Chapter Sixteen
It’s an unusually slow morning at the Book and Bean, and I can’t drink any more failed latte art, so I do something I’ve been both itching to do and dreading.
I pick up the book I started writing this summer.
I’d tried to sit at my laptop in the beach house but typing on a computer made the attempt too real, so I’d bought a flamingo-patterned spiral notebook at some cheesy tourist shop, planted myself in a chaise by the pool, and wrote.
But I didn’t get far. It was a silly, rambling story about a guy named Oliver and a girl named Jillian who meet on the beach in—where else—the Outer Banks and hit it off, only to learn they’re living in the same house for the summer.
Unfortunately, after that initial “Oh no!” moment, I completely ran out of plot, so I put the notebook away and forgot about it.
But after talking to Keisha last night, it hits me—Oliver and Jillian aren’t alone in the house.
They have roommates. At least two of them.
As soon as that comes to me, those characters start to draw themselves in my brain, and I introduce Andrew, a lifeguard who has his pick of the ladies, and Nadia, because of course I had to write a Russian girl.
Nadia’s working as a waitress and perpetually smells like fried shrimp, so much so that Jillian has to look twice to realize that with her impossibly long legs and white-blond hair, Nadia’s stunning.
My pen pauses on the page. Why would it matter that Nadia’s stunning when Oliver’s the love interest?
Hmm, maybe Jillian’s jealous, nervous that Oliver will gravitate toward her instead?
No, I don’t see Jillian as insecure, and I definitely don’t want some girl-hate scenario …
I make sure they have a friendly encounter, and grin as I write Nadia breaking out into some Russian swears as she drops her coffee mug.
“You might want to work on those skills before you start your job,” Jillian warns her, voice filled with teasing warmth. “I don’t think that’s how customers generally prefer to get free refills.”
My phone beeps, and I tear myself from my notebook to look at the screen.
Spoke to Keisha last night. Says she spoke to you about coming to visit.
It’s the first text I’ve received from Jasmine since she replied with a heart emoji to the goodbye text I sent her from the airport in Norfolk. It’s still visible in the chain. I could scroll up and see pages and pages of proof that we were more than we feel like now.
But I don’t.
My entire body goes cold at the sight of her name, at the taunting red heart.
What the fuck was that song last night? I’m the one with a boyfriend.
I’ve clearly moved on. Why the hell does she need to sing to me in front of an entire room of my friends—my friends, no matter what sort of bond is happening between her and Shannon—that it was only a stupid summer game? I know. I have a boyfriend.
And neither she nor my boyfriend ever needs to know how I felt hearing that song, or how I felt watching her onstage, or how I ran out to call Keisha because I wanted to hear from someone who once upon a time thought we looked like two people who liked each other.
I fucking went down on Chase last night.
I’m doing everything right. I’m doing all the things I’m supposed to be doing.
So why do I want to stand here and cry into glass bottles of flavored syrup?
Yep, I reply, blinking back the tears pinpricking my eyelids. She said you mentioned it too. Great minds, I guess.
Not a minute later, the reply comes. Yeah, well, we’ll let you know when we figure out a date.
That’s what Jasmine just had to text me about the day after that performance?
She wanted to let me know I wouldn’t be part of this planning conversation?
God, I don’t even know why I’m surprised by her bullshit anymore.
If she wanted to talk, she could’ve come down here; she knows exactly where I am at 10:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning.
Everyone does. And if she didn’t wanna talk, well, I guess this is how she lets me know it.
Thanks, I guess, I think.
Thx is what I actually type.
I put my phone away and turn back to my notebook, happy to spend time with people who can’t send me shitty text messages.
It’s easier than I expect to pick up where I left off.
Nadia giving a teasing response to Jillian.
Jillian playfully replying in Nadia’s Russian accent, then asking her to teach her those swear words.
At some point as I write, I realize I’ve left Oliver out of the story, and I messily add that Jillian is talking to Nadia while waiting for The Guy to show his face again.
I’m on a serious roll when I’m suddenly interrupted by fingers waving over my page.
I look up, blinking into the light as I remember I’m at work, and am startled to see Chase standing there, hazel eyes twinkling as he laughs.
“What’s got you so busy? I called your name like three times. Are you late on an assignment?”
Well, I guess The Guy has arrived. “Just something for fun.” I close the notebook reluctantly and tuck it under the counter. “What brings you to the Book and Bean? Have you heard about our stunning latte art?”
“Hmm, I do recall a beautiful girl I was at a party with last night mentioning something about that. Thought I should see for myself, and maybe see if the barista was up for throwing in a kiss.”
A kiss sounds like the perfect way to forget all this stupid drama, and I stand on my toes and pull Chase down by his collar, closing the height gap between us as I press my lips to his. I kiss him with all the force of my anger and confusion at Jasmine and the want for him I had for so damn long.
When we break apart, he looks a little bit like a cartoon character who’s just been hit with a mallet, stars and birdies flying around his head.
He looks like I wish I felt. But all I really feel is that I can’t wait to finish the scene between Jillian and Nadia.
By Monday morning, I feel like I’m gonna explode if I don’t talk to someone about what’s going on in my head.
I go through the pros and cons of talking to my mom, to Shannon, to Kiki, to Gia, but I can’t imagine having this conversation with any of them.
I don’t really know where my mom stands on same-sex relationship stuff, but it isn’t exactly smiled upon in the motherland.
I tell her just about everything, but considering it involves her boss’s daughter, I need a little more certainty before I drop this particular bomb.
As for the others … even if they were chill about that—and I feel pretty confident at least Shannon and Kiki would be, if not Gia, who comes from a super traditional family—none of them would take being lied to all semester very well.
And maybe Kiki already knows something and maybe she doesn’t, but her podcast is more popular than ever, and I don’t know that I can trust her to keep quiet.
When I walk into AP Enviro, I’m hit by the most obvious answer in the world.
“Hey, partner,” I say as I take my seat next to Jamie. “How was your weekend?”
“Good!” Her face brightens. “I took Taylor into the city on Friday night to see their favorite band—I got tickets for their birthday. Had a great time. You? I assume you went to Ferris’s party.”
“I did. It was fun,” I say automatically, knowing that there’s no way the expression on my face matches the glow on hers when she talks about her date with Taylor.
But she’s given me an opening, and I need to take it before the bell rings.
“Typical. Not quite the same as a world-class date.” I wiggle my eyebrows and she laughs.
“Yeah, well, dates are more our thing than parties, anyway. The fewer people we know, the better.”
“I hear that,” I say, even though it’s generally the opposite of my philosophy. “Did you know that about each other when you started dating? And how did you two start dating, anyway?”
It’s not the smoothest transition, but it’s not hard to get Jamie to talk about Taylor.
I’ve asked her about her weekend most Monday mornings, and for most of the last six months, Taylor’s factored somewhere into her answer.
“They took someone’s spot in our weekly DnD game, and after a couple of weeks of crushing on them, I just …
gave them a set of nonbinary dice I saw online and that was it.
Probably the gutsiest dating move I’ve ever made, honestly. ”
It is, but that’s not the part I’m focused on. “But there was no, like … question of whether…” I trail off, unsure how to phrase the rest.
“I was already out as bi, and they were out as pan and nonbinary, if that’s what you mean. Not that it has to mean they were attracted to me, but I knew I wasn’t ruled out or anything.”
“Yeah, that,” I say, grateful she knew what I was going for, even as her answer makes my cheeks feel hot. “So, you’ve been out for a long time?” She’s been out the whole time I’ve known her, but she only moved to Stratford from Connecticut two years ago.
“Oh, yeah. Since, like, fifth grade. And even then, it’s not like I really needed to come out. My room was a shrine to Wonder Woman and I don’t even read comics.” She grins. “Wasn’t tough for my mom and stepdad to read between the lines.”
“And Taylor?”
“Pretty much the same. They introduced themselves with their pronouns the instant we met, so I’ve never known them to ID as anything else.”
Well, that was lovely for the two of them, but not particularly helpful for me.
Or maybe it is. Maybe this is making clear that I’m blowing things way out of proportion. If being bi means always knowing, well, that isn’t me. The only girls on my bedroom walls are my friends, and I’m certainly not into any of them that way.
That settles it. I’m straight. Just like I always thought.
I wait for the feeling of a weight lifting from my shoulders, but it never comes.