Chapter Seven
Accidentally in Love
After paying for their purchases, including Jem’s Taylor Swift album, which he predictably protested by saying he didn’t have a record player and then equally predictably shut up about when River gave him the choice of listening to it in River’s music room or letting River buy him a turntable, and arranging for the store to deliver everything so the vinyl wouldn’t warp in the car, River took them down to the pier and bought them ice cream.
“You don’t think it’s too cold for this?”
River shook his head. “I’m from Arizona. If I waited until I thought it was hot to eat ice cream, I’d never get to.”
“That’s fair.”
They walked the boardwalk with the wind flicking sand at their legs, until they found a picnic table somewhat sheltered from the breeze.
River sat on the top of it, feet on the bench even though he knew it was bad manners, and was surprised and satisfied when Jem sat next to him. “Look at you, setting a bad example.”
Jem was licking at a melting drop of vanilla sliding down the side of his cone, so it took him a moment to respond. “During the schoolweek, I get paid to set a good example. Kinda figure it’s the opposite on weekends.”
River swallowed around a bite of chocolate.
“Got me there.” He tore his gaze away from Jem and focused on the water.
After a childhood in a desert state, the ocean captivated him.
He loved the sound of it, the power. As much as he missed the clear, open, endless sky of Arizona, he’d find it hard to give up this view.
And he didn’t actually mean his present company.
“Any other naughty behaviors you want to indulge in? Get them out of your system?”
“Why?” Jem asked, smile audible in his voice. “You think I should get a tattoo?”
“Only if I get to pick it.” Honestly, he shouldn’t tempt River like that.
Jem laughed. “Pass.”
The conversation lulled. Normally River would’ve hated that.
He practically had an honorary degree in filling silences.
But though he made his money by making noise, part of making good noise was knowing when to let the silence shine through.
He focused on the salty breeze and the smooth, rich taste of chocolate ice cream, and let himself enjoy it.
And then Jem made the bitchiest-sounding scoff River had ever heard and said, “Oh my God.”
Immediately River looked over so he could follow Jem’s gaze to a couple walking down the boardwalk.
At first he thought Jem might’ve been commenting on the woman.
River didn’t have to be attracted to the female form to see she was a knockout in that MILF-next-door way.
Midthirties, probably, blond hair up in a ponytail, sunglasses, powder-blue ballet flats with daisies on the toes, perfectly fitted jeans, slouchy shoulder bag, lacy white top.
But there was no reason for Jem to sound so derisive looking at her, even if commenting on a woman’s appearance weren’t egregiously out of character for him, so River shifted his attention to the guy she was with.
“What is he doing,” Jem muttered, horror coloring his words. “Does the man not own a mirror?”
River took a bite of his cone. “Signs point to no.”
“That’s just disrespectful. Look at the effort she put in, and he rolls up in clothes he pulled out of the Lost and Found at Home Depot and didn’t even bother washing.”
Coughing, River looked over at Jem. He wasn’t wrong. He was just being meaner than River expected. “Maybe he’s poor,” he suggested, compelled for some reason to offer a defense.
“He’s wearing brand-new sneakers that cost four hundred dollars.” Jem pointed with the stub of his ice cream cone. “Along with ten-year-old cargo shorts that don’t fit and a T-shirt with grease stains. The only way it could be worse is if it said Hooters on it.”
Well, when you were right, you were right. “Think we should tell her she can do better?”
A pause while Jem debated. “I mean, she has to know, right?”
“Maybe he has a ten-inch cock?”
“I feel like he’d have some self-respect if he did.”
River cackled. “I didn’t expect this side of you. Now I’m afraid to let you see my closet.” He crunched down the last of his snack and tilted his head toward a college-age kid in clashing neons. “Do him next.”
“No way, he hurts just to look at.”
“Maybe he’s making a statement.”
“That he’s got a deep-seated phobia of being run over by a driver who didn’t see him?”
When they’d finished their ice cream, Jem fished out a couple of Wet Wipes—River waggled his eyebrows; Jem said, “Kindergarten teacher”—and they cleaned their hands before they meandered back along the boardwalk.
Every once in a while, River would discreetly point to someone and Jem would offer something like “doesn’t own a hair brush.
Or even a lightbulb, apparently” or “ten out of ten, no notes, that lady should get an Oscar for Best Outfit.”
“How about them?” River gestured, indicating an androgynous person in an oversize cream-colored sweater.
“I think I have that sweater.”
Now that River was thinking about it, it did look kind of familiar. “Wait, wait, time out. You do have that sweater. But you’re also Judgy McSnarkypants. You have nothing to say about this….” He searched for the word. “Basic outfit?”
“Ugh,” Jem said. “I hate that word.”
River blinked, once again unprepared. “Pardon?”
Jem made a helpless kind of flailing motion.
“It’s just—look, some people just don’t give a fuck about fashion, or they don’t have the energy to put into creating an outfit every day, and that’s fair.
You can still look nice. Oatmeal sweaters are nice.
They’re cozy and comfortable and make you look nonthreatening. Leave oatmeal sweaters alone.”
Obviously there was lots to unpack there—probably including something about being a male kindergarten teacher—but River let it go for now. “No, no. Tell me more about hating the word basic.”
Jem looked at him sideways, his expression suggesting he was trying to figure out if River was serious.
“I want to understand.”
“All right.”
They walked a few more steps while Jem apparently tried to word his objection.
“So I’m a teacher, right? And you know what kids are like.
They obsess over stuff. It’s what kids do.
Horses, dinosaurs, dogs, fucking PAW Patrol.
So I’m used to my kids fixating on things.
It’s cute. And it makes it really easy to identify with them, or to reward them, because all you have to do is express an interest in the things they’re interested in. ”
River had no idea where this was going, but he nodded anyway. “With you so far.”
“Okay. So—I teach at a private school. It’s very rich-people problems, for the most part. These kids aren’t going hungry, they don’t worry they’re not going to have a place to live next week. But kids are still kids. And one of the most depressing days I’ve had—”
He cut himself off with a huffed sigh. Instinctively, River slowed down, as if that would help him listen better.
“It’s going to sound dumb.”
Nothing Jem had said sounded dumb. “Try me.”
It was another few steps before Jem went on.
“I had this student last year. Emma. And Emma loved dinosaurs. She used to have this dino-printed hoodie she’d wear every day, no matter the weather.
Her dad used to apologize about it, like this shit doesn’t happen all the time.
But dinosaurs made her happy, you know? If she was having a bad day, I’d just ask her to tell me some dinosaur facts, or we’d read a dinosaur book at storytime. ”
Jesus, this was adorable. Why did River suspect the end of this story would break his heart?
“So anyway, one day Emma comes in and there’s no hoodie.
No dinosaur backpack. She’s wearing a plain blue T-shirt and the oldest, saddest expression you’ve ever seen on a five-year-old.
And because I’m a dumbass, I asked what happened to her backpack, and she goes”—here Jem adopted a soft, higher-pitched voice—“my brother says dinosaurs are cringe.”
He huffed out another enormous breath tinged with frustration and hurt and God knew what else.
“And it boils down to the same thing, doesn’t it?
Things that are cringe or things that are basic.
The root of it all is that at some point society decided that it wasn’t cool to like things except ironically.
Which, like—that’s fucking bleak, man. When did being passionate become something to be avoided?
Why is it more important to be edgy and different than to be happy? ”
River couldn’t open his mouth. If he did his heart would tumble out into his hands, and he’d have no choice but to offer it to Jem, bloody and still beating.
Because those words had touched something inside him—a part of him that had become sullen and resentful as his fame grew.
A musician needed passion to create. But it was so easy to become jaded, to fall prey to trends, to be disaffected.
Was that why he’d had so much trouble writing lately? Had he run out of things to say? Or had he simply lost sight of what mattered to him?
“River?”
Finally he took a deep breath and sucked his heart back into his chest. He couldn’t do anything about the sting in his eyes, but that was what sunglasses were for. “I’m—listen. Jem.” He stopped walking, grabbed Jem’s hands so he’d stop too.
They faced each other on the boardwalk, Jem uncertain, a little flushed, River’s heart still pounding to be heard.
“I am so fucking glad you teach kindergarten.” His voice cracked, which might have mortified him, except how could it, when Jem had just given such a spirited defense of feeling?
Jem went scarlet all the way to his hairline, and he ducked his head. “I thought you might be a little concerned by how bad I wanted to get in a fistfight with a ten-year-old.”