There couldn’t be anything else.
Chapter 7
January
The cabana’s kitchenette was fully equipped with a microwave, oven, fridge, and dishes, but I needed to get some groceries. I left my suitcase next to the couch and drove to Wayford’s main street. Most of the stores here were artisan this and boutique that, but I did find a convenience store where I could purchase groceries at reasonable prices.
On my drive back, I scrutinized the streets and wondered if the kids I had gone to school with now owned the big, beautiful houses that adorned the town’s beachfront avenue.
I felt even more displaced here than I had living in a senior home for six weeks.
“I put you in that school, so I can’t say a thing,”I remembered my mother saying when I had told her that I had a boyfriend from Wayford in my senior year of high school.“Just be careful. Don’t let him look down on you,” she had added, after the necessary, “Don’t be stupid with you-know-what. Come to me if you’re considering it or need help.” I had protested against that hint, as if sex hadn’t been a viable option. It had been as important to her that I’d be careful withthatas much as with letting anyone snob me.
Zane and I had gotten together at a pool party in one of my friends’ houses.
We were playing chicken, and I was concerned that no boy would want to carry me, as I was clearly heavier than any other girl there, but Zane just dived under me and lifted me on his shoulders. We won the chicken fight. He later kissed me and asked me out.
I ended up losing my virginity to him after a few weeks, and we dated for several months. I was careful, like my mother had asked me to be. But later, I discovered that she had been right in giving me a two-part advice.
I didn’t see Oliver often. In the few times I did, he was as quiet and distant from the world as always. Our high school was big—bigger than Wayford’s needed—because it attracted kids from several towns around. My mom aggregated all those towns under a general name—Riviera shores. “It’s somewhere in Riviera shores,” she used to say.
We took different classes. Oliver probably aced in languages and math, and I suspected that he ditched school whenever his father wasn’t home, which was a lot, according to my mother. But, for a few weeks in the second semester, we both worked at “Pizza Pizazz” in Riviera View; he was a busboy, and I waited on tables.
I was surprised to see him there. It was strange; we hadn’t spoken to each other in years beyond a few words here and there at school, but we fell right into conversation on the first shift we had together.
“I took this job because I don’t want his stinking money,” he replied after I had asked what he was doing working there. His honesty proved that it was implicit that I’d know exactly who and what he was talking about. “He can’t boss me around as much when I don’t have to ask for his money or his car.”
Oliver didn’t mind cleaning the toilets, mopping the floors, washing the large trays, clearing and wiping tables, and ensuring that the kitchen surfaces were spotless. I had heard from a few kids that Oliver had an essay-writing business on the quiet in school and that he took the odd gardening job at his neighbors’ houses, so he probably used that money to buy the old Ford Ranger he was driving.
One evening, I stepped outside to the back of the restaurant where we were allowed to take short breaks. Oliver was there, earphones on, eyes closed, head resting back on the wall he was leaning against.
“Can I?” I asked. When he opened his eyes, I pointed at his earphones.
He took one out and handed it to me. I put it in. We were facing each other.
“Creep” by Radiohead played into my ear.
My gaze met with Oliver’s. I had always wished that song had a female version because girls felt like that, too—wanting a perfect body, a perfect soul, wanting someone to notice when they’re not around, feel special, not an outsider.
I realized at that moment, gazing into Oliver’s eyes, that the lyrics had a grasp on us both.
The depth in his eyes became almost unbearable, I felt like I was drowning, that he was reaching into my soul, the parts of it I preferred leaving untouched.
Vaughn, our shift manager, peeked out the back door. “Hey, you two. I said five minutes. This isn’t the Hilton.”
As much as I disliked Vaughn and that catchphrase of his that he used pretty much for everything, I welcomed the disruption.
I motioned toward the door he closed behind him. “It’s about him?” I grinned, glad to divert “Creep” to him.
Oliver laughed. “If the shoe fits.”
“It fits most people, you know,” I said.
A few weeks later, I went into the back room to look for another apron, as mine was soaked with orange juice I had accidently knocked over myself. Oliver was there, lifting and arranging the clean, large trays on the designated shelves.
“Oh, hi. I spilled OJ all over,” I explained, though he hadn’t asked. I was blushing, because my eyes went straight to his arms. His short-sleeved tee exposed muscles that were straining under the weight of the trays. God, he was beautiful! Spending time at the gym or jogging to blow off energy and be out of the house had paid off.
“Performance anxiety?” he asked, turning to me with a little smirk.
