Chapter Fifteen
THEN
It was Declan’s idea to host a low country boil, to persuade my mom to finally eat some local cuisine.
My mom grew up on Russian fare—pelmeni, pirozhki, borscht, and all manner of things made with potatoes, cabbage, and/or sour cream.
She’ll eat fish eggs before she’ll eat a prawn that’s still got its head on.
So, it’s been kind of a struggle for her spending the summer in an area dominated by seafood and barbecue.
(Though she loves that the Outer Banks has somehow become a hot spot for Eastern European students to work for the summer.
Getting to speak Russian to people who aren’t me or her parents has been the highlight of her summer, I think.) Naturally, Declan sees that as a challenge.
My mother is not amused.
And because he can’t ask my mother to plan a social event she’d rather die than attend, it’s up to me and Jasmine (and okay, hired staff) to get everything going.
“I wish you could see your hair right now!” Jasmine laughs as we struggle to weigh down the gingham-printed tablecloths against the breeze rolling off the Atlantic.
“You encouraged this hair!” I lift my hand self-consciously to my new blond curls.
I’m still getting used to the way they dance in the breeze, so much lighter than the inches of mousy gold I left on the cutting room floor of the Seaside Salon.
But between the way my new hair frames my face and the deep tan I’m getting out in the Carolina sun, my eyes pop blue-green more than ever, and I look healthy and happy and different.
Jasmine did a photo shoot of me immediately afterward, but I keep stopping short of posting any of the pictures.
I don’t want anyone’s opinions yet. I like that it’s something that’s strictly Larissa of the Outer Banks—Tinkerbell, if you will.
Something separate from Stratford. Shannon would completely kill me if she knew, but Shannon’s in Paris, posting selfies from beneath the Arc de Triomphe and at little cafés dotting the city.
She’s having her version of a fabulous summer, and somewhere along the way, I realized that I am too.
I may not be scarfing pain au chocolate on the Champs-Elysées or whatever, but I don’t envy it.
I’m about to eat my weight in shrimp, crab, clams, lobster, and corn, and I feel great about that.
“I’m not making fun of the hair under normal circumstances,” Jasmine clarifies, smoothing one of her perfect pigtail braids. “It’s just kind of … everywhere right now. I’m sure it’ll look lovely for the party.”
“I’m sure your face will look lovely for the party,” I shoot back, feeling childish as I kick sand in front of me, being careful not to land any of it on the white plastic folding chairs.
“Was that supposed to be a burn?” Jasmine finishes placing shells on her corners of the table, then does a cartwheel in the sand, her mint-green-polished toes pointing elegantly at the sun. “Pathetic, Tinkerbell.”
“You’re pathetic.” I drop the rest of my shells in a messy cluster and start my own run—roundoff, back handspring, back tuck. Being a former cheerleader has its merits.
“Holy shit.” Jasmine’s jaw drops. “What did you just do?”
“Oh, did I not mention that I used to be on the cheerleading squad?” I blow on my nails.
“You’re joking. Show me again.”
I do, even though it makes me dizzy. It’s worth it for the way she wolf whistles when I’m done and yells, “That’s so hot!” In truth, my form is completely off, and Gia would have so many words for how out of practice I am, but I love that Jasmine thinks I’m amazing exactly as I am.
“I can’t believe I didn’t know you could do that,” she says, wiping away the sweat that lightly beads her forehead.
I shrug like it’s no big deal. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
“Oh, I don’t know if that’s true.” A little smile plays on her lips as she bends to draw her name in the sand. “Let’s see … I know your favorite color is turquoise. I know your favorite author is Clementine Walker. And I know you take your iced coffee with caramel syrup and way too much sugar.”
“Anyone who follows me on Snapchat knows those things.”
“Okay.” She stands and dusts off her hands, crosses her arms over her chest. “I know you used to spend summers at your mom’s friend’s house in the Finger Lakes, and that’s where you had your first kiss.
I know the only two things guaranteed to make you cry are dogs dying in movies and the smell of salami and eggs, the second because it’s the only thing your shitty father ever made right.
And I know you’re writing a romance novel in that notebook you keep under your pillow, even though you won’t let anyone read it. How am I doing?”
“Not bad,” I concede, giving my sternum a quick press with my palm to try and break up the weirdness building beneath it.
“But I know you too. I know you’ve tried exactly six times to replicate your steta’s kibbeh recipe, and that it’s what you’d choose as your last meal on death row.
I know your name was one of your parents’ biggest fights, because your mom wanted to name you after said grandmother and your father straight-up refused.
I know you still sleep with a stuffed panda oh-so-cleverly named Panda.
And I know you’re scared of waterskiing but don’t want anyone to know, because you don’t like people knowing you have any fears at all. ”
Her eyes widen. “I am not—”
“Yeah, you are.”
She exhales. “Yeah, I am. How the hell did you know that?”
I watch you. I can’t freaking stop watching you.
Wanna know some more things I know? That you have a lightning bolt of beauty marks on the back of your left thigh.
That nothing tastes better than sparkling apple cider on your tongue in the hot tub.
That every time I hear you reading French aloud to practice for the AP exam, I have to take a cold shower.
“Just very brilliant,” I say with a shrug.
She snorts. “Apparently. Come on, let’s go husk the corn.”
I jump at the chance to clear my head of the thoughts I definitely shouldn’t be having and follow her into the kitchen, where green piles await us on the center island’s concrete countertop.
We immediately get to attacking it, yanking down the leaves and stringy silks and snapping them off at the base.
Before long there’s a huge pile of garbage heaped in front of us on the counter, but it smells so sweet and delicious, I want to dive right in.
“You look like you wanna go to town on that,” Jasmine says dryly as we scoop up the mess. “Just remember, it’s still raw.”
“Okay, but I’m starving,” I grumble.
“We’re doing guacamole next.” She opens the fridge and pulls out a bunch of herbs while I grab the avocados. “I promise not to tell if you sneak an avocado or twelve.”
“That’s the kindest offer you’ve ever made me.”
“Probably.”
Together we peel and pit until our fingers are stained green. I’m about to suggest a break when something cool and slimy smushes against my face.
“Did you just.” I whirl around to see a smirk on Jasmine’s face and a mashed avocado slice in her hand. “Oh, no you did not.” I grab an avocado half and leap in her direction, but she’s half a step too fast and we end up in a running battle.
“Gotta be way faster than that, Tinkerbell!” she crows, and in the second she stops to gloat, I wrap an arm around her waist and mash the avocado into her head.
“My hair!” she shrieks, even though we both need to shower before the party.
She rolls out of my grasp as I gleefully hold up my green hands and say, “Avocado oil is healthy for it! You’re welcome, Princess!”
“I’ll show you a princess.” She comes charging toward me and tackles me to the floor, each of us trying to smear the other’s face with goop.
“This is not what I thought you meant when you told me I could sneak an avocado,” I growl.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” She sits up and holds her hands in the air, but she’s still pinning me down, her knees holding tight to my waist. Even covered in green gunk, her cutoff tee a stained and sweaty mess, she manages to look sexy as hell. “Go ahead.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” I take one of those hands and bring it to my lips, licking the traces of avocado from her palm. She laughs, but her giggles taper off as I suck one finger at a time into my mouth.
By the time I’m done tasting each one, the look in Jasmine’s golden eyes could melt the corn off its cobs. I’m about to make a move when Declan’s voice rings through the kitchen. “Girls? Did you do the guacamole?”
Jasmine rolls off me quick as lightning and I jump up, just as Declan walks into the kitchen.
Even though we haven’t been caught flirting, we’ve sure as hell been caught making a mess of his pristine kitchen.
I watch as he takes in the sight, both of us covered in avocado that should be mashed into his carefully chosen stone bowls, and his mouth quirks into a grin.
“So, not done yet, I see.”
“Uh, no, sir.”
Jasmine snorts. I have not called Declan “sir” once the entire summer. In fact, I have carefully avoided referring to him as anything at all, except to thank him for having me. And when I did call him Mr. Killary, he immediately told me to call him Declan.
I did not.
“There’s still time,” he says with a wink, and he walks out.
“Uh, no, sir,” Jasmine mocks me, and I elbow her in the side. She bursts out laughing, and so do I, and we get to work.
It takes us twenty minutes of working side by side, with zero fooling around, to finish and clean up enough not to leave a gross mess for the crew that’ll be taking care of it at the end of the night. By the time we head to our respective showers, I positively reek.