Maybe Chase and I aren’t official yet, but by the end of our next date, we damn well will be.
And my summer with Jasmine will be a distant memory.
Chapter Seven
THEN
It’s been three days of fruitful tanning and fruitless job hunting when someone finally blocks out my sun. I look up to see Jasmine standing over me, an impressive camera bag slung over her shoulder. “Listen,” she says without preamble, because she doesn’t believe in preamble. “My dad feels really bad about screwing you out of a job, and I could use an assistant this summer, so how do you feel about helping me out a few days a week, all expenses paid by Papa Dec?”
I shift slowly into a sitting position, trying to take this in. Jasmine and I have barely spoken since the night of the party. In fact, I’ve barely even seen her. It’s only by the grace of Keisha, Brea, and Derek that I’ve had anyone to hang out with at all.
Also, an assistant? For what? If she does anything other than read, tan, and make out with Carter, it’snews to me. If she thinks I’m going to be carrying her bag around like she’s some celebutante—
“I’m a photographer,” she says, a little smile playing on her lips that makes it clear my confusion was obvious. “Well, I’m a web designer, but I’m building a stock photo portfolio as part of that. I’ve already gotten all the beach and bikini shots I can handle for the week, so I was thinking of heading down to the Elizabethan Gardens to get some flower shots. You in or not? I gotta go in the next half hour to get the right light.”
There is suddenly a lot happening, but I’m bored as hell and I could use the money and company. Plus, the Elizabethan Gardens sound pretty, and I haven’t done a single touristy thing since I got here other than check out a billion cheesy shops selling magnets shaped like flip-flops and wind chimes with surfboard charms. I take a quick shower and throw on cutoffs and a tank top, and we hit the road to Manteo.
Jasmine is not a woman of many words, and I’m trying not to be annoying though I have a zillion questions about her business, so all I learn on the twenty-minute drive is her favorite music—or at least whatever she listens to in the car—is all by bands I’ve never heard of: Chronic Apathy, the Pepperpots, Glory Alabama, the Brightsiders, and some group whose name I don’t catch but who are definitely singing about wishing they were the scar on Padma Lakshmi’s arm.
Once we’re among the flowers, though, it’s like she’s a different person. As she sets up her shots, she explains to me how she can use some as background options for her website templates, and others might be used onbook covers with other elements photoshopped in. She takes close-ups of brightly colored blooms and impossible shots of fluttering butterflies, and I’m so mesmerized watching her work, and how she seems to know the names of every blossom and creature, that I don’t hear her the first time she says, “Jump in one.”
The second time she says it, I immediately respond, “Nah, it’s OK. I don’t wanna get in your way.” But truthfully, I do, because the background is gorgeous, and let’s be real, I am not one to pass up a good profile pic.
Thankfully, she sees right through me, and before I can protest again, she yanks me over to a bench surrounded by fragrant patches of lilies and sits me down. “You know,” she says, frowning in concentration as she fusses with my shoulder-length, nutmeg-colored mess, “I’m jealous. Your hair has so many possibilities. You could chop it to your chin and would look amazing, especially with a little curl.”
“That’s too much—I could never go that short,” I say, though I’m already picturing it and I don’t hate what I see.
“The summer’s young,” she says with a smile, stepping back and handing me a petal-pink lip gloss from her bag. “It’s always a good time to get brave and make some fun changes.”
I dab on the gloss and hand it back, patently ignoring the little chill of excitement at the thought of coming back to Stratford with a different look—one that wasn’t advised, evaluated, and picked apart by my friends first. Then I smile, pout, and otherwise pose my way through a photo shoot with Jasmine mock-barking commands atme every time I move my limbs. “More duck face!” she demands, taking shot after shot of me pushing my lips up and out until they take up half my face. “More! Duckier! I saidduckier!”
Eventually, we have to stop because I’m laughing too hard, and Jasmine goes back to taking her more official photos while I scramble to take light meter readings and rearrange stems.
After a couple of hours in the sweltering heat, I’m sweating like a pig and mentally begging for Jasmine to call it a day, but she doesn’t seem to notice the temperature. There’s no moisture beading on the skin above her tube top, and her flowy skirt dances as she moves, making it look like she’s bringing her own breeze with her wherever she goes. Even the dark, honey-highlighted hair piled into a bun on top of her head isn’t sticking to her face.
“Middle Eastern blood,” she says with a shrug, and I curse my Russian DNA for leaving me unprepared. Next to her, I look like a panting sheepdog.
When she finally declares it’s time to pack it in, I’m beyond relieved. I can already feel the air conditioning in her Jeep. But at four o’clock, there’s plenty of daylight left, and I have no idea what to do with it. I want to ask, “Now what?” but she’s already taken me under her wing for the day, and I imagine she must want some space.
Sure enough, there’s no mention of evening plans on the way home, only twenty minutes of indie rock followed by “Thanks for the help” when we get out at her house. I’m halfway to my room when she says, “Owen’s having some people over for a barbecue tonight, ifyou wanna come.” Before I can answer, the main bathroom door shuts. A few seconds later, the shower turns on, and I realize she has completely taken my “yes” for granted.
God, I must radiate loneliness.
I take a shower in the smaller bathroom I share with my mom, then check the phone I’ve barely glanced at all day. There are a couple of pictures from Shannon on the group text chain—a selfie with a croissant between her teeth and a shot of her linking arms with a cute guy while drinking champagne—a video from Gia of her falling on her ass during a routine, and a notification that Kiki posted a new episode of her podcast. I smile at the latter and queue it up after posting my favorite selfie from the gardens, letting Kiki’s familiar, soothing voice surround me as I moisturize.
“What is that?” a voice asks, and I nearly jump out of my towel when I realize Jasmine’s standing in the doorway to our little suite. I hadn’t realized I never closed the door, and now I’m standing here half naked, though thankfully only the two of us are home.
I wrap the towel tighter around myself and swipe at my face to clear any visible dabs of lotion. “My friend Kiki’s podcast,Kiki on the Case. It’s fun—it’s like a gossip column where she plays detective, and she posts a new episode every week.”
“Ooh, cute.” Jasmine comes in and sits down on my bed, privacy clearly not a dominant word in her vocabulary. “What’s this episode about?”
“Our school librarian is having kind of a dramatic breakup, and Kiki’s a little obsessed with it,” I say with asmile because it’s so silly and so Kiki. “I mean, she didn’t originallysayit was our school librarian on the podcast, but we all know it is, because Ms. Adams is always on the phone in the library and she doesn’t follow her own ‘Shhh’ very well. Rumor is she’s hooking up with the librarian at our town’s middle school, and Kiki’s trying to confirm it, with the help of her little sister, who’s in sixth grade.”
“That… is bizarre.”
“Isn’t it?” God, I miss my friends. They’re so weird. I have to remember to message them later about my new job and about how much I love this episode of the podcast; Kiki lives and dies by her fandom. “Kiki’s obsessed with mysteries. It’s her thing. She has to find out if it’s really him so she can dig into how they met and what went wrong, because of course she does.”
Jasmine laughs. “You should bring her to Roanoke.”
