“Yo. Bogdan.” Meticulously manicured nails snap in front of my face. “Where’d you go?”
I blink, expecting my vision to clear, but Jasmine’s still there, a flesh-and-blood being whose face may be partially obscured by a phone, but whose very real existence is as undeniable as the thunderous pounding in my chest at the sight of her.
Where’d you go?
How do I tell my best friend I don’t even know where to begin answering that question?
THEN
The air is different in the Outer Banks, but then, everything is. The houses are all elevated on slats of wood to prevent destruction by flooding. The main road spanning southward from Sea Level is wide and flat and lonely. Nothing is more than two or three stories, tops. It’s a far cry from the suburbs of New York City and the summer I am supposed to be spending handselling books, consuming my weight in frozen yogurt, babysitting the Sullivan triplets, and glaring jealously atInstagram selfies of Shannon posted from the top of the Eiffel Tower.
It wasn’t a dream summer plan, but it was mine, wrecked the instant my mom swept into our apartment and announced I had a week to pack an entire summer’s worth of stuff. I wasn’t happy about it—any of it—but I’m not eighteen yet and I can’t exactly show up at my dad’s house for the first time in years, begging to be babysat. Instead, I spent a week moping in front of crappy TV, said goodbye to my friends, packed my duffel bag with clothing meant for moping, and we were off.
It’s a little humiliating staying in the guest suite of my mom’s boss’s huge beach house, but at least it has a small second bedroom for me with an incredible view of the Atlantic. Declan Killary, CEO of Decker Industries, either did something very right in a past life, or does a lot of terrible shit in this one.
It only takes half an hour for us to get settled before we’re summoned to the kitchen—or at least my mother is. I tag along because what on earth else am I supposed to do?
Plus, I’m hungry.
Thankfully, Mr. Killary is generous with the contents of his fridge, basically telling me to go to town before turning to my mom for the rundown of his schedule for the night. You’d think it’d be pretty chill, given he’s at his vacation house, but by the time I tune out in favor of celery and peanut butter, he’s already been advised of three conference calls, given a set of renovation plans to review for his Dallas office, and told he has a date at 10:00 p.m. at a wine bar in Kill Devil Hills. I pretendnot to hear the last part. It’s gotta be embarrassing for a seventeen-year-old to overhear that your secretary makes your romantic social plans, but if he’s noticed I’m still in the room, there’s no indication.
I concentrate extra hard on picking up as much peanut butter as possible.
They’re going over tomorrow morning’s schedule when a whirlwind sweeps into the kitchen in a blur of long black curls and longer tanned legs. It whooshes right past me to the fridge, nearly whacks me with the door as it pulls out a coconut water, and lets out a moan loud enough to shake the walls as it—she—takes a long sip.
I’d think she hadn’t noticed anyone in the room at all, but then she complains, “It is so fucking hot outside. I need to jump in the pool.” And then she looks right at me with the closest thing to golden eyes I’ve ever seen. “Who are you?”
“Manners, Jasmine,” says Mr. Killary. “You remember my assistant, Anya?” He gestures to my mom, who looks completely unfazed. “This is her daughter, Larissa. They’re staying with us this summer. Didn’t your mother tell you?”
She shrugs. “I might’ve been tuning her out at the time.” At least she’s honest. “You have a bathing suit?” she asks me.
I do, though I have a feeling it cost about five hundred dollars less than whatever Jasmine’s about to put on. “Yeah.”
“Great. Let’s go.” She walks out of the kitchen, coconut water in hand, leaving me no choice but to follow.
I kind of hate her on sight. You can tell she’s the kind of girl who always gets what she wants. And she makes me hate myself a little too, because I’ll be as susceptible as everyone else who wants to make her happy. You don’t spend three years as Shannon Salter’s right-hand girl without learning how to spot these personalities faster than you’d spot the perfect jeans at Nordstrom Rack, and it never gets less annoying to make their acquaintance.
I love Shannon, but I get enough of being second place during the school year. I really don’t need to spend my summer that way too.
But a pool is a pool and if I’m going to be stuck here all summer, I’m sure as hell gonna get an epic tan.
It takes me longer than it should to choose between my favorite gingham bikini and a hotter but more boring pink one—do I want to show off my fashion sense, or my genetically blessed waist?—and I end up going with the former. Of course, Jasmine wears a tiny patterned metallic thing that’s infinitely cooler than mine and shows off a body with both curves and muscle tone, because that’s what her kind does. I just sigh and dive in.
To her credit, she doesn’t try and chat with me too much. There’s no session of picking the interloper’s brain and assessing their threat level. So maybe she isn’t exactly Shannon. She even whips out an actual novel, which Shannon would never, ever do.
I don’t know how to feel about this.
Before I know it, I’m the one making conversation.
“Reading for school?”
Her eyes stay on the page, but she lifts the book enough for me to see she’s definitely not doing a summer reading assignment, unless she goes to an extremely liberal school that assigns graphic novels instead of classics by dead white guys. Which she might, since she’s outclassing me on everything else.
“Cool. I read for fun too.” Did I actually say that? Please tell me I did not say that. Next thing I’m going to be pouring my heart out about my five hundred deleted attempts at writing a romance novel. “I didn’t even know your dad had kids,” I continue, hating myself for babbling while Jasmine makes it clear she’s not interested in conversation.
“Kid.” She tilts her face up at the sun, glare reflecting off the shades of her designer sunglasses. “Just me. I live with my mom in Asheville. You did know he was divorced, didn’t you? Or did you think your mom was banging a married man?”
Lordy, she is a Type. But I am used to Types. I can handle Types. “I did know, and they’re not banging. But if you’re looking for a partner in crime for aParent Trap–style summer, you’re out of luck.”
