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 toget 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 atotallie, 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 likeIhad 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 comesto 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.”
