Literally everything is wrong with this picture.
What am I doing here?
I don’t have a chance to rethink my plans, because the door swings open and a stream of Stratford kids comes pouring out. I recognize them as the tennis team, and a bunch of them say hi to us as they curl around the house and head into the yard. A quick peek past them shows it’s probably too crowded inside to get to the French doors that exit to the deck with the hot tub, and oh God I remember this house so much better than I thought I did, which somehow makes everything feel worse.
The minute we walk in, Shannon, Kiki, and Gia descend on me, pulling me toward the kitchen while Chase accepts high fives and shoulder claps from adoring fans and teammates.
“So? How was the ride?” Kiki asks, waggling her eyebrows.
“Did you discuss his tight end?” Shannon’s voice could not sound pervier.
Gia spares me—dirty humor isn’t her thing—but her big Bambi eyes widen and I can tell she’s waiting for a response.
I roll my eyes. “It was a car ride. We talked about normal things. We’re friends. We talk about things.”
“We’re friends,” Shannon says mockingly. “Oh, please. Fine, play it cool here, Bogdan, but when you’re done with work tomorrow, we’re going to Lily’s and we’re getting waffles and you are giving us a full—”
“Here you go, as promised!” A long, bronzed arm jangling with bangles reaches between us and holds out two long-necked bottles, which Shannon and Kiki pluck from familiar purple-tipped fingers. “And a cider for you.” Jasmine hands a bottle to Gia with her other hand, and only when she has nothing left to offer does she realize I’m standing there with them. “Hey,” she says with far less enthusiasm.
“Hey, yourself.”
“Oh, you two have met!” Kiki says.
It’s exactly the opening that can break open the truth. I could say, “We spent the summer together.” I could say, “My mom works for her dad.” But like with Chase’s jacket, I don’t want to make any moves until she and I talk—reallytalk—and I find out what the hell is going on.
“We’re in English together” is all I offer, and I watch as Jasmine takes in my answer, takes in that I haven’t told my friends about her. I try to convey with my eyes that it’s a temporary response, that maybe it can change if she wants it to, but she just nods.
No upset, no surprise—just acceptance.
Suddenly, it’s too much. It’s all too much. The secrets and the summer hanging heavy between us and the meshing of my OBX life and my Stratford life, here in Jasmine fucking Killary’s kitchen… it’s too much.
“Can you show me where the bathroom is?” I ask Jasmine in a rush.
She starts to respond, and I motion as if I can’t hear her. If she thinks she’s getting out of having a real conversation, she’s got another think coming. Thankfully,thatshe picks up on pretty quick, and soon she’s leading me out of the kitchen and—as soon as no one’s paying attention—up the stairs and to her bedroom.
It takes me a few seconds to realize that’s what room we’re in, because it looks so wildly unlike her, it’s hard to imagine that this is where she sleeps. Even her vacation house had more personal character than this. There are no photos, no posters, no colorful scarves draped on anything, and she’s gone from an entire case of books in her Outer Banks house to a single shelf here, most of which are for school. There isn’t even any makeup strewn over her desk.
For the millionth time since I first spotted her in Stratford, I wonder if the Jasmine Killary I knew this summer was real.
“I see we’re sticking with the secret route,” she says, and I was so lost in observing everything that isn’t there that I’m startled by the sound of her voice. I open my mouth to say that we don’t have to, but she adds, “I think that’s a good idea.”
Even though I was expecting it, it feels like a shot to the heart. I don’t answer right away, instead giving myself a little tour of her room. “Where’s all your stuff?”
“In Asheville, mostly. My mom’s selling the house and moving near family, so it didn’t seem worth it to drag everything up here when I’d just be moving again next year.”
Of course her mom would be selling their house, since it’s the scene of one of my favorite memories of the entire summer. Burning those memories down seems to be the theme of the week. In another life, I would’ve asked how she feels about losing her childhood home, and whether her mom’s move is the reason she’s here for the year, but we’re in this alternate life now, so all I can do is make a stupid joke.
“I’m sure your dad would’ve sprung for a newCrazy Rich Asiansposter. Hell, I can’t believe you moved in without some sort of decorating clause in the contract.”
Her only response is a little snort. Which means she’s serious about not wanting to dig into our summer, to the many times we watched that movie together, to the day we found the poster at a dollar store and she declared she had to have it. She doesn’t even want to take this opportunity to talk about why, after ten years of a custody situation that’s functioned like clockwork despite the frosty divorce behind it, things have suddenly changed.
She’s serious about burying it all, which means I should be too.
“You really want to just pretend this summer never happened,” I say, finally turning.
“Don’t you?” she says, and I look up. Is that hurt in her eyes? It’s impossible to tell when they’re rimmed in kohl like that, glittering like liquid amber peeking from a cloud of smoke. And now that I’m meeting her gaze, I can’t look away. She has this stupid fucking hold on me, and she knows it.
I’ve never been attracted to girls. I have lain awakeso many nights wondering, replaying nights in my mind of hanging out with Shannon, Kiki, Gia, Jamie, whoever, trying to find Signs. Objectively, they’re all pretty, maybe even beautiful. But kissing them, touching them, being with them… it’s never once crossed my mind. It still doesn’t.
