“Why don’t you work at the beach? You like the beach. Maybe you’ll be inspired and invent a neo…impressionism.”
“There’s already a neo-impressionism.”
“Oh. Well then, donut impressionism. I doubt that exists.”
“Hmm.” Sure I could think up donut songs, but as for my art project? I had zero interest, or inspiration. Forget Indifference Period. I needed to name it the I Don’t Give a Crap About Art Era. Plus I didn’t like that Zac seemed to be pushing me out of town. “I’ve Lost That Donut Feeling.”
“That’s my girl.” Zac grinned. “I have complete confidence in your creativity. Go to the beach.”
I pressed my lips together. Hard. If I were a stick person sketch, I’d have a tiny straight line for a mouth. Usually, I told Zac everything. But ever since the Fiji topic surfaced, especially so close to the proximity of the Jenny topic, I felt weird. But I couldn’t tell if the weirdness I sensed was real or imagined.
“Fine. Maybe I will. You can spend your whole break with Jenny.” Why was it snarky always made it easier to say what I was thinking?
Zac slid my cup across the counter, his hand staying firmly wrapped around the rim even once it was in front of me. “What’s that supposed to mean, Grace?”
Grace. He’d called me Grace, not Pinks. Obviously, I pressed a button. For snarky inquiries, press two.
I crossed my arms in front of my chest. “Why don’t you want me to stay home? Do you want to be alone with her?”
“You’re being irrational.” Zac let go of my cup, picked up the blender container, and dropped it in the sink behind him with a clatter.
I jumped.
Zac spun around and placed both hands on the counter between us. “I know you’re disappointed about spring break, but why do I get the feeling this is really about us?”
“Because we hardly spend time together.”
“We hang out every Saturday night.”
“I know, but we don’t talk.” The whip cream on top of my frozen mocha slid sideways, then partially sunk. Neither of us said a word. I glanced out the window. I could see Piper locking the front door of Zen. I turned back to Zac.
A slow smile spread on his face. “Talk? What do you want to talk about?”
“Whatever. You know what I’m saying.” I swallowed. “I miss you.”
He cleared his throat, but I continued talking, trying not to read into the fact that he didn’t reciprocate my “I miss you” (not that I gave him time to). “I know you’re busy, but I don’t think you being busy is ever going to end.”
“What do you mean?”
“You have an internship and you’ll be gone almost the whole summer. Then your senior year will start and crazy will kick into high gear.”
“Pinks…”
“Then next thing you know, you’ll be leaving for college.”
Zac pulled the white apron over his head and stepped from behind the counter.
I froze. I wasn’t sure what he was thinking. Because a minute ago, he’d been frustrated. But instead of striding past me—in what would have been an uncharacteristic dramatic turn of events—he pulled me into a hug, his right hand sliding up my back to rest on my neck. He smelled like freshly ground coffee and cinnamon snickerdoodles, with the tiniest hint of ink on his fingers.
“I want to go hang gliding with you in Kitty Hawk and go boating at sunrise, Pinks.”
I hugged him back. Relief bounced at my heels eagerly, like a needy puppy. “Sunset cruise. Sunrise would mean getting up at four in the morning.”
His cheek felt slightly rough on my ear, but I felt the corners of his lips turn up. “Sun up or down. I want to see it with you. I’m hoping to finish before break is over, and then who knows?”
“Okay.” I shifted closer to him. “But we’re going to skip the swimming at dawn though,” I thought about what Chloe said about shark feeding times. “And sunset. We’ll stick to a boat, or the beach at those times.”
“Whatever you want, Pinks,” he whispered in my ear. “If you want to search for buried treasure, I’ll do that, too, okay?”
I tilted my head. “Buried treasure isn’t another reference to Fiji, is it?”
Zac laughed, the vibrations moving through him and into the palms of my hands. “Just so we’re clear, I’m not running you out of town so I can hook up with Jenny.”
So I can hook up with Jenny.
That was the part my brain cut and paste, ignoring the fact that Zac negated the possibility. Ugh. I felt shaky and sick to my stomach. I knew he was kidding. Well, maybe kidding with a side of annoyance, but still, I waited in my aura of dread as if the next thing Zac would say was he wanted to break up with me. I felt so stinking fragile. It was strange how easy it was to move away from happy, carefree Zac and Grace.
Zac tightened his hold on me and my dread disappeared, deflected by our strong but invisible force field. Bulletproof.
I love you, Zac.
But the sentiment stayed within the confines of my rib cage, my hard head, and for the briefest second, I calculated that it had been a while since we’d spoken those words. Then I deleted the thought. Because of course we loved each other. Whenever we were together, electricity outlined the space between us. That could only be love. We didn’t always have to say the words.
Right?
My chin pressed into Zac’s shoulder. I stared at my melting drink on the counter. I was being ridiculously insecure, but there was a part of me that labeled it as just being cautious. Because love wasn’t a sure thing. Not for Chloe, not for Zac’s parents, and not for mine either. Not so far, anyway.
I loved Zac, of that I was sure. But for how long? My heart dipped lower into the clenched spaces of my gut, because, of course, I wanted forever.
My sister, Joy, seemed to be under the influence of some dark cloud, too.
“What do you mean, why am I calling?” I asked, walking down Main Street after an afternoon shift at Zen. I’d started calling my sister on these walks once a week in an effort to keep our relationship going.
“Because I just talked to you. Remember you asked me if I knew Jessie Oliver?”
“Jenny.” I corrected. Joy had spent one year at Carringham Academy before going back to graduate at Hickory Bend High School. It was the year after she tore up the Hickory Bend football field with the three-wheeler. I figured she might have remembered Jenny, but she didn’t. My sister didn’t pay much mind to anything that didn’t directly affect her. “And we didn’t just talk, Joy. I called you last week.”
Joy blew out a breath. Loudly. “Okay. So what’s your deal?”
“My deal?”
“Tell me something new, catastrophic, awesome, or completely awe-inspiring amazing.”
“Um…” I still wasn’t used to talking to my sister about my problems, let alone having regular conversation. Not only because it was hard to get a word in while talking to her, but because she seemed to think she was some sort of Dalai Lama, spouting wisdom as if it were her spiritually guided vocation. Except, mostly, she was still the flaky girl who ditched college (after the deposit had been paid). I had to admit, we were definitely in a better place than we’d been in a long time, but I wanted more for our relationship. I didn’t want to write her off like it seemed my dad had. Sure, she dismissed all the careful college plans he helped her with, but if he’d really listened to Joy and really knew her, he’d have to get that college wasn’t in the cards for her. My mom seemed to get Joy. Then again, she was far more easygoing than my dad.
Anyway, weren’t sisters supposed to be good friends? In order to do that, I figured we needed to practice our phone chatting skills.
My sister sighed.
Well, we were in a slightly better place than before.
Compelled to respond with something, I said, “Zac and I…we’re fine, but…I’m worried.”
I stopped. Yes, I was really trying to make this whole sister thing work, but I wasn’t sure if I wanted to hear her boyfriend ad
vice. She’d never kept one for long.
Silence.
“Joy? You still there?”
“Yeah. I’m here,” she said, sounding completely distracted. “You and Zac are headed for a breakup.”
“I didn’t say that. I said we’re fine. I’m just confused.”
I heard a thwack sound, not unlike the closing of a book. So she had been doing something else, and I, apparently, was interrupting.
“Love equals suffering,” she said. “You’ve got fifty loves? Then you also have fifty pounds of crap to go along with it. It’s what comes with attachment.”
“Huh?”
“Buddha. Attachment. You’re attached to Zac. Distress is always going to feel like tugging on a new scab.”
“Okay…” But it wasn’t okay. Why did she have to sound so insensitive about it? I was used to getting her sage but wacky wisdom, but this time around, she was practically hostile. Didn’t she know I called her almost every week because I was trying to improve our sisterly bond? Siblings were supposed to keep in touch, right?
Maybe it was stupid to believe in the sisters equals BFFs myth, because according to my sister’s Buddhist algebra, we would never add up to best friends.
Chapter 5
Portrait of an Artist in Green, Glitter on Cardstock
I changed my mental picture of spring break. I had to.
Instead of a week with my boyfriend, it would be a girls’ trip. I convinced Chloe to put aside her extra credit psychology research to drive down to Nags Head with me. There, we would hang out with Zac’s mom and Lily—and eventually, my mom. We’d do pedicures poolside, sit in the sun, and bond as girls. So it was less romantic comedy, and more like our old family vacations at Lake Gaston. Except instead of the tiny cabin my dad built, we were staying in a big house, close to the ocean. And Joy wouldn’t be there to reenact a favorite Callahan vacation memory—flipping the Monopoly board the second someone else was winning. Of course, underneath all my plans, I still held out hope that Zac would finish all the Jenny scholarship crap early and drive down.
But the night before Chloe and I left, my plans seemed a little less shiny when Jenny Oliver showed up at Zen as I was closing it up for the night.
“Hey.” Jenny waved her hand from the other side of the window, outside of Zen. I hadn’t seen her in about a year, but I knew it was her. I’d stalked her online after Zac told me he had to stay home with her. I couldn’t help it.
She looked better than her photo. Even through the glass window, her skin glowed. I hesitated before walking to the door, and when I did, her nose scrunched up, possibly from confusion. It changed nothing. Even with a mushy face, Jenny was a pretty girl. She probably never had crazy, jealous tendencies when it came to guys.
Not that Jenny had a boyfriend right now. None that I could find online anyway. Most everything I uncovered, I kind of already knew. She’d been editor in chief of the paper at Carringham Academy her junior year. She’d rallied local school papers as a sophomore to raise money for the children’s hospital, which was probably how she and Zac met. She also did the Paraguay trip like Chloe. She was a budding journalist, a philanthropist, Columbia University worthy, and attractive. Yeah, just your average eighteen-year-old chick. Normal. Ha.
But according to Chloe, the only perfectly normal people are the ones we didn’t know.
So, I guess I didn’t really know Jenny Oliver.
I unlocked the deadbolt. Jenny didn’t step in, even after I swung the door wide open. The bell above me clinked, instead of ringing. It was stuck. Frozen by Jenny’s impossible beauty.
“Do you know the number for Higher Grounds?” She pointed over her shoulder, at Zac’s dad’s coffee shop.
My gaze slid to across the street. The lights were off. Zac closed early to make a run to Mexico Palace. He was in a hurry for our movie night. For the last half hour, he’d been texting me funny one sentence summaries of movies for me to guess.
People at a dinosaur theme park are surprised when the dinosaurs want to eat them.
New girl in school goes to prom with her sparkly skinned stalker (her pet wolf objects).
And the plot reduction for the movie for tonight:
On the way to deliver a package, a guy plays an unconventional game of volleyball on a deserted island.
Castaway. The movie was number two hundred and seventy-seven on the Movie Buff list, but to be funny, Zac bumped this one up in our queue because it had been filmed in Fiji. Ever since we had that accidental conversation the other day—the um, Fiji one—it was like we had this special secret between us.
Jenny’s eyebrows dipped low. I realized I was smiling, inappropriately, considering she didn’t know why. My expression could have easily been paired with sinister cackling and me closing the shades as a pack of zombies descended on her. Which then made me think of a word I’d learned in English class, schadenfreude, which meant taking pleasure in someone else’s discomfort. I’d thought schadenfreude was the perfect explanation for why reality TV was so popular, but seeing Jenny Oliver outside of Zen, asking for Zac, uncovered some evil twin inside me. I kind of wanted to smirk and walk away, leaving her on the sidewalk, in the dark.
Hey, her skin was glowy enough to light her way.
Evil, Callahan.
“They closed early,” I said. Still, she didn’t come in, forcing me to hold the door with my right foot, while I stretched my left hand all the way across to the window ledge on the left, putting me in an awkward starfish pose. With my fingertips, I nudged aside stacks of business cards from Guy’s Deli and Patty’s Paper (other local businesses), until I managed to grab a Higher Grounds one.
“Here you go.” I held out the card as I slid back to my full height. My phone vibrated.
A shark mysteriously brings people to an empty beach, and the summer partying begins.
I stared at the text from Zac. Huh?
“Thanks, but I’m actually trying to get a hold of Zac Anderson. I thought he’d still be at the coffee shop, so I had my friend drop me off.”
At her mention of Zac, I looked up from my phone (although, I was still puzzled by the idea of a shark bringing people to the beach).
“I have, um, Zac’s number…if you need it.” I struggled with those last words, trying to ignore the slow burn building in my middle, one piece of tinder for every acknowledgement of Jenny’s flawless features.
She was taller than me but still shorter than Zac. All I could think about was how easily she could nuzzle into his neck and he into her hair. I caught a whiff of her hair when I opened the door. Coconut and fruit. Far better for neck nuzzling compared to the aroma of pressed mushroom panini sandwiches, which was what I was sure I smelled like after my shift at Zen.
“I already called his cell.” She flashed her phone at me. “But he didn’t pick up. We weren’t supposed to get together until tomorrow, but…”
Her phone rang, and we both looked down at the screen. I saw Zac’s picture—one from his profile, the very same one next to his still unidentified shark movie plot text.
My insides knotted up.
“Hey,” Jenny said brightly into the phone. Then she turned, as if she was having a private conversation. With my boyfriend.
I stood there, my hand on the door, but it wasn’t as if I could close it. Jenny was now in the doorway, her shoulder essentially propping the door open. My hand was unnecessary, so I let go.
The shadowy schadenfreude feeling skipped around my middle, tapping on my rib cage, daring me to tap her at the back of her knee and watch her dip forward. Or maybe my mean-spiritedness was natural, considering Jenny was theoretically taking my fantasy spring break away.
I leaned forward to hear what she was saying to Zac, but she spoke in a quiet tone. Or was it a sexy tone? No. That I imagined.
I pressed a palm to my gut.
Jenny glanced at me, and I almost gave myself whiplash trying to look away. I yanked the kitchen rag from my back pocket and absentmindedly scrubbed at
the surface of the closest table. From my peripheral vision, I could see Jenny studying me as Zac said something.
“Okay,” she said staring at me. “See you in a bit.”
See you in a bit?
Jenny hung up and stepped all the way through the door and into Zen. The door closed behind her.
“Oh by the way, I’m Jenny.”
Behind me, a dish shifted in the sink. I flinched. “I’m Grace.”
Jenny nodded. “Yeah, Zac said you’re neighbors. He told me I could wait here since he’s supposed to pick you up anyway.”
Neighbors? Pick me up anyway? Tonight was our last night before I left for Nags Head. He wasn’t just picking me up. He was at Mexico Palace picking up our nacho order. Because we were watching a movie. It was a date.
“I’m his girlfriend,” I said, straightening.
Jenny tipped her head a tad, expressing the bare minimum of interest, as if I’d said, “I’m a Scorpio.” Obviously, she was far too sophisticated to bother with the love life of a sixteen-year-old girl. She would be graduating in a couple of months, then heading to Columbia in the fall, gunning for a career in journalism.
“So you live in DC?” I asked, making an attempt at polite conversation. Although I cringed when I realized she hadn’t told me where she lived, which meant either I just outed myself as a stalker or she was accustomed to a certain level of popularity.
“In Georgetown, for all intents and purposes,” she said.
My inner stalker relaxed.
I considered her response. For all intents and purposes? What was that about? I didn’t know. I pictured Georgetown and its expensive boutiques and cupcakes shops. I’d been there before for a school field trip. It was fancy. Was she trying to be fancy and pretentious? I had no idea, but the fancy effect didn’t really work with me. I knew they filmed The Exorcist in Georgetown.
The Art of Second Chances Page 4
