As expected, a dozen faces turned my way. They sprawled across couches and sat cross-legged on the floor, chatting and reading and playing video games. The Barbanels all had the same distinctive dark brown hair, thick and impressively curly, and liquid brown eyes with jet-black lashes. They were all very good-looking, which I—as a person best described as “striking”—found simultaneously fascinating and irritating.
Unexpectedly, every last one of them wore a spa mask plastered to their skin, holes exposing their mouths and eyes.
I picked Ethan out of the crowd right away. He sat on the floor, his back against a couch, game controller in his hands, damp white sheet massaged into his face. Something seemed very wrong about it, making him look like a monster with drooping eyes.
From her position lying prone on a couch, Miriam levered herself up. I felt lucky I could recognize her.
“Jordan! Hi.”
“Hi,” I said cautiously. “Am I interrupting something?”
“What? Oh!” She touched her mask. “Do you want one?”
My gaze unintentionally flicked toward Ethan, who smirked. And damned if I’d let him think I was too embarrassed to weara face mask in front of him, especially with his own applied so badly. “Sure.”
“Iris,” Miriam called across the room. “Bring Jordan the basket.”
“Get it yourself!” a younger girl—one of the triplets?—replied.
“Iris!”
With a put-upon sigh, the triplet fetched a basket from the far side of the room. Dozens of packets filled it, rose-oil masks and peach masks and an oyster mask. I selected a lemon-scented one.
“Shira brought them from Koreatown,” Miriam told me. “Have you met Shira? Have you met everyone?”
“I don’t think so.”
On the other side of the couch, a girl sat up. “I’m Shira. Hi.”
Even with the mask, I could tell she was exceptionally pretty, with fine-boned features and thick lashes and an easy confidence in her posture. She scooted to the middle of the couch so I had space at one end. Unfortunately, this meant I’d be sitting with Ethan at my feet.
He watched, and I imagined he expected me to cede this room to him, to storm off like I had this morning at my dad’s office. But I’d ceded enough to Ethan Barbanel. I sat down, tearing my mask pouch open and attempting to plaster it to my face without a mirror.
Ethan smiled. “You look great.”
“Your mask is crooked,” I told him. “What did you do?”
A green-haired boy cackled. “I’m pretty sure he used the wrong holes.” He gave me a nod. “I’m David.”
“My brother,” Ethan said. “Got another one around here somewhere, too.”
“Oliver’s out sketching,” Shira said. Shira had oldest-girl-cousin vibes. “We’re deciding what movie to watch. Any preference?”
This acted as the signal for everyone to haggle intensely until the triplets steamrolled everyone intoLady Bird. “We’re working our way through Greta Gerwig’s oeuvre,” one of them told me.
With the movie on, the onus to fit in with the Barbanel clan lifted. Only one thing kept me from totally relaxing: Ethan on the floor at my feet, his shoulder and arm brushing my calf.
Don’t think about it, I told myself. I didn’t want to pay any attention to Ethan, to feel sparks flaring anywhere our skin brushed. He wasn’t some rando to make out with anymore. He was Ethan Barbanel, my father’s assistant, who I deeply resented and definitely did not lust after.
But I didn’t move my leg. And he didn’t move his arm.
***
I fell asleep more easily than usual and woke when the sun crept through my window, a little surprised I’d slept through the night. Stretching, I considered the expanse of pale, thin sky. I could see the ocean from plenty of Golden Doors’ windows—surely I could find my way there. Pulling on a red bikini (an excellent clearance-rack find) and a black cover-up, I grabbed my beach towel and slipped into the quiet morning.
Birds called, soft and gentle as the light. Conical pines edged the lawn behind Golden Doors; they parted at intervals, allowingpeople to enter the gardens. I stepped barefoot along stone slabs, gazing at the tree branches stretching into the sky. The path forked. To the right lay wild roses and the peaked roof of a gazebo, but I went left, toward the shimmery blue line of the ocean. The path ended at a bluff, the trees and flowers and undergrowth disappearing as dunes tumbled down toward the brief shore and endless sea. A stone bench, white and worn, perched at the edge beside steep wooden steps built into the yellow-orange sand.
I gripped the handrail tightly as I breathed in the view. The town beach yesterday had been nice, but this stretch of ocean struck me deeper, jolting me hard beneath my rib cage. My lungs inflated with salt and brine. The waves hit the long, thin beach with endless white curls, and the sea went on forever. I wasn’t used to islands, where the water curved around you instead of the land hugging the sea; I felt untethered. I imagined launching myself into the air to see if I could fly. My hand tightened on the rail, splinters of wood rough under my palm.
