That’s a bit unsettling. At the same time, I don’t think her invitation to dinner was meant to be flirtatious, either, despite all the touching. I’m pretty sure she wants something from me. I just don’t know what yet.
“It is a small resort,” I agree sarcastically, but she nods along. “I’ll let you know about dinner,” I add. “I’ll text you.”
I don’t know why I offer to text her, but it’s probably to fit in. I feel Creed and Mike watching me. Plus, I know it would make my parents happy. Either way, Jordan smiles as if accepting my response. She and her friend turn to leave, and on the way out, Hailey pulls the gum from her mouth and sticks it to a napkin on the tray the server is holding by the door. The guy frowns slightly in response.
When the girls are gone, I turn my attention back to the chaos outside. The wind is picking up faster now, and the dock looks like a battle zone. Thankfully, the workers are gone, seeking shelter, I hope.
As the storm rages with thunder loud enough to rattle the glass and winds battering the building, I can relate to the windows holding it all back. There’s a weight pressing in on me too—a building pressure. From my father, from expectations, from regret. But I can’t change the past, even if I wanted to.
This is where I belong now, and to have a future, I have to play the long game, which means occasionally suffering through people I don’t like or admire.
So when Creed offers to buy me a drink, I accept. But right now, nothing about my life feels like my own. Right now, I’m like that blue fucking tarp, flown out to sea and floating aimlessly in the wind.
CHAPTER THREE
—NOA
I wipe the sweat offmy brow with the inside of my wrist, my gloves sticky with fresh tar and covered in bits of wood and roofing material. This was an obviously bad idea. Aside from the risking-my-life part, it’s incredibly hot up here—the sun relentless as it heats up the shingles and metal flashings.
Balancing precariously on the ladder below, Shawn hands me the hammer, her blond hair tucked underneath a dirty red bandana.
“I’m not trying to gaslight you,” she assures me. “But you look pretty boss right now.” Her voice rings in that easy confidence that’s a bit contagious, but I also know she’s full of shit.
“You are definitely gaslighting me,” I reply with a tight laugh. I dig my fingers into the shingles, knowing full well that if I slip off this sloped roof, it’s a long way to the grass below. And maybe I wouldn’t die, but I’d definitely break or twist something, and I’m not really in the mood to spend my afternoon at the urgent care. Especially not on a rare day off.
Paradise Beach is always closed after a hurricane. It’s sort of a rule. Not because anyone told us to, but because the ocean turns mean. Angry, even. The water is still rough, and between the possibility of chemical runoff or sharks lurking in the shallows, the shoreline is too dangerous for outdoor adventuring.
“How was the old Shack looking this morning?” Shawn asks as I pound in a few nails, securing a shingle to the roof.
“She survived,” I say. “Barely.” While the Surf Shack held up okay, our dock took the brunt of the storm with splintered planks and gaps like missing teeth. “But we lost theDestinytour boat,” I add, handing the hammer back to Shawn. She slips it through her belt loop. “It’s probably halfway to Miami by now, not to mentionThe Tarponis literally dead in the water.”
Sometime in the night, lightning struck my father’s salvage boat, frying all the electronics onboard. Considering that’s the bulk of our income, the hurricane has nearly wiped us out financially. Not that we had much to spare to begin with.
“We’ll rally,” Shawn says with a determined shake of her head. But I can tell she doesn’t believe it either.
At this point, the Surf Shack is a sinking ship that we’re all trying to save, bailing out ocean water as we go down. But what’s the alternative? It’s also my home.
Still, when Tech said his family needed help, I didn’t hesitate. The roof of his house, already battered in the last storm, finally gave out. And there’s no insurance in a flood zone. Instead, you get a group of beach kids with a death wish. Which is why I climbed up here in the first place, as if I knew what the hell I was doing.
I peek over the edge of the roof, a quick glance that makes my stomach dip before I straighten up again. Yeah, it’s higher than it looked from the yard. But I’m here because Tech asked. Because he’s Tech.
Tech Mendez is family—we grew up together. Our mothers were best friends, and it was only natural that we’d be the same. He may have that calm way about him, like nothing can shake him, but I know better. Inside, his mind is always spinning, thinking too deeply about how to fix things he didn’t break.
And I know that when Tech shows up with a plan, we’re probably about to do something unhinged. I don’t always mind that, though. Being occasionally reckless feels a lot better than the crushing weight of endless responsibility.
A cloud shifts, casting a shadow, and I glace up at the sky. Aside from that one rogue cloud… it’s perfect. The perfect shade of blue. God, it’s beautiful. Then my eyes drift down and I realize I can see the extent of the damage to our town from here: fallen sheds, broken trees, overturned fences. Costs and repairs no one can afford, not in this part of Cape Hope.
This entire neighborhood used to be marshland, now home to the locals who were pushed out of their beachfront properties. There are no Smoothie Kings or boardwalk kiosks here, just muddy roads and a bait shop in the corner of the gas station. And all of it is slowly sinking into the marsh.
“Tech,” Shawn calls down to him from the ladder. “Can you hurry it up? I have a date later.”
He laughs but doesn’t look up from the buzz saw where he’s been cutting planks on the grass in front of his house. I offered to switch places with him, wanting to take back my “I volunteer as tribute” moment that landed me on the roof in the first place. But Tech claimed he knew how to use the buzz saw better. Which was a lie. He’s barely gotten through five cuts at this point.
Shawn smiles as the sun glistens off the coconut sunscreen on her freckled skin, the bruises faded to a soft green on her inner arm. She’s wearing a Surf Shack tank top with short-shorts and knee-high gym socks and sneakers. On her wrist, she has a tattoo of a little boat—something she drew as a child, which symbolizes her love of the water.
I nod to get her attention. “Do you really have a date?” I ask, curious. She hasn’t mentioned anyone new. She shrugs.
“Not yet.”
