by Dahlia Adler
Just what?
That’s your problem, Shannon would say. You can’t accept a “just.” You think you can, but you always need to know what’s past that, and sometimes, there’s nothing.
Maybe talking to Shannon is exactly what I need. She may give way too much advice, and sometimes it’s downright bad, but not always. Sometimes it’s exactly what I need to hear, enough that I hear it even when she’s thousands of miles away. I light up my phone to check the time and do a quick calculation to see if it’s too late to call.
It’s about one in the morning in Paris, which is sort of on the border of acceptable, but what would I say? Hey, Shan—I’ve been hooking up with this girl and I’m confused about what it means? How would she know, without knowing Jasmine?
Maybe imaginary Shannon’s advice is right, though. Sometimes “just” is exactly that. Jasmine and I are just having fun. It’s not even like things are happening intentionally; they just happen when we’re doing other things. What could be more “just” than that?
Satisfied, I do one last touch-up of my makeup, take a selfie, and pick up the newest Clementine Walker book. Who needs tough love when you can escape into pure fluff?
* * *
Half an hour later, the boil is in full swing, and guests are swarming the gingham-covered tables piled high with jumbo shrimp, crawfish, sausage, crab, and corn. The air smells salty and briny and spicy and sweet, and my mouth is watering, even though I’m secretly scared of the crawfish and their freaky heads.
“Are you coming or what?” Jasmine calls from the table where she’s sitting with Keisha, Brea, Derek, and Owen, glass bottles of colorful wine coolers dotting the cloth in front of them. “Where have you been?”
I’d gotten too wrapped up in my book, which is embarrassing since I’d already read it once this summer. I only looked up from it because Gia FaceTimed me from cheer camp, which she does every week to show me what I’m missing by dropping off the squad, and by the time we hung up, everyone was here and the food was out of the pots and on the table.
“Friend called” is all I offer as I grab a plate and sit my butt in one of the white plastic chairs, my eyes roving hungrily over the selection. Sausage is an easy choice—you don’t grow up the granddaughter of Tolya Bogdan without kolbasa being one of your major food groups. I glance at my mom and see she had the same idea. Declan is sitting next to her and laughing as he gestures to the other food.
“You’re missing some damn good crawfish,” says Keisha, plucking one from the pile and cracking it open so quickly I can’t even see how she’s doing it. “They don’t make ’em like this in DC. Best part of coming here for the summers.”
“And that’s from someone who doesn’t even eat it right,” says Derek, picking up one of the bright red creepers, twisting it, and—oh God, is he sucking something right out of the shell?
“Drinking the juice is so gross.” Brea wrinkles her nose. “Keisha eats it the normal way.”
“The juice is the best part!” Jasmine protests, and it’s dizzying watching them all attack the pile with different methods. There’s twisting and pulling and cracking and drinking and biting and loud savoring, but I can’t follow any of it; I help myself to the clams instead.
Clearly, I’m not very subtle. “Are you not even gonna try them?” Jasmine asks, eyeing my plate as if it’s got nothing but plain white rice on it.
“I’m good,” I say. I’m not about to admit that I don’t know how to eat them.
“Don’t tell me you’re scared of them like your mom.”
“Hey, leave my mom out of this.” I wave a hand dismissively. “The clams and sausage are delicious.”
Brea sighs. “Sugar, you’re from New York. There’s no crime in being a Yankee who doesn’t know how to eat crawfish. Just admit it.”
My face flames, but the others smirk and eat another one each, building the pile of shells in the bowl in front of us.
Jasmine laughs. “Come on, I’ll show you. Pick one up.”
I watch her fingers as she carefully pries the shell from the fish, mint polish catching the sunlight. I grab one and try to replicate her movements, but I end up squishing it in my hands and shrieking in surprise.
Everyone else cracks up, but Jasmine grins and says, “Okay, let’s at least make sure you get to taste it.” She tips the shell holding the juice into my mouth, and I’m determined not to be grossed out. It actually is good, in fact, especially followed by the fish itself, which she frees and holds for me to eat from her fingertips.
“Fine, that’s good,” I concede, “but I’m clearly not up to cracking them open myself.”
“I’ve got you covered.” Jasmine opens another and feeds it to me the same way, and we laugh as I manage to spill on myself. After a while, we get into a messy rhythm, and I can’t even count how many the five of us eat as the sun sinks below the horizon.
By the time the party dies down and cleanup begins, I feel like a beached whale, but it’s worth it. This might be the most fun I’ve had the entire summer. I miss my friends, but the ones I’ve made here are so awesome, it’s impossible to wish I’d chosen cheer camp with Gia, or be jealous of Shannon’s trip to Paris or Kiki’s to Japan, and I’m certainly no longer wishing I were dusting off shelves at the Book and Bean.
Keisha and Owen even stay to help clean up. Keisha and I are clearing glasses and cans from the table when she says, “You two are cute.”
I cock my head. “Who two?”
Her eyebrow rises all the way up. “Seriously?”
A billion crawfish slosh in my stomach, swimming in apple-flavored wine cooler. I don’t know why, but I want to hear her say it out loud, maybe so I can stop feeling delusional. But I already played clueless, and to acknowledge that I know who she’s referring to is to acknowledge that I see something too. Which is not an option. I shrug instead.
She rolls her eyes, but lets it go. She’s certainly had enough annoying experience with people trying to pair her up. “Do you think you’ll come back next summer? Or is this a one-time thing for you and your mom?”
It hadn’t occurred to me that we might never do this again. But then, I haven’t really given much thought to this ending, life going back to the status quo. It’s too hard to imagine waking up in a home that isn’t filled with the sound of Jasmine tunelessly humming her favorite indie rock songs, or going to parties where no one’s taking bets on how many drinks it’ll take Owen to challenge someone to a dance-off. (He always loses. He’s a horrible dancer, whereas Jack’s classically trained in ballet, Brea’s so flexible her body moves like liquid, and Keisha’s number one goal after declaring a computer science major her sophomore year is to join the Georgetown step team.)
Could I be part of this group for real? I think I’d like to be. I love my friends at home—how much fun we have and how much we push each other and are there for each other—but here I feel like … I get to be and do other things. I don’t have to know exactly who I am and what I want. I’m a summer girl, living my highlight reel. Maybe I don’t want anything realer than that.
But, much like I didn’t have a choice this summer, I won’t next time either.
“Depends on my mom’s job,” I say, already afraid to get too attached to the idea. “But I’d like to. I like hanging out with you guys.”
A small, knowing smile tugs at her lips that says, “Yeah, I know who you like hanging out with.” And even though it’s absurd and terrible, I want her to press the issue one more time, out loud, to tell me we look like something even though I don’t know if I want us to look like something. But Keisha’s not that person, and we finish cleaning the table in silence.
NOW
I make an excuse to leave the party and pull out my phone as I steal into the backyard. I’ve only spoken to Keisha a few times since the summer—commenting on each other’s selfies, a group chat to tell us she made the step team so we could send every celebratory emoji in existence—but I call her without hesitation. I don’
t want to have this conversation without hearing her tone of voice.
“Hey, girl,” she greets me, instantly transporting me back to the deck of her parents’ house, to afternoons spent playing spades and hearts over sweet tea and messing around in her closet with Brea and Jasmine while she played Fortnite with some friend from school. “What’s up?”
The question that’d been dancing on the tip of my tongue dies. “Long time, no speak,” I say, despite it being one of my most hated phrases. “I’m at a party and I was thinking of you. Thought I’d say hi.”
It’s not a total lie, anyway.
“Ooh, is that the same party Jasmine’s at? It looks like fun!”
I blink slowly. “How did you know Jasmine’s here?”
“I helped her pick an outfit over FaceTime, and I just saw her karaoke performance on IG Live. That was hot.”
You have no idea. Just like I had no idea they spoke so often in the off season. So much for baring my soul to Keisha. “Did you know she was transferring here?”
“I mean, it was a pretty last-minute decision, so I didn’t know until the night before. All she told me was that her mom was selling their house and moving up near family, so they figured it’d make more sense for her to be at the same school all year. It was a little weird that her mom wouldn’t just wait until after graduation, but Jas seemed cool about it. Anyway, you’d know better than I would.”
You’d think. So many secrets. So many questions.
I sidestep that. I don’t want her to know that I don’t know, that my closeness with Jasmine this past summer was some sort of temporary thing, tied to the tide or whatever. “Well, I assume that since we’re both up here, that means we can get you up for a visit.”
Keisha laughs. “You know I had this conversation with Jasmine like two hours ago, right? Y’all coordinate this coercion or what?”
“You know we did,” I lie, because I don’t know how to explain why we wouldn’t have. “Does that mean you’re thinking about it?”
“I am. Trying to work a few things out, but I’ll let y’all know.”
I’m surprised to find that the idea of Keisha coming to visit dislodges something in my chest and makes it a little easier to breathe. Seeing Keisha again would be like getting a piece of my summer back, connecting that part of me to current me in a way that seeing Jasmine only tears apart.
It’s been a long time since I’ve felt like myself, I realize. Maybe seeing Keisha will bring that back.
Maybe it’ll bring me and Jasmine back to normal too.
Whatever that is.
Chapter Sixteen
It’s an unusually slow morning at the Book and Bean, and I can’t drink any more failed latte art, so I do something I’ve been both itching to do and dreading.
I pick up the book I started writing this summer.
I’d tried to sit at my laptop in the beach house but typing on a computer made the attempt too real, so I’d bought a flamingo-patterned spiral notebook at some cheesy tourist shop, planted myself in a chaise by the pool, and wrote. But I didn’t get far. It was a silly, rambling story about a guy named Oliver and a girl named Jillian who meet on the beach in—where else—the Outer Banks and hit it off, only to learn they’re living in the same house for the summer. Unfortunately, after that initial “Oh no!” moment, I completely ran out of plot, so I put the notebook away and forgot about it.
But after talking to Keisha last night, it hits me—Oliver and Jillian aren’t alone in the house. They have roommates. At least two of them. As soon as that comes to me, those characters start to draw themselves in my brain, and I introduce Andrew, a lifeguard who has his pick of the ladies, and Nadia, because of course I had to write a Russian girl. Nadia’s working as a waitress and perpetually smells like fried shrimp, so much so that Jillian has to look twice to realize that with her impossibly long legs and white-blond hair, Nadia’s stunning.
My pen pauses on the page. Why would it matter that Nadia’s stunning when Oliver’s the love interest? Hmm, maybe Jillian’s jealous, nervous that Oliver will gravitate toward her instead? No, I don’t see Jillian as insecure, and I definitely don’t want some girl-hate scenario … I make sure they have a friendly encounter, and grin as I write Nadia breaking out into some Russian swears as she drops her coffee mug.
“You might want to work on those skills before you start your job,” Jillian warns her, voice filled with teasing warmth. “I don’t think that’s how customers generally prefer to get free refills.”
My phone beeps, and I tear myself from my notebook to look at the screen.
Spoke to Keisha last night. Says she spoke to you about coming to visit.
It’s the first text I’ve received from Jasmine since she replied with a heart emoji to the goodbye text I sent her from the airport in Norfolk. It’s still visible in the chain. I could scroll up and see pages and pages of proof that we were more than we feel like now.
But I don’t.
My entire body goes cold at the sight of her name, at the taunting red heart. What the fuck was that song last night? I’m the one with a boyfriend. I’ve clearly moved on. Why the hell does she need to sing to me in front of an entire room of my friends—my friends, no matter what sort of bond is happening between her and Shannon—that it was only a stupid summer game? I know. I have a boyfriend.
And neither she nor my boyfriend ever needs to know how I felt hearing that song, or how I felt watching her onstage, or how I ran out to call Keisha because I wanted to hear from someone who once upon a time thought we looked like two people who liked each other. I fucking went down on Chase last night. I’m doing everything right. I’m doing all the things I’m supposed to be doing.
So why do I want to stand here and cry into glass bottles of flavored syrup?
Yep, I reply, blinking back the tears pinpricking my eyelids. She said you mentioned it too. Great minds, I guess.
Not a minute later, the reply comes. Yeah, well, we’ll let you know when we figure out a date.
That’s what Jasmine just had to text me about the day after that performance? She wanted to let me know I wouldn’t be part of this planning conversation? God, I don’t even know why I’m surprised by her bullshit anymore. If she wanted to talk, she could’ve come down here; she knows exactly where I am at 10:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning. Everyone does. And if she didn’t wanna talk, well, I guess this is how she lets me know it.
Thanks, I guess, I think.
Thx is what I actually type.
I put my phone away and turn back to my notebook, happy to spend time with people who can’t send me shitty text messages. It’s easier than I expect to pick up where I left off. Nadia giving a teasing response to Jillian. Jillian playfully replying in Nadia’s Russian accent, then asking her to teach her those swear words. At some point as I write, I realize I’ve left Oliver out of the story, and I messily add that Jillian is talking to Nadia while waiting for The Guy to show his face again.
I’m on a serious roll when I’m suddenly interrupted by fingers waving over my page. I look up, blinking into the light as I remember I’m at work, and am startled to see Chase standing there, hazel eyes twinkling as he laughs. “What’s got you so busy? I called your name like three times. Are you late on an assignment?”
Well, I guess The Guy has arrived. “Just something for fun.” I close the notebook reluctantly and tuck it under the counter. “What brings you to the Book and Bean? Have you heard about our stunning latte art?”
“Hmm, I do recall a beautiful girl I was at a party with last night mentioning something about that. Thought I should see for myself, and maybe see if the barista was up for throwing in a kiss.”
A kiss sounds like the perfect way to forget all this stupid drama, and I stand on my toes and pull Chase down by his collar, closing the height gap between us as I press my lips to his. I kiss him with all the force of my anger and confusion at Jasmine and the want for him I had for so damn long.
When we break apar
t, he looks a little bit like a cartoon character who’s just been hit with a mallet, stars and birdies flying around his head.
He looks like I wish I felt. But all I really feel is that I can’t wait to finish the scene between Jillian and Nadia.
* * *
By Monday morning, I feel like I’m gonna explode if I don’t talk to someone about what’s going on in my head. I go through the pros and cons of talking to my mom, to Shannon, to Kiki, to Gia, but I can’t imagine having this conversation with any of them. I don’t really know where my mom stands on same-sex relationship stuff, but it isn’t exactly smiled upon in the motherland. I tell her just about everything, but considering it involves her boss’s daughter, I need a little more certainty before I drop this particular bomb.
As for the others … even if they were chill about that—and I feel pretty confident at least Shannon and Kiki would be, if not Gia, who comes from a super traditional family—none of them would take being lied to all semester very well. And maybe Kiki already knows something and maybe she doesn’t, but her podcast is more popular than ever, and I don’t know that I can trust her to keep quiet.
When I walk into AP Enviro, I’m hit by the most obvious answer in the world.
“Hey, partner,” I say as I take my seat next to Jamie. “How was your weekend?”
“Good!” Her face brightens. “I took Taylor into the city on Friday night to see their favorite band—I got tickets for their birthday. Had a great time. You? I assume you went to Ferris’s party.”
“I did. It was fun,” I say automatically, knowing that there’s no way the expression on my face matches the glow on hers when she talks about her date with Taylor. But she’s given me an opening, and I need to take it before the bell rings. “Typical. Not quite the same as a world-class date.” I wiggle my eyebrows and she laughs.
“Yeah, well, dates are more our thing than parties, anyway. The fewer people we know, the better.”
