“You’re welcome,” I say, but she’s already dashing away and through the glass double doors into the school.
I hesitate for a moment, looking around. I have a brief flash of what my life could’ve been like if I hadn’t gotten sick. This could be my life. Laughing and chatting with friends. Going to football games. Maybe even being a cheerleader—okay, let’s face it, that one would never happen, I don’t have enough pep for that shit.
Somehow, I manage to pull myself away and back to my car.
I’m not sure what I should do, there’s not much in this town you can do for fun with just yourself. I finally decide to pick up a coffee and go to the beach to read.
I’m clearly the life of the party.
There’s nothing wrong with that. Being quiet and liking to keep to yourself.
I drive to Cool Beans and as I walk inside I can’t help but think of the guy Perry ran over when we were here yesterday. Heat rushes to my cheeks and I press my hand to them, surprised by the sensation.
Chances are I’ll never see the guy again and that, for some stupid reason, makes me sad.
It’s not like I’m exactly in a position to start a relationship.
Besides, he was older, and older guys don’t want someone like me.
A kid—that’s all he could possibly see me as.
I step into line, looking at the menu. They’re constantly adding new items, I never know whether I want to get my go-to favorite or try something they’ve added.
Cool Beans is a local hangout, much like Monsterwiches. It has a unique vibe, with cobalt-blue and lime-green walls. The tile behind the register is a mirrored iridescent that sends rainbows around the entire shop. Many people come here to work and sit clacking at their laptops while sipping a coffee.
Sometimes, Harlow has me bring her here to do her homework. I’ll sit with her, drinking coffee and eating a snack. They make the best croissants here.
The person in front of me moves aside and it’s finally my time to order.
“What can I get for you?” The barista asks.
“Um …” I sway back and forth on my feet. “I’ll have an iced caramel latte, and can I also get a small lavender lemonade?”
“Sure thing.” She gives me my total and I pay.
I take a seat while I wait since there are a few people who ordered before me still waiting.
I glance around the shop, watching the people inside.
People watching is one of my favorite things. You can learn so much about someone by paying attention to them.
Like the man in the corner with one hand on his head and spinning his wedding ring in his other is having marriage troubles.
And the woman on her phone scrolling through a dating app is feeling her biological clock ticking.
How can I possibly know that?
I’ve seen her here before looking at fertility websites.
You can learn a lot about your fellow human beings if you care to look.
But most people don’t.
Care, that is.
“Iced caramel and a lavender lemonade?” another barista calls out, and I hop up and scurry to the counter to get my items.
“Thank you.” I take the drinks from him and quickly pull out a couple of wadded up bills from my purse to slip into the tip jar.
It doesn’t take me long to get to the beach. I grab a towel from the trunk of my car and drape it over my arm. I take off my flip-flops to carry them and not get sand in them—though, I’ll inevitably get sand in them anyway—and juggle my drinks. Thankfully, my book is tucked safely in my purse so I don’t have to worry about carrying it too.
I could’ve gone back home and hung out on our beach outside our doors, but it’s not the same. It’s a private stretch of beach, and always quiet, and today for some reason I’m craving the chaos of a public beach. I want to be surrounded by other people.
I find a spot and set down my stuff before spreading out the towel. My poor towel has definitely seen better days. It’s a polka dot design that’s faded from the sun and too many washes. The once vibrant hues of pink and orange now look like spilled Kool-Aid.
Plopping down on it, I open my purse and pull out my book. The sand acts as a cup holder for my drinks. I grab the lavender lemonade and take a tentative sip.
“Mmm,” I hum, pleasantly surprised by the flavor. It tastes like regular lemonade with the smallest hint of the lavender. I’d worried the lavender would be overwhelming but it’s perfect and surprisingly refreshing.
A light breeze stirs my hair around my shoulders, tickling my skin. I look up out toward the water. It sparkles from the sunshine and I squint from the brightness. Surfers hang out in the water, and I watch them with envy as they catch waves, laugh, and joke with each other.
Sometimes I miss my naivety. When I had the ability to block out all the bad things in the world that can happen to you.
I guess, most of all, I miss believing nothing would ever happen to me.
But it can.
And it did.
I look down at my book, blinking the brightness from my eyes, and start reading.
Before I know it, it’s after lunch. There are plenty of stands on the beach that serve food, and since I don’t feel ready to leave, I opt to do that instead of going home.
I grab my stuff and toss my empty drink cups into a nearby trashcan.
My feet sink into the sand as I walk. I love the feel of it squishing between my toes. I don’t think there’s anyone on the planet who can say they don’t love the feel of sand underneath their feet. It’s one of those things that instantly makes you feel happy, even if it is a pain in the ass to get rid of.
The smell emanating from one of the burger stands draws me in. I stand in line, perusing the menu. I don’t normally eat out a lot, it’s a big no-no since that kind of food is loaded with things I shouldn’t have. But sometimes, you have to splurge, and I still try to make the best choices possible even when I’m making the wrong one. If that makes sense.
When it’s my turn to order I ask for a hamburger with lettuce and mayonnaise. I don’t have to wait long before they hand me a brown paper bag with my hamburger.
There are a couple of picnic tables nearby and I take a seat, laying my stuff down beside me. Pulling out my burger, I unwrap it, and my mouth immediately waters.
If only it was a cheeseburger.
I miss cheese.
Don’t get me wrong, every now and then I’ll cave and have some, but it’s something I try to avoid if I can.
I take a bite and look around. Across from me are a group of guys, about my age and younger, so they’re probably ditching school. They’re skateboarding—if you can call it that. It looks more like a lot of falling than actual skating to me.
But I can tell they’re having a good time, being silly and … normal.
One of them looks up and makes eye contact with me.
I quickly drop my gaze, heat flaming my cheeks at being caught.
People watching might be one of my favorite pastimes, but it has its downsides.
I hear the guy say something to his friends and then it isn’t long until a shadow is covering me.
“Hey,” he says. His voice has that slightly raspy sound where it hasn’t quite turned deep but isn’t squeaky either.
I force myself to look up.
He is the quintessential California boy. Floppy brown hair bleached blond from the sun, blue eyes, and freckles speckled across his nose from too much time spent outside.
“Hi,” I mumble reluctantly.
“You look familiar,” he remarks. “Did we go to school together?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”
The fact of the matter is, we might have, but if we never shared any of the same classes when I went to public school then I’m not likely to remember him.
“What’s your name?” he asks, smiling. I notice his teeth are straight, but his front tooth has a slight chip in it.
“I�
�m not in the habit of giving my name to strangers,” I blurt, and then immediately feel like an idiot. The guy is clearly my age, and I don’t get funny vibes from him, plus there’d be no harm in giving my first name.
“I’m Spencer,” he chuckles.
“Willa,” I reply.
“Willa,” he muses. “Willa … yeah, I remember you—”
I hold my breath and wait for him to finish with, “You’re the girl who needs a transplant.” But that’s not what he says.
“You had that cool birthday party at your house when we were in grade school, right? The bouncy house? And you live right on the ocean?”
My mouth pops open in surprise. “Y-Yeah,” I stutter. “That’s me.”
“Harlow is your sister too, yeah?”
I nod.
“I thought so. You guys look alike. I miss seeing you around.”
When he doesn’t ask me where I’ve been I know he knows the answer, but I’m thankful for him not saying it.
One of the guys from the group walks up.
“We need to go,” he says to Spencer. His eyes drift to me. He wears a baseball cap, shielding most of his face.
“I’ll be there in a sec, T.J.”
T.J. nods and glances at me. He gives a small wave and awkward smile before going back to the other guys.
“Well, it was good seeing you, Willa. Maybe we’ll run into each other again sometime.”
“Maybe,” I reply, feeling doubtful.
He grins, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. His eyes sparkle like he’s excited at the prospect of proving me wrong.
He joins his friends and they skate away. I watch until they become a speck in the distance.
I finish my lunch and wad up the trash, getting rid of it.
Grabbing my phone, I glance at the time. It’s almost time for Harlow to get out of school. I text her that I’ll pick her up instead of her getting on the bus like usual. Her excitement is palpable when she texts back, and it makes me feel bad for not doing it more often.
Sometimes I feel like the shittiest person ever.
I walk back to my car and toss my stuff into the backseat.
Traffic, as usual, is a nightmare, and by the time I make it to the school, kids are already walking out to buses and waiting cars. I pull off to the side and Harlow spots me easily. It’s not easy to miss my mint colored car.
She tumbles into the car, all awkward legs and flailing arms, and stuffs her backpack into the back.
Sliding her seatbelt into place, she says, “We could make it to Santa Barbara in two hours—maybe make that three with traffic—Mom and Dad probably wouldn’t even miss us.”
I snort. “What’s in Santa Barbara?”
She shrugs as I make a U-turn out of the lot. “No idea, but at least it’d be different scenery.”
“Well, we’re not doing that. I’m sure it’d be considered kidnapping.”
“I’m your sister, not some kid you nabbed out of the parking lot.”
“Regardless, it’s not happening.”
She sighs and kicks her feet up on the dashboard. “You know what you are?”
“No, enlighten me.”
“A ruiner of fun.”
“Is that even a word?”
“If it’s not, I made it one.” She smiles beatifically over at me.
“Some days, I’m convinced someone left you on our doorstep and Mom and Dad decided to keep you.”
She laughs. “Good one.”
“Thank you, I thought so myself. I’m swinging by the grocery store. I need to make dinner and haven’t been to the store in over a week, the refrigerator is pretty barren at the moment.”
I make dinner most nights. Cooking is something I enjoy, and I love trying new recipes. It makes me feel good, too, that my mom can come home from work and not worry about making a meal—because Lord knows my dad definitely isn’t going to worry about making dinner. Or breakfast. Or even his lunch. When it comes to anything food related he stays far, far, far away—unless it’s popcorn. He loves making homemade popcorn.
“Sounds good to me. It’s nice to get out instead of going straight home even if it is the grocery store. Are you going to the one with Starbucks in it?”
I nod.
“Sweet. Even better.”
The grocery store parking lot is packed. I end up having to park at the very back. Harlow skips and twirls through the lot and into the store, while I shake my head. As much as I give her shit for it, I love her carefree and happy attitude. She lets things roll off of her and takes nothing to heart.
Inside, she runs straight to the Starbucks at the front while I grab a cart. I stroll through the store and it isn’t long until she joins me and hops onto the front of the cart, holding on with one hand, her iced coffee in the other.
I stop the cart in the middle of the aisle. “Harlow,” I hiss, “get off of there.”
She rolls her eyes. “Fun. Ruiner.”
She then swings her leg up and over into the cart and hops inside.
My jaw drops. “Where am I supposed to put my stuff?”
“Around me,” she replies, drawing her legs up to her chest.
I laugh and shake my head. “Are you sure you’re not five?”
“Nope, fifteen through and through.” She wraps her lips around her straw and takes a long sip, eyeing me.
“All right then.”
Even before I got sick Harlow was always the spontaneous and carefree one and I was the kid who followed every rule to a T.
I push the cart forward, scanning the shelves for items I might need.
I rarely make a shopping list, instead preferring to pick out items in a spur of the moment decision that sound like they might make a good meal.
As I peruse the aisles, I add in items here and there.
By the time I’m done and heading to the checkout Harlow is covered in items and looks like she’s regretting her decision to get in the cart now—especially since she can’t get out until I unload it.
I find a line that’s not as busy and get into it. Self-checkout is an option but every time I do that I always get an error message or the machine malfunctions. I’ve learned to avoid it at all costs.
It’s finally my turn to unload my cart and I do it quickly. As soon as Harlow is free she hops out and stretches, throwing in a couple of squats for good measure.
“Gearing up for a race?” I ask her.
She swings her arms. “Yeah, the race to the kitchen to get some food in my belly.”
“You know it’ll take time for me to make dinner, right?”
“That’s what Oreos are for.” And she points to a box that was stuffed behind where she was sitting.
I shake my head and grab it, adding it to the queue.
“You’re lucky I like you or I’d make you put them back.”
She grins. “You’d never. Oreos are magic. No one gets rid of magic.”
I wheel the cart forward and, with Harlow’s help, start loading the bags inside.
The checker gives me a total and I pull out the debit card my mom gave me that’s linked to her and my dad’s account.
I get the receipt and stick it in one of the bags.
Harlow takes control of the cart and treats it like a skateboard. Kicking one foot against the ground and hopping onto the cart to ride it.
I don’t bother scolding her. It doesn’t do any good anyway. Harlow dances to the beat of her own drum.
We load the car then Harlow returns the cart.
Once home we carry everything inside and I immediately get started on making dinner while putting away the groceries. Harlow sits on the couch in the family room across from the kitchen, eating Oreos, and shouting unhelpful tips at me.
Like, “Don’t forget to set the oven to six-hundred degrease. Not only will it cook in seconds it’ll degrease your food.”
I shake my head at her antics and turn on some music, swaying my hips and dancing slightly as I make a homemade pesto sauce.
I slather it across four chicken breasts and stick it in the oven—not at six-hundred degrees, might I add.
I make some mashed potatoes and broccoli to go with it. It’s not much, but I know it’ll be good.
Once everything is made and the rest of the groceries are put away I sit down with Harlow on the couch.
She’s got One Tree Hill playing on the DVD. She begged my parents to buy her all the seasons on DVD for Christmas. I bet they regret doing it now since she’s been watching it non-stop and had probably already watched the entire thing three times before then.
The alarm beeps and the garage door swings open.
“Hey, girls,” my dad says, his voice sounding tired. “Something smells good.”
“I made dinner,” I say unnecessarily. “Pesto chicken.”
“Mmm, sounds delicious. I’m going to go take a shower.”
He drops his bag on the floor—he refuses to carry a briefcase and instead has a leather messenger bag—and heads upstairs.
He hasn’t been upstairs long when the door opens again and my mom steps inside. She immediately kicks off her heels and comes to join Harlow and me on the couch.
“How was your day?” she asks the two of us.
“Uneventful, if you don’t count the part where I had to beg Willa to bring my essay to school because I forgot to print it.”
My mom gives her a look.
“What?” She shrugs innocently. “It was an honest mistake.”
“And what about you?” Mom looks at me.
“I went to the beach and grocery shopping.”
Suddenly, I remember Spencer and I feel blood rush to my cheeks. I’ll have to remember to ask Harlow about him. The encounter had completely slipped my mind.
“Well, that’s good.” She smiles wide. “I’m happy you didn’t stay here the whole day.”
“Yeah, I’m thinking about getting a job,” I blurt.
I don’t know where the words come from, but in my gut, it feels right. I’m seventeen, almost eighteen, and I can’t mope around here forever. I have to get on with my life—and seriously figure out what the heck I’m going to do about going to college.
“Really?” she asks, her eyes widened with surprise. “You know we don’t expect that of you. You have a lot on you. And honestly, Willa, I’m going to advise against it.”
The Other Side of Tomorrow Page 4
