think we’re dating? Even when he’s saving his heart for this woman? I’m so confused. But as is always the case for me after a long day out in the overstimulating, socially draining world, I’m too tired to try to figure this out anymore. I just know that what’s done is done today, and him backtracking to find Mitch will only heighten Mitch’s suspicions. That guy’s a nosy motherfucker.

  “It’s fine,” I tell Ren, releasing his arm. “I promise. I overreacted.”

  “Okay. Tell me if you change your mind, though.” His eyes search mine as his smile returns. “You’ve got a hangry look brewing. Let’s get a burger in you.”

  I open my mouth to disagree with him, but then my stomach rumbles. “I hate when you’re right.”

  Ren laughs, and the sound follows me all the way to the restaurant.

  14

  Ren

  Playlist: “Mama, You Been on My Mind,” Jeff Buckley

  “Oh my God,” she groans. Standing in my kitchen, Frankie rips open a bag of root beer gummies and snaps apart one of the little sticky bottles with her teeth. I ordered a huge box of them after I learned they’re her weakness, figuring I’d surprise her with them at work. Seeing as they were delivered here first, that plan went south when she recognized the box. “Where did you get these?” she asks.

  “Same place as you, I’d imagine. The corporate beast that is Amazon.”

  “Third-party seller?”

  I pop one in my mouth and chew. “Yep.”

  “Extortionist, soulless bastards,” she mutters.

  My belly laugh echoes in the kitchen as I pour the kettle for two cups of tea. “Some things are worth the cost.”

  “I swear, when I’m in law school, I’m going to look into what I can do about that. It’s bullshit. I need these things. And it’s like they know. They know they can get me to pay fifteen dollars a bag.”

  Holding her tea and mine, I use my elbow to slide open the door. Pazza squeezes through the moment she can and bounds down to the sand.

  Following her, Frankie crosses the threshold next and watches her pup fly toward the ocean. Steadily, she walks toward the water, then lowers herself carefully onto the blanket I laid out, its corners tucked into the packed sand. When I catch up to her, she’s sitting with her knees drawn up, staring out at the water.

  My chest squeezes, impossibly tight. Seeing Frankie in sweats and a messy bun on her head, looking so at home here is a bittersweet moment. I want it to last, but I know soon she’ll be gone, with no guarantee that I’ll have time like this with her ever again.

  “Pazza’s in for a rude awakening,” she says, lighting up a joint and exhaling slowly, “when she’s back to living in my little bungalow, no exciting trips to Aunt Lo’s or this swanky spot.”

  I settle onto the blanket next to her, still holding our teas. “Why won’t she go to Lorena’s anymore?”

  Or spend time here?

  Because she doesn’t plan to spend time here, idiot. Pretty clear, if she’s saying that.

  Frankie gently extracts her thermos from my grip. “Well, with law school, I’ll have a better routine, no overnights or days away. No need to stay at Lo’s.” She shrugs.

  For a while, we sit in silence, staring at the ocean, watching the moon paint the water silvery white. Pazza digs in the sand, rolls and snuffles and bounds away, returning obediently when I whistle and call her back. After long, peaceful minutes, the delicate weight of Frankie’s hand jars me, pulling my attention from the shore.

  She stares at her fingers sliding over my hand. Her brow furrows, and she pulls her hand away. “Tell me about the real Ren.”

  I peer over at her. “What do you mean?”

  “The one hiding behind all that happy-go-lucky shit. The one we sort of danced around discussing after yoga.”

  I drop back onto the blanket and stare up at the stars. “Oh. That one. Well…”

  As if she read my mind, Frankie holds out the joint in front of me. I stare at it, then extract it carefully from her grip. Over half the team smokes weed, for lots of reasons—pain relief, reducing anxiety, recreation. I’ve just been so uptight since the moment I signed, I never even considered it. But the thought of being a smidge more relaxed as I talk to Frankie, less stuck in my noisy thoughts, sounds pretty appealing.

  After taking a small hit, I exhale slowly and battle the desperate need to cough.

  Frankie grins down at me. “I’ve corrupted you.”

  I laugh before it turns into a hacking cough. It doesn’t take long, under a minute maybe, before a quiet heaviness settles in my limbs. My mind is stunningly clear. “Wow. I regret not trying cannabis sooner.”

  She belly laughs and ruffles my hair. “Welcome to the dark side, Zenzero.”

  I meet her eyes and smile, searching her face. “You said you want the real Ren. Is this quid pro quo? Does this mean I know the real Frankie?”

  Her smile falters, even as her finger twines a lock of my hair around its tip, a steady, soothing motion. “Yes, I think so. More than most people do, at least.” She nudges me. “Quit deflecting.”

  Turning my head, I watch the constellations. “The real Ren is still a bit of an unsure misfit.”

  “Why?”

  I shrug and lift my hand, signaling I want another hit. “Who knows.” Carefully, I take another small drag on the joint and hand it back to her, speaking through my exhale. “I was awkward when I was younger. Then we moved when I was in high school, so I had to start all over again, trying to find a few friends. I never found my stride.”

  “Until hockey?”

  I smile up at the stars. “Yeah. I’m happy on the ice. And I actually get along with the guys. They like my weirdness. I don’t know, I feel accepted, I suppose.”

  “That’s important,” she says quietly. “I have that with Annie and Lo. I’d be miserable without them.”

  I turn my head and stare up at her. “What about your family?”

  Frankie shrugs. “Eh. I love my sister, Gabby, but she was a real asshole when we were younger. I was her baby sister having all these meltdowns and issues, and she felt ignored. We’re mostly past that, but we’re also really different people with a country between us. With Ma, I’m a walking time bomb, and every step I take is one closer to falling apart. Nonna’s cool about the arthritis, but she doesn’t get autism. I drive her nuts with my lack of a filter. I used to embarrass her at church and in her social circle. The Catholic church and I don’t get along too well, and it’s like her life.”

  “What about your dad?”

  She stares down at the sand, dragging her finger slowly across its surface. “He died when I was twelve. It’s part of why I make my mom so anxious. She never got over losing him. He was a firefighter, and when he died on the job, it just deepened her anxiety
about her family’s well-being, if that makes sense.”

  Carefully, I press my hand to hers, my knuckles sliding against hers. “I’m sorry.”

  Slowly, her fingers dance with mine. “That’s all right. I’ll always miss him, but the pain dulls after a while.” She sighs, stubs out the last of the joint, and sets it next to her tea. “So, tell me about Shakespeare Club.”

  I tip my head, confused by her changing directions. “What about it?”

  “What you like about it. Why you still participate.” She sips her tea and stares at the ocean.

  “Well, it started in high school, a couple of nerds like me who loved reading and performing these words from a time when language meant something—when you didn’t just throw words at each other, or I don’t know, maybe you did, but at least you had to get creative about it.”

  “Thus, the oaths.”

  My cheeks heat. I’m not embarrassed per se, but I wasn’t doing it with the awareness anyone was listening. “You noticed that.”

  She grins and sets down her tea. “I think my favorite to date is boil-brained codpiece.”

  “It gets the job done. I don’t like swearing at people, particularly in public. Maybe it sounds extreme, but I feel the weight of every little fan who watches me, whose parents read what I say in print. I-I guess I want to respect that. Still, at some point, you have to let off some steam, you know?”

  She nods. “Shakespeare Club keeps it fresh in your mind. Anyone I know a part of this motley crew?”

  I prop up on my elbows and take a long drink of tea, avoiding her eyes. “I can’t tell. It’s a secret.”

  When I glance up, there’s a twinkle in her eye, a small smile tugging at her lips. “And how does one gain access to this exclusive gathering?”

  “Well, first they have to be invited by a member. Then they have to recite their favorite lines of Shakespeare.”

  “Sounds kinda easy.”

  “Oh, there’s more to it. Membership is contingent upon authenticity, upon words spoken from the heart. They have to say it like they mean it, like it matters to them.”

  “Why?” Frankie asks.

  “That’s how you keep it safe. If someone were to join and bring a dismissive attitude, it would ruin everything.”

  “Well, maybe I’ll have to brush up on the Bard, then.”

  I whip my head sharply to meet her eyes. “Y-you’d want to come?”

  “Someday, maybe. Sounds like a good time. Plus, I imagine you’re very compelling, reciting Shakespeare. I have to see it.”

  My cheeks heat further. “I’m not sure about that, Frankie.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because…” Then you’d see me in all my nerdiness. My absolute oddball dorkdom. “I’m self-conscious,” I say defensively.

  She rolls her eyes. “Ren, let me tell you something. Any person who ever saw you having a fucking ball being a theater geek and gave you shit for it, they weren’t worth your time. My therapist says, show people who you really are, and you get the absolute thrill of knowing they love you for you. That’s why the friends I do have aren’t many, but they know and love the real me.”

  You know the real me, her eyes seem to say as she peers down at me.

  My banged-up shoulder twinges from leaning on my elbow, and I drop down onto the blanket, as stunned by her words as I am by the pain lancing through my body. Frankie slides her hand up my arm, to my shoulder. When she rubs it, kneading the tender spots with her fingers, a groan rumbles out of me.

  “Feel good?” she asks quietly.

  “Uh-huh.” My limbs are heavy, my thoughts calm. I feel like putty in her hands.

  “Good. Now let’s hear why you’re hiding in that nice-guy shell.”

  “I feel like I’m being interrogated.”

  She grins. “I’m taking advantage of your relaxed state. You’re so damn chipper.” Her finger pokes my cheek, where a dimple is visible when I don’t have the beard. “I need the dirt, Zenzero.”

  I give her a teasing glare that melts when she goes back to rubbing my shoulder. “The dirt is I was a late bloomer. Then when I got to college and kind of filled out, found my stride with hockey, people started treating me differently. And I didn’t know what to do with that. I was the same person I’d always been, but now that I looked a certain way and had met with some socially constructed measure of success, I was suddenly supposed to feel different?”

  Her fingers still for a moment, then gently resume. “Go on.”

  “That’s really all there is to it. I just found my place with my Shakespeare geeks, playing hockey, and I guess I’m still trying to figure out how to be me and belong to both of those worlds. This ‘nice guy front’ you speak of is what trying to hedge my bets looks like.”

  “Have you had a relationship that made you feel like you could be all of those things?”

  “No.”

  “Bad relationships?”

  “I never had a serious relationship, bad or good.”

  “Ah,” she says. “So hookups. Yeah, those are over before you even get to know each other.”

  I stare at the night sky, bracing myself for her reaction when I say it. “No hookups, either.”

  Her fingers still. She drops her hand. “Holy shit, Ren. You’re a virgin?”

  Turning, I face her. “Yes.”

  “You’re messing with me.” She smacks my chest. “This isn’t funny.”

  “Frankie, I’m not messing with you.”

  “You’re twenty-five. Smart. Handsome. Like soaked-panties, sexually deviant handsome—”

  “I’m sorry, I’m what?”

  “Just. Forget I said that.” Shaking her head, she blinks at me in disbelief. “I’m having a really hard time processing this.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “Wow.”

  I try to meet her eyes, but they dance away, to my mouth, my body, before they meet my gaze again. “You can ask me why.”

  “Why?” she yells, throwing up her hands in disbelief. “I mean, holy hell, Ren.”

  “I never wanted it with the women I met.” I shrug. “I mean my body obviously did. Plenty of times, but I just…I’d get to making out with some girl at a party, at her dorm, and yes, I learned my way around a woman’s body, but I still felt awkward. It didn’t feel right.”

  “Until the mystery lady.”

  I glance up at her and feel my heart slam against my ribs. “Until her.”

  “How is she different?” Frankie asks.

  My eyes search hers. “I’m not exactly sure. At least, I’m not sure what it was at first. Now that I know her better, I think we just connect well. Similar humor, maybe some similar soft spots. A lot of physical chemistry, at least on my side of things. And…she’s the first person who I ever felt right around. Like I’m not a walking contradiction who’ll never belong anywhere, but someone who actually makes a bit of sense. Like I don’t have to choose between these different parts of myself.”

  “She sounds like the best kind of person, then,” Frankie says quietly.

  I smile up at her and tell her the absolute truth. “She is.”

  15

  Ren

  Playlist: “Everything I Am Is Yours,” Villagers

  That talk on the beach unlocked something inside me. I’ve always been attracted to Frankie, enjoyed her humor and wisecracks, how she hides her big heart beneath that grumpy front, but up until now it was fractured in fragmented, inadequate moments of time. Now, a few unbroken days and hours with her feel like a bittersweet gift—a window into what’s possible, but still a mirage—a fantasy held just out of reach.

  Even on the road, proximity to her is a new kind of torture. One game down in Minnesota, I’ve spent forty-eight hours sharing meals with her, meetings, interviews, photos. Stealing only fleeting glances, the barest touch and conversation.

  And slowly, I’ve been unraveling.

  I steal a glance at her. Catch how her skin glows gold under the lights, and those
black dress pants hug her round backside, mold to her long legs. She’s beautifully tall. Tall enough that when I hold her close, I don’t have to bend in half or crouch down. When she kissed me on the beach, it felt like we were meant to do that. We fit. Perfectly.

  Frankie spins her cane and yell-dictates to her phone, her face painted with a persistent scowl. It makes me want to chuck her cell over my shoulder and kiss her until that wide smile and one deep dimple transform her face to pure joy.

  But I can’t. I have to watch her bullshit with the guys, get into it with Rob about The Office, trip Kris when he pranks her by pretending that he accidentally tweeted a nude selfie. Frankie isn’t mine. She’s the team’s. Or, really, we’re hers. She has all of us wrapped around her finger. Because she has our backs, keeps us in check, shows us how to handle the trolls and how not to go crazy dealing with social media.

  And she’s always there, steady and loyal. I’m going to miss spending practically every day with her once the season ends. Worse, after this season, when she’s on to law school, if she doesn’t want what I want, if there’s nowhere for us to go from here, and I have to say goodbye, I’m going to be devastated.

  Just that thought spikes my blood pressure. I glance away from her and distract myself with fixing my skate laces, ensuring they’re tied tight. Now’s not the time to get emotional and frustrated. Now’s the time to focus on the game, on the moment right in front of me.

  “Don’t worry about tomorrow. Tomorrow will worry for itself,” my dad’s always told me. But then again, he has the life he wants—a wife he loves, the brood of kids he dreamed of, a family of his own. Easy for him to say. What’s there to worry about when everything’s going your way?

  When the team coordinators round us up and send us through the tunnel, my body’s loose and warm, my shoulder wrapped for stability underneath my pads. It barely twinges with pain when I rotate my arm fully, and I haven’t had a headache in seventy-two hours. Last game, I was finally cleared to play, but Coach only let me out for half the number of shifts he normally would.