by Dahlia Adler
She laughs. “Your hair is not rat’s nest-y, but yeah, isn’t it? Like, it’s fun to hang out with other people, but it all becomes about the same shit—everyone just wants to feel good at the end of the night, right? You get drunk to feel good. You hook up to feel good. You take other people’s money at the poker table to feel good. And it’s so much fucking work.” The smile has slid off her lips, and her face grows serious in the light of the fire, the sparks reflecting in her amber eyes. “It doesn’t have to be so much work. It doesn’t have to be constantly making sure you’re wearing the right thing, saying the right thing, drinking the right amount, worrying about who’s watching you do what.
“Sometimes it’s so fucking exhausting to feel good that it doesn’t even feel good when it should. We act like beer and boys are so necessary for a good time, for a real night, and honestly, fuck that. If all we cared about was making out with someone—” I’ve barely swallowed my s’more and suddenly there are lips on mine, sweet with a trace of chocolate. Only a moment, and then the cool night air rushes in off the water again, as if it never happened. “Just … do it. You don’t have to throw a whole massive party so three hours later you can get someone back to your room to make out. Just make out. The whole pretense is so tired. I wish people would just admit what they want when they want it.”
I’m not sure I’ve blinked once her whole tirade. I definitely haven’t moved since her lips landed on mine. What the hell just happened?
Suddenly, her face crumbles, every trace of righteous indignation gone. “Oh, shit, Lara, I’m sorry. I got caught up. I shouldn’t have done that. I promise I—”
“Shh.” I hold up a hand, silencing her, as I think about years of wanting Chase. Years of going to his football games and the parties afterward. Yeah, they were fun, but ultimately, what did I want? I wanted him to notice me. I wanted him to want to be with me. I wanted to make out with him and have fun and feel good and lather rinse repeat until … what? Until I didn’t want that anymore? I didn’t have visions of us getting married and having babies. I had visions of him asking me to go upstairs at Ferris’s house so we could make out.
For that, I had worn uncomfortable shoes and too-tight jeans and pounds of makeup and scorched my hair into perfect straightness and listened to Shannon tell me how to stand and what to smell like and what shades of lipstick I should wear.
All that, when sometimes it’s as simple as s’mores and Coke and leaning over in your Adirondack chair on the beach.
I look at Jasmine—really look—at the trace of melted marshmallow on her lip and the apprehension in her eyes and a freckle on her shoulder and then I’m the one leaning over and doing the kissing, tasting sweet artificial cherry on her tongue and feeling so damn good in this moment we didn’t work for.
It’s so good that I don’t realize we’re falling out of our chairs until we land on the sand, our laughter floating into the summer night amid the crackling flames until our mouths find each other again and there’s no more laughing at all.
NOW
“Lara? Hey.” A gentle, masculine hand lands on my shoulder. “Did you want butter?”
Chapter Nine
NOW
“I think I got it this time!”
“You said that about the last one,” Beth calls from where she’s taking inventory of the mystery/thriller/suspense section. “It looked like a toddler’s handprint at best.”
“Hey, I’m new at this!” I scrutinize the leaf pattern I’ve drawn in the foam of my fourth cappuccino of the morning, and it definitely looks better than the other three. “A little support would be nice.”
“A few more hours spent watching those YouTube videos would be nice,” she mutters, but the store’s empty except for us, and I hear every word. I’ve been trying to up my barista game by watching videos on drawing foam art, hoping to impress Beth with hearts and leaves and butterflies. Unfortunately, I’m about as good at doing art with foam as I am at doing it with paint, charcoal, decoupage, pencils, or anything else—which is to say, not at all.
The only thing I have to show for my training is a pair of slightly jittery hands from quickly downing my first two mistakes. (Beth graciously took the third, despite it being many shades lighter than her soul.) Latte art looks easy on YouTube, but so do makeup tutorials, and I suck at those too.
For as good a time as I had this summer, I can’t help being resentful that I was forced to give up my bookseller position for something I suck at. I know books. I love books. I could’ve helped a bunch of dads find graphic novels for their daughters, could’ve pointed out the best romance novels for other sappy readers in search of humor and kissing, could’ve learned so much more about all the other books on the shelves—the awesomely titled “cozy mysteries,” as Beth taught me they’re called, or the zillions of young adult fantasies with crowns or swords on the covers. Working here isn’t just about money—I want to learn how to do this, to be Beth, to one day surround myself with books and coffee and people who love both while working on my own romance novels in my downtime. I don’t know exactly what I want to do with my life, but I do know I feel the closest to figuring it out when I’m here.
The best I can do now is prove that I can go above and beyond in whatever job I’m given, or at least I’ll try to.
So in the eight minutes I have left until the store opens, I take Beth’s muttered advice and get another instructional video going while I finish morning prep. I’m so wrapped up watching a pair of hands draw a swan that the first customer has to cough to get my attention. I offer my apologies and ask for her order, hoping it’ll be a latte or a cappuccino or even a hot chocolate to give me another chance to practice, but like most of the customers clinging to the end of summer, she orders an iced coffee, and the only thing I can show off is that I can make one without screwing up. She also orders a mixed-berry scone, the café’s most popular baked good (and the secret recipe of none other than Beth’s nephew, Winston, whom I’ve never met but lives in Beth’s basement and apparently has a golden touch with flour, sugar, eggs, and butter). I wrap it in the store’s trademark lavender tissue paper, hand it over along with the iced coffee, and make change … only to say goodbye and see Jasmine Killary standing at the front of the line.
“Good morning and welcome to the Book and Bean,” I greet her as if I’m not at all rattled by her presence, by her bedhead and lip gloss and the Bathory Belles concert T-shirt she wore the day we went to the Pea Island Wildlife Refuge and came back covered in bug bites. We spent the night soothing ourselves in the hot tub. “What can I get you?”
She glances at the chalk menu over my head. “What do you recommend?”
“Something with foam. I’ve been working on my art.”
“Ooh, interesting.” She taps her chin, showing off a plum-colored fingernail speckled with gold glitter. “Can you draw a puppy?”
“Probably as well as I can draw a leaf or a heart.”
Her lips curve into a smile. “I’ll have a puppy cappuccino, please, with a shot of vanilla.”
I’m grateful for the opportunity to turn away from her and focus on the machinery. I need to concentrate on not burning myself on the steam wand and on swirling the milk just right, not on sniffing her honeysuckle shampoo.
Espresso fills the small café with a bitter scent that obliterates the honey teasing my nose, and I inhale deeply. I’m two steps from giving Jasmine her coffee and watching her leave when she says, “Hey, is that a flyer for a Clementine Walker event? How much did you have to beg to make that happen?”
Ah, so we’re back to acknowledging we know each other, then. Okay. “A happy coincidence,” I say, carefully pouring in the milk.
“Well, I’m curious to meet the legend herself. Shame it’s not for another month. I’ll have to put it into my calendar.”
Is she screwing with me? She’s gonna come to the Clementine Walker event? I can’t tell if she’s trying to ruin it for me or if this is a genuine attempt to be friends. But I
don’t have time to gauge it because the dad who loved my graphic novel recommendations appears right behind her.
Judging from the bounce in his step, I’m guessing the last round went well.
And Jasmine is going to hear all about it unless I can get her out of here.
“That’ll be $5.26,” I tell Jasmine, pushing her drink forward.
She squints at the top. “That’s supposed to be a puppy? Really?”
Dammit, I forgot to be fancy with the top. Then again, it doesn’t look much different than if I’d actually tried, judging by my earlier attempts. “What, you don’t see it? There’s the nose right there.”
She raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. She hands over her credit card—of course she has her own—which reads Jasmine H Killary in crisp letters. The H stands for Helene. I hate that I know that.
“You draw puppies in the coffee now?” Graphic Novel Dad pipes up from behind Jasmine. “I’ll have one of those too, please. And some more book recommendations if you’ve got ’em! I’m picking up the new Candy Buttons book today, but she goes through these so fast, I have to find something new.”
So much for getting Jasmine out of here.
There’s an unreadable look on her face as she says, “They have Candy Buttons? I may have to go pick up the new one myself.”
“They have a great graphic novel section here since this one started,” he says with a nod in my direction. I suddenly find myself very busy with literally anything but meeting Jasmine’s gaze. “She helped me find some great books for my daughter, and I’m sure she’d be happy to help you too.”
“I’ll check out what there is first,” she says, taking back her card. “Thanks for this.”
I make a choked sound in response as I watch her head off to see that I’ve had Beth stock the store with every single one of her favorites, every book she passed to me that I fell in love with, every book I knew would find fans if we carried it.
I make the dad’s drink and chat with him about some other choices for his daughter—Mooncakes and This One Summer and I am Alfonso Jones, recommendations I found on book blogs and promptly devoured—while I brace myself for Jasmine’s return.
He leaves before she gets back, and her drink goes cold. I help myself to a few sips of it and make her a new one with shaking fingers, art and all. It’s my worst design of the day, no question, but when she comes back to the counter with a smile on her lips, I have a feeling she won’t mind. “That’s a nice selection you have there.” She glances at the coffee and laughs. “And a nice … spider?”
“I’m new at this,” I mutter.
“Well, thank you for the new coffee. And for the books. You even have some I haven’t tried yet; I’m gonna go ahead and buy a few.”
“Great.”
“Great indeed.” She picks up her cup and tips it lightly in my direction with a “Bye, Tinkerbell” that sends a tremor through my knees.
Or maybe it’s the caffeine.
* * *
After spending the whole morning standing over the steam of the cappuccino machine, an afternoon at Kiki’s pool is exactly what I need. My hair is a mess of frizz and even in all black, you can see the zillion places I spilled coffee and foam on myself today. I call my messy self out before the others can beat me to it and change into one of the bathing suits I keep at Kiki’s, because where else do I really need them now?
“Thank God it’s still warm enough to sit by the pool,” says Gia, ever dramatic as she stretches out on a floating raft, trailing her fingers in the water.
“Barely,” I say miserably, stretching my legs out from my seat on the second-highest step. “I can feel my tan fading already.” It’s impossible to shake the concern that every little change I went through this summer has contributed to Chase’s attraction, and even though it would make him a colossal ass if it were true, and even though he already said it isn’t about how I look, I can’t help feeling like if I shed too much of the summer, he’ll realize I’m the same girl he wasn’t interested in last year or the year before that.
“You can always join me at the salon,” Gia singsongs. She is the queen of spray tans and is always trying to convince us to come along, but I just can’t get on board. I would end up leaving splotches of orange on white surfaces all over town.
“Not gonna happen, G,” says Shannon, slathering on another layer of sunscreen at the mere mention of tans. “Painting your skin is weird.”
Kiki, who’s Japanese American and naturally darker than the rest of us, just snorts and does a somersault in the pool.
“You’re all gonna change your minds when it comes time to buy homecoming dresses,” Gia warns.
“Speak for yourself,” says Shannon. “I am wearing red lipstick and it’s gonna look perfect with my paleness, thank you very much.”
“How do you know what you’re wearing already? We haven’t even gone shopping yet,” I say. I haven’t given a ton of thought to Homecoming this year, but I’ve imagined myself on Chase’s arm at it enough in the past. The dress is always nebulous, though—I like clothes, but being on a tight budget means shopping always feels like a mixed bag, for fear I’ll find something I absolutely love that I can’t take home in a million years.
It was a double-edged sword shopping with Jasmine—she knew my limitations, and like that night at the poker game, she never acknowledged them out loud; she just made sure we went to places that’d work for me. It was uncomfortable in its own way, but it didn’t have that overhang of dread that shopping with Shannon did, the worry that she’d find something she thought looked so good on me she’d say “Just pay me back later” or “You have your mom’s card—who cares if it’s a little over budget?” And I couldn’t get mad when she was trying to be nice. It wasn’t her fault she was spoiled and completely clueless. But I couldn’t exactly get mad at my mom either. All it left me with was a lot of frustration that usually had me going home with a headache.
This year, though … this year I have a date. The date. Chase hasn’t officially asked me yet, but we’d had a good time the night before, and he’d asked me out again for the next weekend. He wouldn’t ask me out again and not ask me to the second biggest dance of the year that was only a month from now, would he?
I lift my face to the sun, just in case.
“Some of us don’t pull off every single color,” says Gia with a sniff, as if I should somehow feel bad that green doesn’t make me look sick the way it does to her, and white looks good as long as I’ve gotten some sun, the way it never would on Shannon. “We have to do some advance planning.”
“Speaking of advance planning,” says Shannon, “has Chase asked you yet? You were very stingy on date details last night.”
She’s referring to the group text that went on for half an hour after I got home, and she’s full of crap because I told them everything from how much of the movie we spent making out (at least half) to what snacks we got (popcorn with extra butter and Milk Duds—he’s a man of taste) to his exact wording when he asked me out for the next weekend (“I had a great time tonight—do you maybe wanna hang out again after the game next Friday?”) But she’s right that I didn’t say anything about Homecoming, because it never came up.
Maybe it’s more of a third date conversation?
“I can’t believe you went on a date with Chase Harding and you’re not talking about it nonstop.” Kiki sends a delicate splash in my direction. “Who even are you? This is like the only thing you’ve wanted for six years.”
Is it? God, that’s sad. If you ask me what I want now, it’s so many things—to learn how to sail, to show everyone my newfound poker skills, to spend a Sunday taking pictures at the botanical garden, to make perfect latte art, to meet Clementine Walker, to get my bookselling job back, to maybe even finish writing that romance novel someday.
But these girls don’t know any of that. They know I like to party. They know I’m a dependable listener when it comes to relationship drama and a good roller
coaster buddy and I find great discounts. That I like movie nights where we wear face masks and throw popcorn at each other, and that I can quote every word of my favorites (and that those favorites include everything from the fluffiest rom-com to the goriest horror flick). They know I’m a good shopping buddy, and the one you turn to if you need help with an English assignment. That if we go into the city on a weekend, I’m gonna push to eat at my favorite Russian restaurant. And all of that is true. It is who I am. Who I’ve always been.
But now I know I’m all this other stuff too, and I certainly don’t wanna be first and foremost the Girl Obsessed with Chase Harding.
Except I was the girl obsessed with Chase Harding, so where has that obsession gone, now that we’re finally together? Was it only the thrill of the chase (pun not intended), or is there more to it?
How do you tell your closest friends, when you only have one year left before you all head off in new directions, that they don’t know you as well as they think?
How do you have that conversation when it means facing that you didn’t know yourself as well as you thought you did?
I close my eyes and think of all the things I’ve told these girls in the past—my first period, my first kiss, my first Father’s Day rage cry, my first “oh my God, I am helplessly in love with this boy.”
Telling them something has always been what makes it real.
Maybe I’m not ready for that yet.
No, not maybe—I am definitely not ready for that.
“There’ll be more,” I say to assure them and myself, letting the sun warm my skin. “Don’t worry, you’ll have to hear about each and every one.”
The other girls boo, and Kiki splashes much less delicately in my direction. And I smile.
* * *
Monday at lunch, though, boys are anything but the topic of discussion. At some point over the weekend—between movie dates, lounging at the pool, and another morning spent drawing bad leaves in lattes—college fever swept the entire town of Stratford. It might be because early decision deadlines are nearing, or because Homecoming is the other thing on everyone’s mind and people are about to return from all over, anxious to tell us how much they looooove their schools and prying like mad about where we’re going, but whatever it is, Shannon, Kiki, and Gia have come armed to our centrally located table today.
