You’re like my little sister.
You’re not enough for me.
The possibilities were endless, and it wasn’t until I’d emerged from hangover hibernation that I learned part of the truth.Hi, friend, Natalie had texted.Do you follow Shelly on IG?
Hell, no, I replied. Natalie somehow knew Shelly through family friends.She’s blocked.
Okay, Natalie said.
Nat?I asked when she didn’t say more.
I’m going to send you something, she wrote after a couple minutes.I feel shitty for doing it, but I think you should see it.
Alright…I wrote and stared at my phone until a screenshot appeared in our chat. It was an Instagram post by@seashelly, whose caption read:living for these waves and whispers.
I blinked once, twice, three times, but the photo didn’t disappear like I wished it would. In ripped jeans and a black PRINCETON FIELD HOCKEY sweatshirt, she, Marco, and a couple others had squeezed together onto one of the beach’s lifeguard stands. It was twilight and Shelly was sitting on Marco’s lap with her arms around his neck, hugging him close while she laughed. He had a Miller Lite in one hand, the other resting on Shelly’s knee, and he was smiling as he whisperedsomething in her ear.
Stone Harbor?I thought.Shelly had been invited to Stone Harbor?Marcohad invited her to Stone Harbor?!
But he cut ties with her!!!I texted Natalie, eyes welling up with tears.
I guess she stitched them back up?she texted back.I’m so sorry, Mads. I know we never talked about it, but I could tell you had a thing for him.
That makes one of us, I said before locking my phone and changing for a run. Not only did I need to sweat out a bunch of alcohol, but I also needed to sweat out Marco Álvarez.
Who, in fact,didstop by to touch base on life; I spotted the Bumper Car through the keeping room window a week after I got home. “Marco is here,” I informed Dad and Da. “I’m probably going to yell at him, okay?”
They both nodded—I’d told themeverything, right down to me drunkenly professing my feelings for him. “Jacob—Bluestein—was—wrong,” I had sobbed into Dad’s shoulder as Da offered me warm brownies. “Marco—hasn’t—always—liked—me.”
My parents had looked at each other, as if to say,Remind me who Jacob Bluestein is?
“By all means, verbally tear him to pieces,” Dad said now. “Should we have a code word in case you want backup?”
“Yes,” I said. “August.”
Since it was turning out to be theworstmonth.
I took a deep breath, then marched out the front door.
“Hey,” Marco said, stopping at the bottom of the porch steps. I stood at the top with my arms folded, physically and psychologically wanting to be a level above him.
“Hey,” I said back, along with a disinterested, “What’s up?”
He ran a hand through his dark hair. “I was hoping we could talk.”
I shrugged. “Sure.”
Marco gestured toward the Garden, but there was no way we were “talking” in there. It was a special space, full of special memories. Sweet moments with Marco, yes, but also with Connor, Samira, and my family.
I would not violate it.
But I wasn’t evil enough to stay on the porch, where my parents could obviously eavesdrop on us, so I led him toward the Christmas trees and slowed between two tagged Douglas firs. “Okay,” I said to Marco. “Would you like to make the opening statement?”
He did. “Mads, about that phone call—”
“Forget the phone call,” I said, because we werenotunpacking that. For all he knew, that could’ve been a glitch, my brain a broken system thanks to my many, many (many) drinks. “How about the fact that youliedto me all summer?”
His Adam’s apple bobbed.
