“So why not go for college?” He keeps holding my hand as he talks, like we do this all the time. Like we’re those people whose hands drift into each other’s without even thinking.
“We’ve always said we were going to MSU. That’s The Plan,” I say.
“The Plan, huh?”
“Three things.” We have spent too much of our time together talking about how neurotic I am. And it feels weird to bring up the fact that Logan and I always said we’d go to State together. Especially when Cam and I are holding hands in the sand like we’re—well,something. Like wecouldbe. I’m still not sure ifsomethingis what I want or not.
“Okay, let’s see.” His thumb is rubbing up and down along mine, and it’s hard to think about anything else. “Leaving for college. Playing music professionally.” He takes a deep, dramatic breath. “And holding your hand.”
It had taken me about two hours—the first night we were together on the beach—to figure out that Cam has a varsity letter in deflecting questions. I bump his shoulder with mine. “You’re doing that now, and you don’t seem scared to me.”
“Oh, I am. You just can’t tell, because I’m dying on the inside.” He rubs his hand over his chest. “My fear’s internalized—I’ll need therapy down the road.”
“Holding my hand is going to force you into therapy?” I try to pull my hand away, but he holds it in place, and I laugh.
“It probably won’t be the first thing.”
“Thank God you haven’t kissed me. I’d hate to see you institutionalized.”What is wrong with me?Maybe I’m willing it to happen, even though I know it’s better if it doesn’t. Still, I regret the words instantly, because his face looks pained, like he’s not sure if he actually does want to kiss me.
“Oh, I’ll definitely be kissing you.” There’s a huge, cocky grin on his face, and it holds a promise. “Do you need to change your three things now?”
I smack him again but he has a great point, because suddenly getting hit by a taxi or throwing up onstage doesn’t seem so terrifying.
CAM
Once she gets started, Vee doesn’t shut up. Not in a bad way. More of a surprising way. Over the last few weeks, we’ve spent almost every night at the beach. And while some of it was spent in quiet silence like our first night, most of it has been spent sharing facts and stories and favorites. I have my own Virginia Miller biography in the works. Born and raised in Riverton, daughter to Ted and Millie.
“Really? Millie Miller?” I asked.
“Technically, it’s Millicent Miller,” she said, warning me not to bring it up because it was a sore subject. Implying that Iwouldbe meeting her mother one day. It had seemed weird that I hadn’t crossed paths with her mom, until she explained that she worked nights during the week. It made me wonder if Vee thought the same thing about my parents.You won’t be meeting them.
She told me all about her plans of studying marketing, so she could be arealband manager or publicist someday. What she should really be studying is music marketing, but the collegeshe’s planning on going to doesn’t even have a program for it. Only a few colleges in the country do, according to her. She talked about Nonni, which I liked, because I finally felt like I didn’t have to be so careful about mentioning her.
“What do you talk about?” I asked.
“All sorts of stuff. I play her songs sometimes, actually. She’s the only one who’s heard me play. And she likes to give me life advice.”
“Like?”
“You know, ‘Get out of your shell. Don’t be afraid to live life. Come up with an alter ego and run wild.’” She shrugged and smiled. “That sort of stuff.”
I like hearing about her visits with Nonni. I’ve stopped my behind-the-curtain visits, like I promised myself I would. I’m trying to assume the role of legitimate friend over stalker, because knowing everything about someone is dangerous. You can’t unlearn some things. Like the stuff about Logan and Vee and their “more than friends” relationship over the summer. Vee reluctantly shared that little detail last week. I got the feeling she felt like she was supposed to. Really, I wish I didn’t know. It’s hard for me to look at Logan now without wondering what would have happened if she hadn’t called it off. How could he not have feelings for her? I’ve been swearing up and down to myself that I’m going to keep things platonic with Vee, but every time I see her it gets a little harder. It’s pathetic, how beyond-walking-away-from-her I am. I’ve only known her for a few weeks, and he’s had years to get sucked in.
And I’ve learned that Vee doesn’t like to come right out and ask questions. She always offers something first. A fact about herself or a little game to play along with. I like that there’s a certain give-and-take with her—she never asks for anything she can’t or won’t return. And she never presses. Whenever she asks about my family, or why we came to Riverton, the silence neverlasts long. She just trudges right along, changing the subject and picking a new line of questioning as if nothing has happened. The fact that she looks past those glaring holes is what keeps me coming back.
“Five years from now, I’m going to be backstage at some crazy music festival,” Vee says. “I’ll be doing interview prep with a coked-out but adorable guitarist with a heart of gold, who will eventually clean up his act and ask me to marry him.” We’re lying on the beach on a particularly cold September night, and I love that she’s holding my hand even while telling me about her imaginary future husband.
“I’m glad to hear I’ll finally kick the habit one day.” I squeeze her hand, bumping her shoulder gently with mine. “Please tell me I at least get to go to one of those fancy celebrity rehabs—in Malibu or something?”
I know she’s trying to get me to share my plans for the future—for college, probably—but I don’t have any. Vee has The Plan, and probably a Plan B, and C, and F, and when I think about the future I don’t really see anything. The furthest I think ahead is looking forward to lying on the beach with her night after night. It has quickly become the only constant thing in my life. Andfinally,I don’t feel like I’m running. It’s fun to imagine a future filled with normal things like getting married someday. Even if I do have questionable habits in this particular scenario.
“Where’s the wedding?” I ask.
“Oh, we’ll probably do something nontraditional. You know, get married in the redwood forests, or in a field, or something.”
“I’m not getting married in a field.”And forests are filled with ticks. Why would we not get married on a beach, or at a golf club, like normal people?
“It’s not going to be a cow pasture. It’ll be a wildflower field or something.”
