Chapter 1
Alex
5 years ago
There’s only one logical response when your skeezball ex shows up with your former best friend on his arm—kiss the hot stranger you’ve been talking to. I’ll give credit to the baseball player I’d marked as my interview subject—hesoldthat kiss. So much so that Courtney, the one who cheated with my then-boyfriend and ruined our three-year friendship, did a crisp about-face and hauled my ex out of the house.
To do it justice, I should probably back up a bit.
Let’s rewind the footage and start from thebeginning…
Following my roommate, I push through the crowd on the lawn toward the front door. When pulsing music tumbles out to greet us, Blaire glances back at me with a beaming smile. I try to wrangle my lips into a grin, but don’t quite land it.
“This will be fun. I promise,” she tells me.
Fun would be counting dolphins in my head on my way to a blissful night’s sleep since my flight leaves at six tomorrow morning. Fun would be leaving this cruddy junior year behind me as quickly as possible.
My noncommittal hum makes Blaire stop so suddenly that I slam into her. She gathers my hands, tucking them against her chest and pinning me with those big doe-eyes.
“Have I told you recently that you’re the best roommate ever?”
I roll my eyes, finally cracking a genuine smile. “You mentioned it a few dozen times while begging me to come out tonight.”
“And I meant it—each and every time.” She gives my fingers a squeeze. “We won’t stay that long. I promise. I just want a chance to talk to Logan outside of class.”
Blaire has been crushing on UCSD’s shortstop ever since they were partnered in organic chemistry lab. Apparently, the baseball team won some sort of conference tournament, and this house party is their celebration.
I dip my head, so we’re eye to eye. “We can stay as long as you like.”
Even though my love life is a raging dumpster fire, I want Blaire to have a chance with her dream guy.
“Really?” Blaire practically cuts off my circulation, she clenches my hands so tight.
I laugh. “Really.”
The second we’re through the door, a guy in a backwards baseball hat and a tournament champion shirt tucks Blaire under his arm and leads her to a cozy corner. She gives me a jubilant thumbs up when he isn’t looking, making me chuckle.
I open Instagram, planning on doomscrolling until Blaire’s ready to leave, but then remember the challenge my journalism professor gave us before dismissing us for the summer.
“You don’t find stories. You notice people. The stories will follow.” She pauses just long enough to flash us her iconic, red-lipsticked smirk. “But only if you ask better questions.”
I shove my phone into the back pocket of my denim cutoffs and scan the room. The baseball players stand out because they’re all wearing the same shirt. Otherwise, it’s a varied mix of students, most of whom are already stumbling like inebriated idiots. A heavy exhale leaves my nose. I don’t think my professor had tipsy co-eds in mind when she encouraged us to dig deeper.
When I started my journalism classes, my dad lectured me about taking my college education seriously and not just focusing on the UCSD surf team. Though I might have occasionally showed up late to morning lectures after getting barreled at Blacks, I took his advice to heart and stayed in the top twentypercent of my class. In my perfect future, I won’t need my degree until after several Olympic gold medals and a prosperous surf career. I just missed the cutoff last time, but tomorrow I leave to spend my summer in Hawaii, further honing my skills for the next qualifier.
Without anyone to interview, I wander into the kitchen on my way to the back patio. Blaire knows that I won’t leave without her, so I might as well doomscroll in the crisp evening air.
There’snothingbetter than early summer in San Diego. The air is never quite warm, making it perfect for tucking your fingertips into the cuffs of an oversized sweatshirt. The humid breeze always carries the comforting scent of the sea with a hint of eucalyptus.
It’s something I wish perfumeries would bottle, but no one can accurately capture the smell of the ocean. Fortunately, they’ve nailed eucalyptus. I never leave the house without a calming spritz.
As I push my way through the throng, a guy with a cropped baseball mullet fills an empty Solo cup with Sprite. Normally, the mullet would give me the ick, but there’s something about his chestnut locks that makes my fingers itch. Pair that with the stubble beard on his sharp jaw and how his ice-blue eyes twinkle as he laughs at his friend’s antics, and I nearly slow my stride.
It’s when he doesn’t add anything from the plethora of alcohol bottles littering the countertop that finally makes mepause. This guy might be coherent enough to talk to. Changing directions, I step beside him to grab my own cup.
“Hey,” I say, focusing on filling my cup to the brim with fizzy Dr. Pepper.
“Hey.”
