by Dahlia Adler
But also, it’s not like they’re my only friends. I’m friends with Jamie, and kind of with Taylor. And with Deanna, who sits next to me in Spanish—we talk during class all the time. And Chase! Chase and I are certainly friendly these days.
So there, Mother.
And it’s not just school. I had a great summer with Keisha, Derek, Owen, Brea, Jack, Carter, and She Who Must Not Be Named. She wasn’t even present when I marathoned the Star Wars movies with Keisha, or for either of the two times I joined Brea and Derek at hot yoga.
I’m feeling smug and self-satisfied for all of two seconds when the doubt starts creeping in.
Kiki has a podcast, Kiki on the Case, and has all these internet friends from this online forum dedicated to unsolved mysteries, plus the Asian American Students’ Association, whose meetings she attends whenever she needs a break from what she lovingly (I think) calls our Unbearable Whiteness of Being.
Gia has a boyfriend she’s practically married to and the very same cheerleading squad I quit.
Shannon does random sophisticated shit, like museum outings and French Club, and has a new boy on her arm every five minutes. She’s the kind of person who not only has a five-year plan but will definitely execute every single step perfectly, while still managing to be the absolute most fun person in the world to party with and the one who’ll have the perfect hangover cure in the morning.
What the hell do I have besides a few secret files on my computer all called some variation of TerribleWriting.doc? Would the four of us have stayed friends for as long as we have if Shannon and her plans hadn’t kept us together?
As for my summer friends, I haven’t exactly done a stellar job of keeping in touch: a “like” of Brea’s post about some yoga achievement here, a sad face emoji on a picture depicting Derek and Jack parting for the school year there.… At most there were a few texts between me and Keisha, casual reminders that a show we liked had its season premiere coming up. I’d had a great time with them all, but the closer Jasmine and I got, the further the others had faded into the background. I still scrolled through their pictures to see Keisha with the marching band friends she’d talked about all summer, Owen’s surfing action shots, and Carter’s Outfit of the Day posts, but without Jasmine to share them with, it felt like another life.
Without Jasmine, I don’t have OBX friends.
Without Shannon, would I have Stratford friends?
If I somehow got Jasmine back—if I even wanted her back—what would it mean losing when everyone else found out the truth?
I press a pillow over my mouth and scream in frustration. Damn my mother for starting me down this train of thought.
When I finally tuck myself into bed, I make myself think happy thoughts of Chase as I fall asleep, but I end up dreaming of an empty beach.
* * *
I wake feeling like crap the next morning, but while dear old Dad has agreed to subsidize my college tuition as long as I go to a state school, I’m on my own for the Larissa Bogdan Automobile Fund, so off to work I go.
The bookstore-slash-café is surprisingly busy on weekend mornings, which I guess is why Beth Rinker, a.k.a. the owner of the Book and Bean, was kind enough to take me in when I came crawling back. It officially opens at 9:00 a.m. on Saturdays, but I get there at 8:00 a.m. to prep the machines and display cases and get brewing behind the café counter.
That hour is unexpectedly pleasant, with no noise but the hum of the coffee makers and the smooth thwack of Beth shifting books. It gets even better when I get to make myself a steaming hazelnut-scented mug of coffee and top it off with a dollop of whipped cream. For Beth, I make it black—“like my soul,” she instructed me when I first started. One of many reasons I love Beth.
There’s a small line of customers by a quarter after nine, most of whom I recognize from the past few weeks: Alice, the mom who brings her twin toddlers, and refers to her regular order of an enormous black coffee with two shots of espresso as her “life essence”; Dave, the guy who buys exactly one small coffee and sits hunched over his laptop nursing it for half my shift, writing what I’m pretty sure (and I hope) is a spy novel, judging by the websites I’ve seen open on his screen for research; a goth girl, who mumbled her name the first time and never bothered repeating it, but always gets something sugary and frothy; and some days (though not often, because my mom rarely spends money on anything frivolous), there’s my mom and her “surprise me” order, though we both know only the most bitter of drinks will do.
The guy at the front of the line now, despite looking familiar, is someone I’m pretty sure I’ve never served coffee to. I’ve got a pretty good memory for regular orders, but I’m drawing a blank on him.
“How can I help you?”
He holds up a book, and I recognize the illustrated cover immediately. “You recommended this book for my daughter the last time I was here, and I wanted to say thank you. She absolutely loved it and begged me to come back for the rest of the series.”
The image makes me smile, though it’s bittersweet. Jasmine’s the one who originally recommended the Candy Buttons graphic novel series to me. When I happened to catch this guy asking Beth for a recommendation for his daughter who’s not a big reader, I had to swoop in and suggest graphic novels might do the trick. And, of course, I had to make some suggestions when he asked. Candy Buttons was a natural choice, since I’d already suggested Beth buy it for the tiny section that was almost entirely (the excellent but far more obvious) Raina Telgemeier and Lumberjanes. I mentioned a few more of Jasmine’s favorites as well, which Beth ordered for him on the spot. I couldn’t believe either of them had trusted me so readily, but here was proof I knew what I was talking about.
Or at least Jasmine did.
“We definitely have the second book here,” I assure him, “and I’m sure Beth will be happy to special order the third. It comes out next week.”
“I’ll go ask her right now, thank you.”
I expect him to walk away, but he doesn’t, and I realize he might actually want some coffee. “Did you want a drink too?”
“No, I just … really wanted to thank you. I’m never the hero with gifts for her. I always manage to fu—uh, screw it up. This is the first time I’ve ever nailed it, and it’s a big deal. So … yeah. Thank you.”
It’s a good thing I’m definitely not tearing up because the room is already somehow getting blurry. “You are very, very welcome,” I say, and God, I hate that I can’t tell Jasmine. Her secret mushball heart would melt. “I have plenty more recommendations when you run out.”
“You’re wasting your time behind this counter,” he says. “You should be in sales.”
Well, there’s no great way to admit I lost that position when my mom made me bail, and now I have to watch this random college kid named Greg suck at it. He literally goes entire days without recommending a single author who isn’t an old white guy. I’d tell Beth how much he sucks, but I’m pretty sure she knows, and it makes me feel bad. She must’ve been really desperate to have hired him. “Feel free to tell Beth I deserve a raise,” I say instead. He laughs as he leaves, but somehow, I think he’ll do it.
The rest of the morning continues like normal, but that interaction stays with me for a while, including during my break, when I treat myself to a white hot mocha. (I’m allowed one fancy drink every half a shift, I swear.) I’d been completely stunned by Jasmine’s reading choices over the summer, assuming she was one of those chic ice princesses who always seemed to be reading Anna Karenina, but the way she told it, her mom got her started with Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi and Maus by Art Spiegelman, and a love of reading words mixed with visuals fell into place.
She lent me book after book, though I only got through maybe a quarter of what she did. I had no idea speed-reading was a real thing until I watched her devour four books in a single day. We spent a lot of time at the Kill Devil Hills Library, enjoying the air conditioning and browsing the artful displays. Jasmine was horrified to learn
I’d given up a job at a bookstore to come to OBX. Apparently, she’d dreamed of being a librarian as a kid, something she confided she’d never told anyone else. Web design and photography were more her thing now, but she said even if she kept up with them in college, in reality, she was probably gonna go to business school and do something boring.
I really, really hoped she wouldn’t.
“Hey, Larissa.” I look up to see Beth standing in front of the counter, a pile of flyers in her hands. “Can you hang these up around the store, and take a few to hang up around town?”
“Sure.” I take a bunch from her and skim the paper. “Holy crap, you’re getting Clementine Walker to the store?”
“You’ve read her stuff?”
“Every single book.” I look at the date. It’s a Sunday, two days after Homecoming, but no matter how exhausted I am, I will absolutely be here working.
Jasmine’s bookish thing is graphic novels; mine are smutty romances with a heavy dose of humor, and Clementine Walker is the best of the best. She’s the author who first made me want to try my hand at writing my own. Jasmine read a few of her books in exchange for my reading her favorites, and let’s just say they went over very well.
Goddammit, it would be really fun to bring her to this.
And yet, the thought of her doesn’t conjure her presence. Instead, it conjures Chase Harding, who comes ambling over to the counter, flashing Beth a smile that could definitely lighten the darkest of souls. “Hey,” I say, and I can’t help smiling too, even though I have no idea what he’s doing here. In the past I would’ve frozen up at a surprise Chase sighting, but now I feel like I could chat with him over hot mocha lattes for an hour. “Beth and I were just talking about my favorite romance author coming to town.” I hold up a flyer. “Please tell me you’re a closet fan.”
“Oh, nothing closeted about my fandom for…” He squints at the flyer. “Clementine? Isn’t that a fruit?”
“A fruit and a killer name for a killer author.” I take a flyer and pin it on the bulletin board, glad I wore my good-butt jeans to work today. I feel his eyes on my backside like laser beams. “So, what’s up? You here for a drink? I make a mean chai latte.”
“Sure, I’ll take one of those,” he says, leaning against the counter and pulling out his wallet. The bell over the front door tinkles, and Beth scurries off to welcome the new customer, since we both know Greg won’t. “I also wanted to thank you for driving me home last night, and make sure you got back okay.”
I make change from his ten and note with satisfaction that he leaves a tip in the jar. “Oh, I was actually murdered last night, but doesn’t my ghost look fantastic?”
He grins. “It sure does. Which brings me to the other reason I’m here—to see if you’re free tonight. I thought it might be nice to hang out without two hundred of our closest friends.”
For a moment, as I pour from the pitcher of chai I prepared that morning into a hot cup, all I can think is that I need a Q-tip to clean out my ears. Because I could swear Chase Harding just strolled into my place of employment and asked me on a date. Like it was no big deal. Like he would enjoy hanging out and possibly buying me a burger or holding hands throughout a movie.
It’s a very weird thing when you have imagined something happening for God knows how many years and then it … does.
A ridiculous part of me wants him to take it back, because as soon as it’s out there, I miss waiting for it, dreaming of it. And it doesn’t feel like I thought it would either. It feels like … a question. A question I could easily say yes or no to. A question that isn’t the be-all and end-all of everything.
And then I realize the answer actually is no, and there’s a little twinge in my gut.
“I’m babysitting tonight,” I say with a frown as I carefully add hot, frothy milk to his drink. I’m tempted to cancel on the Sullivans and their triplets, but I don’t want to give up a really, really well-paying job, nor do I want to wreck their monthly date night. “Maybe tomorrow? I work the same shift here as today, but I’m free after that.” Well, I have a paper due for European history I’ve barely started, and I promised my mom I’d work on my college apps this weekend and also do the laundry at some point, but besides that.
It’s Chase Harding.
My mom will understand.
“I’m playing basketball with the guys in the afternoon. After, we’re hitting up Benny’s. You’re welcome to come.” It’s obvious from his voice he realizes it’s a lousy offer, joining a bunch of guys from the team at their favorite diner for pastrami sandwiches, guaranteeing unkissable breath. But the truth is, I like the guys on the team, and I like Benny’s fried chicken sandwiches. Still, I appreciate his follow-up of “I promise you ice cream afterward.”
“Well, how can I say no to an offer like that?” I ask as I add a dusting of cinnamon to his drink and push it forward.
“You definitely can’t,” he says, and there’s that grin. God, he’s cute. And this is so easy. How is this so easy?
Don’t you dare overthink this, Larissa.
“Well then—text me when you’re done with your game? After you’ve showered, that is,” I add with an exaggerated wrinkle of my nose, even though all I smell is the spicy drink sitting between us on the counter.
He laughs. “Deal. But I don’t think I have your number.”
That was the point.
He hands over his phone. “Put it in?”
So many dreams suddenly coming true in one place. God, I can’t wait to tell Shannon. She’s going to want to do a full-on makeover night. Except I’m pretty damn happy with how I already look, and it seems Chase is too.
Whatever, I’ll deal with that when the time comes. For now, I take Chase’s phone, type in my number, and hand it back. “There. Now text me so I have yours.”
Yes, I could’ve done it myself. But that is not how dream fulfillment works.
He types something into his phone, and a moment later, mine buzzes. A winking emoji. Followed by an ice cream emoji. They look kind of pervy together, but I feel pretty okay with that.
A loud cough sounds from behind Chase’s lanky form, and I realize a line has formed behind him. “I’ll be right with you, sir,” I say to the next customer, then glance back to Chase. “Did you want anything else this morning?”
“Nothing I can’t wait for a little longer.” And he winks. And I die.
He takes his drink and walks away, and I stare at his ass the entire time.
My throat is suddenly impossibly dry. “Next!”
* * *
Despite my wish-fulfillment morning, I’m back to thinking about how frustrating the situation is with Jasmine as I put the Sullivan triplets to bed that night. For some reason, I expected her to come walking through the door to the Book and Bean, order a double shot of espresso, and browse the shelves. One of the hardest parts of leaving Asheville for Jasmine must’ve been leaving behind her favorite bookstore, and it’s not like every city in Westchester has one. The Book and Bean should’ve been at the top of her list of places to explore.
She must know I work there.
And these are the lengths she’s going to in order to avoid me.
Not that I wanted her to come in. I mean, yeah, if it were like old times and we could chat about Goldie Vance and play “Judge a Book by Its Cover” (wherein we made up absolutely ridiculous stories about what books were about based on their packaging) and I could squee to her about Clementine Walker. If that were on the table, if we could just freaking be friends—
It hits me like the pudding cup little Ashlyn threw at me after dinner. What if the problem is she thinks I want more than that? What if she thinks I’m after the, uh, not-exactly-friendly stuff we did, and this is her way of letting me down? I mean, yeah, that’s pretty arrogant and ridiculous to assume without talking to me, but Jasmine doesn’t exactly win awards for her communication skills, and in fairness, neither do I.
Tomorrow, I’m going on a date with Chase and word
is undoubtedly gonna spread about it. Maybe that’s all we need. Maybe once she knows my heart and libido lie elsewhere, she’ll chill out and we can go back to being friends, minus the benefits.
“Why are you smiling?”
Shit, my brain went off the rails while I was still standing in the triplets’ room, and Chadwick has caught me looking like a goof. Their night-light must’ve been illuminating my face in creeptastic fashion. “Go to sleep,” I say, slipping out the door, but I’m still smiling as I shut it behind me.
Chapter Six
Sunday’s shift is much like Saturday’s, minus the surprise drop-in by Chase and the early-morning heartwarming moment, but it feels like it takes three years longer. The minutes tick by slowly as I wait until I can go home and get ready for my date. Is it a date? I’m not sure it counts if it also includes half the football team. (Though some might say that makes it a really, really good date.) But he’d been going for a date when he initially invited me out—of that I’m at least eighty percent sure—so I’ll take this in the spirit it’s probably intended.
The thing is, I’ve had the perfect dress picked out for my first date with Chase for years, but as I stand in front of my closet, holding it in hand, it suddenly feels like … too much. I’d always imagined when we finally went out, it would be to a romantic dinner at one of my favorite restaurants—maybe one of those pretty spots right on the Long Island Sound. No one dreams of their first date being a casual evening with the guys at a diner. How does one dress for looking sexy with pastrami breath?
My fingers are itching to ask Shannon for advice, which is what I’d normally do. We know each other’s closets as well as our own. Even if she gives good advice, she’ll be thinking this is a bullshit date, and I’m not in the mood for it. Gia would be stressful in the complete opposite way; I don’t want to listen to what a huge deal this is for an hour either. And unfortunately, Kiki’s useless for fashion advice. Her idea of mixing up her black-and-gray wardrobe is to add pinstripes.
