Meredith heart-eyed the photo and wrote:Beach days are the best days!
I liked her message before tucking my phone in my tote bag and pulling out a book. Marco did a double take when he returned to our setup. “A Gentleman in Moscow?” he asked. “You’re reading it?”
“I’m about to,” I said as he dropped down into the beach chair next to mine. “I’m not exactly dying to readWuthering Heightsfor school, and you said this was good, so…”
Marco grinned. “Amor Towles did no prior research before writing it,” he said, eyes shining. “He’d never been to Russia and never took any Russian history courses in school. It was only after he finished the first draft that he visited Moscow. He moved into the Metropole Hotel to revise—” He grimaced. “Sorry, I’m nerding out.”
“A bit.” I fought a smile. “But as long as you don’t spoil anything, nerd away.”
“No guarantees,” Marco joked, and when he laughed, it was like the sun took the sound as its cue to shine brighter—the rays now sizzling against my skin. I watched Marco lean back in his chair and run a slow hand through his hair. “Swim after a few chapters?” he asked after cracking open his own book. “We’ll be hot by then.”
“I’m already hot,” I murmured as I skimmed the book’s dedication.
“I agree,” Marco said smoothly, and it wasn’t until he’d pulled out his own book and started reading that I suddenly wondered whether he agreed with me—that it was hot today—or if he was in agreement about something else. My pulse quickened.
I had to readA Gentleman in Moscow’s first page three times before it made any sense.
***
After dinner that night, it was time to make what the Álvarez family called the “Pilgrimage.” Marco’s dad and cousins hopped on their bikes and sped off toward town, determined to reach Springer’s Homemade Ice Cream before the line grew out of control. “What would you two like?” Marco asked his mom before we followed on foot. She and her sister were relaxing with sangria on the screened-in porch. “Coffee? Maple walnut? Peanut butter cup?”
“We’ll split two scoops of maple walnut with marshmallow sauce.” Rose smiled and blew her son a kiss. “Please and thank you.”
Springer’s had been the most popular ice cream place on the Jersey Shore since Prohibition. Marco warned us that the line of people stretched down the block and turned the corner once the sun set, but it was mind-boggling to see it in real life. There were even aspiring musicians entertaining the crowd; the atmosphere felt like a block party. As we searched for Marco’s cousins, I took a video for Samira—the biggest ice cream lover I knew. It was only after I texted it to her that I remembered she and Austin used to spend a day in Stone Harbor to celebrate their anniversary every year. She’d once told me their first kiss had been after a game of miniature golf.
Oops, I thought, then shook the embarrassment away. It wasn’t like Samira was still in love with my brother. The last time we saw each other, she’d mentioned dating someone.
“Oh, jeez,” Connor said a few minutes after we found Marco’s family in line (if the people behind thought we were cutting, they didn’t say anything). He pulled his phone from his pocket, the screen reading:Lauren B.
“Lauren B?” Marco said, seemingly amused.
“I have four or five Laurens in my phone,” Connor said, and I bit the inside of my cheek when he let his girlfriend’s call go to voicemail. It’d have been terrible if I smiled.
“How’re things going with her?” Marco asked.
“Pretty well,” Connor said as we took a few steps forward in line. “She’s cute and funny, and obsessed with lacrosse. We never run out of stuff to talk about.” He laughed, as if remembering a joke Lauren had made the other day. “We have a lot of fun together.”
“So much fun you blew her off?” Marco teased.
Yes, I thought, heat rising to my cheeks.Why?
Connor shrugged. “It’s loud here. I’ll call her back later.” He looked at me and gestured ahead of us, to the white-and-brown-shingled two-story Victorian house. Inside was a whirlwind of bright colors and controlled chaos. “What’re you gonna get?”
“Oh,” I squinted at the menu board, mounted on Springer’s wide front porch. We were still a little too far away to see it clearly, so I turned to Marco. My guess was he had the flavors memorized. “What do you recommend?”
“Hmm.” He stroked his chin, as if in deep contemplation. “Let me think…”
Connor ended up getting black raspberry while I took Marco’s recommendation and ordered something called Drunken Cherry, but I wasn’t the drunken one later. There had been plenty of sangria left when we got back to the Álvarez cottage, and once everyone else had gone to bed and Marco’s lips turned scarlet, he suggested the three of us go for a late-night stroll. “There’s nothing like the midnight stars and salt air,” he insisted, dreamy and wide-eyed. “And the streets are empty, so we can hear the waves crashing on the beach.” He shook his head in wonder. “There’s also a blood moon tonight.”
Connor glanced at his phone, then tossed it across the porch’s couch. He still hadn’t called Lauren back. “I’m in.” He took a sip of his Miller Lite. Connor accepted any beer offered, but rarely finished them, tricking his friends into thinking he could really hold his alcohol. “Mads?”
I drained my ginger-lime soda and grinned. “Let me get a sweatshirt.”
The temperature had dropped during our walk back from Springer’s, so I went into Carina’s room to grab my favorite Champion crewneck. I glanced at myself in the mirror; I looked happy after a perfect day on the beach with my sun-kissed face and salt-water-stiff hair weaved into two braids. To pass the time in the Springer’s line, Marco’s cousin had twisted them into silly little buns.
Marco still had his sangria in hand when I returned to the living room, and Connor nursed his Miller Lite. “Come on, guys,” I told them. “No roadies.”
“Right,” Marco said. “Open container law.”
