“But what are you doing?” I ask, trying to get a good look at the screen. She tilts it purposefully away from my inquisitive eyes.
“Do you have any process pictures of these cookies?” she asks. “Like, from when you were baking them?”
I nod slowly, my eyes narrowing. I can’t figure out where she’s going with this. “Yeah, I always take a few. I have a photo of the recipe from my journal, too. They’re all in my most recent library.”
“Perfect. Perfect.”
Whatever she’s up to is taking a while, so I lie back on my towel and stretch out my legs. With the breeze drifting off the water, the salty beach air is pleasantly cool, and I decide I really need to do one of my morning runs on the shoreline. Shutting my eyes, I bask in the sun, reveling in this perfect day.
Sienna nudges my leg after a while, and I open my eyes to find her holding out my phone, a mischievous look on her face that I’m immediately wary of. “Done. You’re welcome.”
Sitting upright, I take it from her and squint down at the screen, which is open to an Instagram profile with the usernamebakingbikinibabe.
“Sienna, what did youdo?” I ask, unable to decide if I’m horrified or intrigued. Maybe a bit of both. The only post is an image of me on the beach, holding up the cookies in a pose that should make me look awkward, but the angle of the camera, the magic of my new bathing suit, and the dazzling scenery all work together somehow, making it kind of a cute photo. I keep scrolling through the carousel of images, revealing process shots from when I baked them and a picture of my scribbled recipe.
Slipping her sunglasses on, Sienna lies back on her towel. “Building your brand. Everyone needs a gimmick. You already have three followers. Ten likes.” Pulling out her own phone, she holds it over her face and taps her screen a few times. “There. Now it’s four followers. I’ll share the post with Brit and all of them, too.”
I frown at notifications. “How do I already have likes?”
“I hashtagged the shit out of it and tagged the location. Plus, you’re smoking hot. Who wouldn’t want to follow you?”
“Sienna…”
Turning on her side, she pushes up on her elbow. “It’s a brilliant plan, Violet. Look, just post your recipes and throw the occasional bikini pic in there. Your fans will eat it up.”
“You don’t think that’s, I don’t know…” For some reason, Landon’s voice pops into my head. “Trashy?”
“Trashy?” she asks, appalled. “How is using your God-given gift as a marketing tactictrashy?It’s genius.”
“I guess so,” I mutter.
But I’m not so sure.
We spend the next few hours swimming, reading, and tanning, and when we’ve finally had enough sun for the day, we order shrimp tacos at one of the restaurants at the end of the beach. By the time we leave, I’m exhausted from the heat, but in a good way. I feel invigorated.
After dropping Sienna back off at The Bean, I decide to take the long way home. I’m not ready for this day to be over, so I roll down the windows and crank up the music.
Driving through Cartmen Coast’s small downtown area, I slow to a stop at a red light. My eyes scan the sliver of beach to my right, landing on a skatepark I never noticed before, and I watch in awe (and horror) as a boy skateboards down the ramp of a halfpipe. Wondering if this is the one Parker frequents, I turn into the parking lot to get a closer look.
There are a few teenage guys hanging out by the edge of the halfpipe, and I squint, curious if Parker’s in the mix. I don’t really expect him to be there, so I’m shocked when I see his familiar dark, floppy hair.
Slipping off my sandals, my toes sink into the sand as I trek across the beach toward the edge of the park. I keep an eye on Parker, whose talent is evident from the moment he drops into the halfpipe, and I’m enthralled by his crazy ability and impeccable balance. Every time he reaches the top of the ramp, he executes a different trick with perfect precision—stuff I’ve only ever seen on TV.
I inch closer to his group of friends as he skates back down the ramp, and I wave enthusiastically, giving him a thumbs up. I realize too quickly that distracting him was the absolute wrong move because seconds later, he completely wipes out. His board slides one way, his body the other, both skidding across the floor of the halfpipe in a way that’s sure to leave a mark.
"Oh my god!" I cry, hurrying forward.
“Oh, shit!” yells one of the boys he’s with.
“Park, you good, man?” calls another.
"Parker, are you okay?” I ask, my voice frantic.
It takes a moment, but Parker pushes himself up to a seated position, wincing as he stretches his right leg. “Yeah. Shit. It’s my ankle.”
For once, he’s wearing a t-shirt instead of an oversized hoodie, and I stare at his arm in surprise. I have no idea how I never noticed before, but from the elbow down, his arm is simply missing, a skin-toned prosthetic arm in its place. I try not to stare, but I’m so caught off guard by the realization that I find it hard to remember my manners.
Shaking myself out of it, I lunge forward, extending my hand. “Here, let me help you up.” I grasp his non-prosthetic arm, pulling him to his feet. Parker bounces on his good leg for a second, trying to find balance, and when he attempts to put some weight on his left ankle, he winces. It’s not a great sign.
