Iwantto.
Whycan’tI?
“Please get in the car.” Nope. Still not fun.
“Yes, Laney. Whatever you say, Laney.”
He’s grinning while he climbs in. Red, swollen eyes and all.
I join him under silent protest, telling myself I’m only in the car to make sure he doesn’t go somewhere he shouldn’t, and distinctly remembering why I’ve always disliked him.
He makes me feel like I’m doing life all wrong. Like I’m tooserious. Like my priorities are backward. Like he knows this immense secret about life, and I’m not worthy of being included in the grapevine, andI want in. I do.
But Emma’s having a better day todaywithoutme.
And I know she’s having a better daybecauseof me, but I’m not there. I’m not with her.
And really, Theo didn’t need me today.
Iscrewed up.
He was having a grand time with a bunch of kids, far away from Chandler, and it was honestly utterly adorable, and I wanted to join them but didn’t know how because I feel so awkward about doing all the things he was doing.
I don’t know how to fly a bucket around a beach and pretend it’s a dinosaur, and even if I did, I wouldn’t look nearly as hot as Theo with his shaggy hair and killer smile and tight, tatted body.
And when he asked me to build a sandcastle, I froze, because I couldn’t believeTheo Monroewas inviting me to have fun with him.
I feel very, very alone and left out right now. And it’s probably at least partially my own fault.
Theo chats with the driver the entire ride.
I pretend I’m not listening during the whole ten-minute ride about where to rent the best surfboards. About the best calamari on the island. About if it’s worth it to drive up to the volcano park at night. Where to find secret waterfalls. How the driver’s cousin runs a parasailing company, and Theo should drop his name to get a discount.
They trade numbers when we get out.
Meanwhile, I feel like the frumpy wet blanket. Again. I hate feeling like the frumpy wet blanket.
Worse?
Theo’s eyes are practically clear already.
When his uncle turns the corner as we’re strolling back into the resort lobby, he doesn’t say a thing about the lingering redness.
But would he?
“Theo,” he hisses, “want in on a secret?”
I bite my tongue—hard—to keep from answering for him.
And it’s not because I feel like whatever the secret is will cause trouble for Emma and her wedding.
It’s because I want to know.
Sabrina won’t tell me why she’s mad at Theo. Theo won’t tell meanything. And I know there’s more to the story of why Emma wants me to be a buffer between Theo and Chandler than she’s telling me.
I also know when they don’t tell me secrets, it’s sometimes to protect me, but it’s more often because they need time to solve their issues on their own without me.
There’s a distinct possibility I’ve annoyed half of Snaggletooth Creek at one point or another with my suggestions for how to fix something.
