Her brows rise. “Yeah?”
Only in my dreams. “You’re not from here, are you?”
“What makes you say that?”
“The way you called him ‘that Myles guy’ and the fact that you even considered he might be with me tells me you’ve never heard of the Ford family.”
She laughs. “Okay, you caught me. I’m from Rhode Island. My grandparents are renting a house, and I’m staying the summer with them. I knew I’d go crazy sitting around all day, so they helped me get this job to keep me busy.” She picks at a chip in the black polish on her thumbnail. “So what’s the deal with this Ford family?”
“It’s not as big a deal as I probably made it sound,” I say. “They’re just a very involved local family with three ridiculously attractive sons. Kind of hard to miss. The first one was the star center and plays basketball at Duke, the middle was homecoming king last year, and Myles is the youngest.”
“What’s his claim to fame?”
“Who, Myles?”
“Yeah. You’ve got the athlete and the heartthrob… What’s his thing?”
I think about that for a moment. “He’s the all-around,” I finally decide. “He’s on the basketball team and runs track, but he’s also smart and student council treasurer. He’s popular but nice, too. Sort of that guy who’s friends with everybody.”
“Doesn’t sound so out of your league.”
I arch an eyebrow. “You don’t even know me. I could be a total loser.”
“I know you’re pretty and friendly. Seems like a decent start.”
I tell her thank you and divert her attention to the flyer, asking if she knows about Summerfest. There’s no point in continuing the conversation about Myles and me—because even if in some alternate universe he was interested, he’s off-limits.
Despite the fact that Kat seems to have gone to New York andtaken two and a half seconds to forget all about me, the pact stands.
A group of middle-aged men comes through the door, putting an end to my conversation with Shelby. We keep chatting periodically for the rest of the shift, though, and I give her my number in case she’s ever bored and wants someone to hit the beach with. I internally pat myself on the back, because look at that. Kat’s not the only one who can make new friends this summer.
It’s four o’clock when I leave to walk home. It’s sunny and breezy, so even though it’s faster to take the sidewalk next to the main road in town, I go a little out of the way to the water so I can walk the rest of the way on the beach. I slip off my shoes, tuck my socks inside, and hook them around my fingers, sighing as my feet sink into the sand, which molds around my toes.
Everything about the ocean fascinates me. Like, just how far did each grain of sand travel to get here? Am I walking on crumbled pieces of million-year-old mountain rock? Or stone pieces from an inland river that flowed into the ocean only to be brought back to shore?
In middle school I wrote a research paper about sand for science class and was positively delighted to learn that white sand beaches are composed mostly of fish poop, a fact that’s way cooler than it is gross.
I smile as I step around a couple struggling to keep their kids still while they slather on sunscreen, and remember how busy I was when I was little. I can’t imagine how exhausted my parents were, always chasing after me and trying to keep me in the shallower waves or off the rockier parts of the beach. I still love theocean, but now I spend more time on the shore, enjoying the sun and watching everything going on around me. And even though it sounds like a line from a middle-aged dating profile, I love taking long walks along the beach, just like this.
It never gets old.
I pass a group of teenage girls spread out on towels, chatting and laughing as the books they brought lay forgotten in the sand. Kat and I would have come out and set up shop the exact same way. Only, we’d have been closer to the volleyball courts in case there were any games we could watch—our eagle eyes especially on the lookout for Myles. Or we’d have gone out on the water with her family, on a sailboat her dad namedTenacious. She might have invited her neighbor, Dev, and I might have called up Ruby, who lives on my street but only accepts invites to hang out half the time because she has a boyfriend. But no matter how big the group got, it always started with Kat and me.
A heavy weight of sadness settles in my stomach as I continue my walk alone. It presses down on me as I walk up the porch steps behind my house. Margarine greets me, happy to see me as always, and out of nowhere I start crying. I close the door and sink back against it. Margarine climbs into my lap, licking my face, probably wondering why I’m acting so strange.
“What’s wrong with me, girl?” I bury my face in her fur. I cuddle with her for a few long moments, then head up to my room. Which, with the headspace I’m in, is probably a mistake.
On the wall across from my bed, string lights zigzag from ceiling to floor, and photo clips spaced between the bulbs are fullof tiny photos printed from my camera. Ever since getting that camera for Christmas three years ago, I snap pictures all the time. Candids are my favorite—when the subject isn’t posing or paying attention—followed by selfies as a close second. Some are of Margarine, my parents, or the ocean. Others are group photos, including other friends from school or my old coworkers at the grocery store. Ruby is easy to spot with her bright red hair, which she proudly wears curly and wild. One Halloween I went trick-or-treating as Princess Merida fromBrave, and people kept asking me if I was dressed as Ruby, which she thought was hysterical. A few photos also capture various conservation projects I’ve worked on over the years. The one where we designed underwater microphones to hear dolphin sounds was my favorite. But most of the photos are of Kat and me.
Those memories used to make me smile, but now they make me feel like there’s a hole in my chest. I force my eyes away from the photos, and I land on a floating shelf full of colorful origami creations. That makes me feel even worse, so I look up to the ceiling and then close my eyes. I can’t seem to stop my brain, though, and can’t help but wonder if at the end ofthissummer I’ll have any memories I want to keep, or if I’ll wish this one would just fade away.
6PLAYLIST:thank me later
THE NEXT MORNING Ihead in for my shift at Pearl’s. Trish is in her office, and while I rehearsed how I’d ask about the music at the restaurant the entire walk over because I knew I’d be nervous to ask, the Nickelback song blaring as soon as I walk in spurs me into immediate action.
Our customers deserve better than this.
“Hey, Trish?”
