Spring Romance

by Bailey, Tessa

  “Thank you.”

  “Perspectives and Connections,” mouthed Rory with a wry twist of his lips. “I’ll leave you to it.”

  Olive felt like she’d walked into a sub-zero freezer as Rory rose from the booth and tossed some bills on the table. He took one long final look at her and moved in a slow swagger toward the exit. And she couldn’t yell wait this time. Not if she wanted to maintain one ounce of self-respect. Instead, she turned in the booth and faced Leanne, trying desperately to swallow the lump in her throat. “So, um…where did we leave off last time? I think it was the—”

  Rory appeared to her left. “I left my phone at home. Write down your number,” he said, pronouncing it numba.

  “Who leaves their phone?” Leanne mused, playing with her own device.

  But Olive barely heard her over the sudden palpitations happening in her chest. By some feat of willpower, she managed not to break into song. She signaled Leanne for a pen and wrote her cell number on a straw wrapper, sliding it toward Rory. “Are you going to use it?”

  He left without answering.

  Olive smiled through the entire study session.

  He’d call.

  He’d totally call.

  Chapter Four

  No way Rory could call her.

  If he called Olive, he’d arrange a time to see her again. If he saw her again, once wouldn’t be enough. Time had stood still from the moment he pulled her out of the bus’s path, right up until he finally left Mike’s Shakes with her number in his pocket. Everything had taken a back seat to what she said next, how she moved, smelled, laughed.

  He sat on a bench in the Hut’s locker room now, staring down at the ripped straw wrapper, smoothing out the curled ends on his thigh. Around him, the locker room moved in ripples of animated color, the other lifeguards excited to kick off the summer season, already making plans to hit the boardwalk bars tonight. Lockers slammed, cell phones dinged, playful insults rang out.

  Meanwhile Rory was transfixed by ten digits on a narrow strip of white paper. She’d drawn smiley faces in her zeroes, which was just further proof calling the number was a bad idea. And yet. If he hadn’t left his phone at home, he would have already texted her.

  There had been an unusual tug in his gut the entire time and it was more than him being turned on. He’d wanted to sit her in his lap and feed her milkshakes and find out what caused all her different smiles. The teasing one was his favorite by far. The one that challenged him to stop being so serious.

  Funny enough, serious wasn’t Rory’s thing. Definitely not when it came to women. He was a temporary thrill—and it went both ways. Yet he’d found himself…exposed in front of Olive. More than once. And she’d barely pushed. His guard had dropped itself before he knew what happened. Would he take back those moments if he could?

  No. No, he wouldn’t change a single thing about that morning.

  An elbow caught him in the side and Rory lifted his head to find Jamie sitting beside him. How long had his brother been there? “Hey.”

  Jamie eyeballed the straw wrapper. “Eventful walk to work?”

  Rory sighed and dragged a hand through his hair. “You could say that.”

  “She smiley faced her zeroes.”

  “Yeah.”

  They sat in silence for a moment.

  “You going to call her?” Jamie prompted, beginning to dig through his backpack.

  Rory stood, dropped the phone number onto the top shelf of his open locker and stripping off his shirt. “Nope.”

  “That sounds pretty definitive.”

  “Has to be.”

  “Why?”

  Off came the sweatpants, leaving Rory in his red, standard-issue lifeguard trunks. “She’s eighteen.” When Jamie winced, Rory made a sound of agreement. “That’s only the beginning. She’s a smart girl. College coming up. I’m not going to let her waste time on me.”

  Jamie’s brows snapped together. “I’d say you’re not a waste of time, but you wouldn’t believe me.”

  “She doesn’t even know I’ve done time.” His chest knotted thinking of how she’d react. Part of Rory wished he’d told her, just so he wouldn’t have to speculate forever what she might have said. “It was just a crazy, one-time thing. Nothing happened. We drank milkshakes.”

  “Since when do your crazy one-time things involve milkshakes?”

  “Since this morning, okay?” Rory shot back, pounding a fist into his locker. “Drop it.”

  Jamie adopted his signature cocky pose. Arms crossed, expression bored. “I’ll drop it when you throw her number in the trash.”

  Rory laughed and shook his head. “You prick.”

  “Can’t do it, can you?”

  Not a hope in hell. “Why is this such a big deal to you?”

  Jamie lost a degree of smugness. “Look, we’re all busy during the year. I’m teaching, Andrew never leaves the bar.” He shrugged a shoulder. “We see each other at home, but we’re not around each other non-stop, like we are in the summer. And every time Memorial Day weekend rolls around, you’re a little less…optimistic. About yourself. About everything.”

  The back of Rory’s neck pinched tight and he rolled the muscles to loosen them. “Are you sure you’re an economics teacher and not a counselor?”

  “Positive. How well do you think I’d handle adolescent feelings?”

  “Not well.”

  “No shit.” Jamie tipped his chin toward the top shelf of Rory’s locker. “And speaking of adolescents.”

  “Fuck you.”

  His brother grinned, but it was short lived. “You said she’s smart?”

  Rory swallowed and snatched the whistle out of his locker, dropping it over his head. “Yeah,” he rasped.

  “Then she had a reason for sliding you her digits. Maybe give her a little more credit.”

  He considered Jamie’s words for all of a second before disregarding them. “You can be smart and still be naïve. I’m doing her a favor.” His fingers paused in the process of engaging his Master lock. “I’m sitting there talking to her and my fucking eye is killing me from last night. I’m wondering if she smells the vodka coming out of my pores. And she’s so…fresh. And better. The waiter looks at me sideways this morning and I can’t—I couldn’t stop myself from getting pissed. Showing her exactly what I am. It wouldn’t work, Jamie.” A vision of Olive pushing up her glasses drifted into his conscience and stung him. “We only spent an hour together and I know it’s crazy, but if I went out with her, I’d want her to be…mine. Think about that. Some fucking ex-con locking down this young girl with a successful future her first summer out of her parents’ house. No matter how you slice it, I end up the villain. I don’t want to be her villain.”

  Jamie opened his mouth to respond, but he was interrupted by the door to the Hut flying open and rebounding off a row of lockers with an earsplitting rattle.

  “I’m here, cocksuckers.”

  Marcus “Diesel” O’Shaughnessy stood outlined in the doorway. All shirtless, six foot five inches of him. He swaggered into the Hut, stopping to high-five lifeguards and show off the new naked lady tattoo on his arm to everyone he passed.

  “For chrissakes,” Jamie muttered. “I’d almost forgotten about this asshole.”

  “Nope. Turns up every year like a bad penny.” Rory slid his brother a side glance. “You let me know if he says something stupid to you, all right?”

  A muscle flexed in Jamie’s cheek. “He’s a loudmouth, but he’s mostly harmless.” He shoved Rory off balance with his shoulder. “You have to stop fighting my battles for me—we know how that ends.” Jamie gave him a pointed look. “I can fight them myself.”

  “Right.” Rory let the subtle reminder of his incarceration roll off his shoulder. “You going to smother him with your book collection?”

  Jamie let his locker door swing open, revealing a neat row of novels. “I came prepared.”

  Rory was still shaking his head when Marcus reached them, rolling to a
stop like a goddamn tank and wrapping an arm around Jamie’s shoulders. “Ahhh, and who’s this hiding over here? How the hell are you, Jamie Prince?” He only laughed when Jamie muttered “please fuck off” under his breath. “Come on, man. I know you missed me.” He let go of Jamie, stepped back and flexed, creating the human version of a field goal. “Where else do you get quality eye candy like this? It’s got to be amazing for you to have me around.”

  Jamie blew out at breath at the ceiling. “Marcus, don’t make me suggest the quiet game this early in the summer.”

  Marcus pointed at him and grinned. “I’m going to win this time.”

  “You never win.”

  Even though he was trying to heed Jamie’s request to back off, Rory couldn’t help listening carefully to every word that came out of Marcus’s mouth, waiting for him to slip up and say something out of line. This kind of needling was par for the course with the oversized gym rat. He had a big mouth—and for some strange reason, he was always running it around Jamie. If it was anyone else giving Jamie a hard time, Rory wouldn’t be able to stop himself from stepping in, but Marcus genuinely seemed to like Jamie, though they were exact opposites. Insinuating that Jamie must be thrilled to ogle him, on account of Jamie being gay, was a bad assumption. And kind of offensive. Except it had become obvious over the course of several summers that Marcus had no clue his bullshit came off as rude. Still, why Jamie tolerated it, Rory had no idea.

  “I have some great news for you, Jamie Prince,” Marcus continued, stripping off his sweatpants and tossing them haphazardly into his open locker. “Andrew hired me as security at the Castle Gate this summer. To check IDs and shit. I’m a bouncer now, son.”

  “And today in self-fulfilling prophecies…” Jamie muttered.

  “You don’t have to be away from me a single second.” Marcus pulled his red lifeguard shorts on over his briefs, not-too-subtly adjusting his junk. “Lucky you.”

  “I’m ecstatic,” Jamie deadpanned, looping his whistle around his head. “I’m heading to my chair.”

  “Hold on, I’ll walk with you,” Marcus said, rushing to grab his gear. “I need some, ah…practice. Acting as a security guard.”

  Rory couldn’t help but laugh as Jamie staunchly ignored Marcus and bee-lined for the exit, forcing Marcus to lope after him in one flip-flop, the other in his gargantuan paw.

  Now that Rory was alone, the straw wrapper almost glowed from its position on the top shelf of his locker. Closing the door and leaving it there felt symbolic. That’s exactly what needed to be done with Olive. He needed to shut the door on the connection they’d made this morning and leave this funny, fresh-faced girl with a future alone. No calling her. No dating her. No searching out her face on the beach.

  He didn’t expect her to search him out instead. In the most unconventional way.

  Chapter Five

  Olive heaved a satisfied breath when she saw an open spot on the beach. Memorial Day weekend in Long Beach was pure insanity, and she thanked God her apartment was close enough to walk. Cars were in a dead gridlock around the town, parking spots being fought over like dogs with a bone. Frankly, the atmosphere of competitive relaxation was kind of intimidating, but she hadn’t been to the actual beach since moving in, and the incredible weather demanded she leave her studying behind and bask in the sunshine.

  It was Saturday, a perfectly acceptable day to be selfish. She would make up for neglecting her school work later and she’d have tan lines as a bonus.

  I have great news. No one studies during the summertime.

  Rory’s voice drifted down from the blue sky and she sighed. Since meeting him yesterday, snippets of their conversation seemed to find her at the oddest times. Like when she was using her vibrator on the highest setting last night and remembered him saying, Jesus Christ. Barely touched you. Wonder what that body would do if I got my hands and mouth on it?

  See? The oddest times.

  Olive snuck into the sliver of space and plunked down her beach bag. She rolled out her favorite towel, which was a headshot of Sigmund Freud above the words “Your Mom.” After making sure there wasn’t a single wrinkle in the towel, she sat down in the very center and applied sunscreen…beneath her cover up.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t like her boobs. It was that she hated her boobs. And even though she knew logically no one on the beach would pay them any attention, as soon as she removed the gauzy white top that skimmed her thighs, her brain would lie to her, whispering that everyone was staring at her rack. Thanks to homeschooling, she’d never been forced to walk down a high school hallway full of peers with her body’s changes on display. Once when Olive was fifteen, however, a neighborhood guy her age had been helping his mother carry groceries into the house. When he saw Olive waving across the street, he held two cantaloupes in front of his chest and called, “Hey, look. It’s Olive and her huge knockers.”

  She’d gone inside immediately and performed enough Internet research to know that her bust was above average in size and was properly horrified. And without her mother to confide in about her self-consciousness, she’d remained in that state for roughly three years. Now here she was, about to unveil her melons to the masses.

  Maybe she should have stayed home with her books. They were her solace—and that’s why she studied during the summertime and took bonus classes. She enjoyed it. When her parents asked her to take a step back from Meet the Cunninghams, she’d needed a distraction from the hurt. School work had been the easiest way to continue being productive without a camera on her. Not to mention, she’d had an ulterior motive in focusing on her grades. She’d hoped to win back her parents’ approval, but in the midst of YouTube glory, it had only been fleeting. Keep up the good work, Olive. Then back to their regularly scheduled program.

  Words on the page was where she snuggled up at night, whether they told tales of historical events, mathematics or dystopian futures with romance thrown in for good measure. She loved all of the words. Every single one.

  During her senior year of high school, she’d taken psychology as an elective and found herself fascinated by the different philosophies of thought. She’d had so many feelings about being placed in the opposite corner than her family, giving those feelings a more scientific term, such as separation anxiety had helped. She wasn’t just lonely, she was having the appropriate emotional response to isolation. It was right there in her textbooks and it helped to give that emptiness a name. Applying for colleges and choosing psych as her major had been a no-brainer. Why wouldn’t she want to help others deal with the same issues in the future? In the meantime, she would continue to deal with them herself.

  She was still far from overcoming them.

  Up until now, Olive had somehow managed to avoid looking at the closest lifeguard tower, but she did so now—and deflated when the guy sitting in the chair didn’t even resemble Rory a little bit. Although she wasn’t sure if it was in relief or disappointment.

  There was one thing she did know. She wasn’t going to sit around waiting for him to call. Or replaying their morning together and wondering if she could have done something differently. For years, she’d played that what if game with her family and it was a new day. A new day of matching shower curtains and towels, dammit.

  That burst of pride turned out to be exactly what Olive needed to remove her cover-up. She whipped it off and stuffed it into her beach bag. There. Done. She’d inflicted her breasts on the beach and they’d just have to deal. Tan lines or bust.

  Olive placed her glasses carefully in her bag’s front pocket and flopped down on her back, dug her heels into the granules of sand and cleared her mind of insecurities and what ifs, letting the sun’s heat bake them away. Salsa music reached her ears from one side, rap music from the other. The beach goers were jovial, calling to each other, their voices dripping with Long Island. Kids squealed down at the water line and occasionally kicked sand onto Olive as they ran past. The chaos somehow took place around her without involving
her, though, leaving her to bask in anonymity, the heat nearly putting her to sleep.

  She wasn’t sure what caused her eyes to pop open. Or what caused a pinwheel to roll down her spine. Something made her sit up, though, fanning herself with a hand to cool her sun-warmed skin. Without fail, her attention drifted to the lifeguard station—and there he was.

  Rory leaned forward in the elevated chair, his hands clasped loosely between his knees, watching her behind a pair of black sunglasses. Yes, there was no doubt he watched her, a muscle ticking in his cheek. The tattoos hadn’t been fully visible the day before, but they were on full display now, hugging big portions of his skin like spiderwebs. And Olive might as well have been naked for the awareness that crept over her, lifting goose bumps down the length of her arms, making her thighs feel like gelatin, all the way up to her sex. When had he gotten there? How long had he been watching her? How did he reach out and touch her from thirty yards away?

  Olive turned back around to face the water, forcing her fingers to stop clutching the sides of the towel. He hadn’t even waved. Or smiled. He almost looked mad at her, which made no sense, since he’d been the one to not call. What would a cool, calm and collected adult with a new Bed Bath & Beyond credit card do in this situation? Olive had no clue, but if she sat there much longer, she was going to melt under his close scrutiny.

  Reminding herself that no one cared about her boobs, Olive stood up, wincing when she had no choice to dust some stray sand off her butt, and walked casually toward the water. Really, she’d been planning to go for a swim at some point. She’d never even dipped a toe into the Atlantic Ocean, so now was a good a time as any.

  “Oh my God,” she croaked when icy cold water rushed up her ankles and licked at her knees. “It’s eighty degrees. Shouldn’t you be warm?”

  There was no choice but to wade in farther after coming this far. It hurt, though. She wanted to be back on top of Sigmund Freud cultivating a tan, not courting hypothermia.