“Local girl doesn’t equal popular girl,” I say, faking nonchalance. “Something happened a few weeks ago. It’s not worth delving into, but the abridged version is that my best friend is pissed at me.”
“This is the Gabi your sister mentioned earlier?”
“Yep.”
“What about the ass monkey who was at my dad’s restaurant? Was he involved?”
I fan my face—is the sun blistering hot, or is it humiliation that’s toasting me? “You’re annoyingly perceptive.”
“And you’re aggravatingly elusive.”
I laugh despite myself. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Seriously, though.” He’s smiling, but his tone is solemn. “I’ve got questions.”
“I believe it. But we have something more important to talk about: Tati and Davis.”
Henry
A few days later, I’m perched on a barstool at Blitz Brews, like I’ve been nearly every night since I arrived in Sugar Bay. Dad’sin Owner Mode, which is a welcome reprieve from Party Mode and Buddy Mode and Competitive Middle-Aged Athlete Mode.
This morning we snorkeled, which wasn’t terrible. Afterward, on our way back to the truck, we passed a group of college kids in FSU gear playing beach volleyball. Dad butted in, asking if we could join, then bump-set-spiked his way to lunchtime. I bust my ass in the gym and can run five miles in well under forty minutes (U.S. Army Ranger standard), but the only time I’ve ever played volleyball was in middle school PE, and that was in a gym, not on sand.
I’m sore as shit.
Mateo’s working, which makes the wait bearable. I’m on my second soda, and he’s telling me about Lana, the server who watched my dad and me argue about beer my first night in town. Apparently, she and Mateo went out for six months, then brokeup when she fell for some girl who lives in her building. This was at Christmastime. He’s still bummed.
I don’t blame him. Whitney and I split in early March, and I still feel the hurt of it. It’s not that I miss her, but more so the idea of her. I’ve mentioned her to Mateo, but as if she was a passing interest. She was not. I don’t half-ass things. I can’t care just a little bit.
Which is why it’s better I’m alone.
Except I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about Piper.
I glance toward the entrance again. She should be here by now. Seems illogical to jump straight to the conclusion that she’s not gonna show, but I’m starting to worry.
Dad comes out of his office, ruffling my hair as he walks by. He joins Mateo behind the bar and tells me, “Hot chicks, ten o’clock.”
I tame my hair and track his gaze to a table of women sitting across the restaurant. They’re in their late twenties, probably, and laughing loudly. Fancy drinks abound. I roll my eyes because shit, Davis is obnoxious.
“Did you get dinner?” he asks me.
“Yeah. Bacon burger.”
“You haven’t ordered the same thing twice, have you?”
“Nope. I’m going to experience the full menu.” Before I came to Florida, I survived on chicken strips and fries, peanut butter sandwiches, and the creamy noodle casseroles my mom makes. I hate celery and white chocolate and soft cheeses and wheat bread. The thought of consuming a piece of raw onion makes mewant to hurl. But since my venture into the world of acai bowls, I’ve been trying to branch out. So what if exploring the menu of a restaurant my dad owns, one filled with foods that are mostly quintessential American cuisine, isn’t fraught with danger? Feels like something.
“What’s your favorite so far?” Dad asks.
“Probably the coconut shrimp.”
“Same! The sirloin chili’s amazing too. So’s the grouper. Try one of those tomorrow.”
He snags a fry from the few left on my plate, dunks it in tartar sauce, then pulls himself a beer. He ducks back into his office, glass in hand.
Shaking my head, I scan the lobby again and—fucking finally—Piper’s checking in with April, the hostess on duty. Tati’s behind her, looking jittery as all hell. Her gaze jumps around the lobby, the dining room, the bar. She’s gripping the strap of her bag like it’s a rappeler’s rope and she’s dangling from a sheer cliff.
She definitely knows this is Davis’s place.
