Chapter 2
The party was about Keme, I tried to remind myself. Not me.
And, as far as parties went, conditions were excellent.
July on the Oregon Coast was pretty much perfect—if you didn’t count the tourists.
The day was bright and clear, pleasantly warm in the sun and almost chilly in the shade.
The air was full of the sound of the surf washing the beach, the laughter of children, a dog barking, and, of course, the wind.
Someone was grilling hot dogs, which combined with the scents of brine and sunscreen, honestly smelled so good I was thinking I should figure out how to make it into a cologne.
The water was too cold for anything but splashing around (unless you had a wetsuit), but it didn’t keep people from letting the swash run over their feet, which was half the fun of going to the beach.
And Keme’s birthday party was, indisputably, a hit.
Lots of people from town had turned out.
That wasn’t exactly a surprise; Hastings Rock wasn’t all that big, and everyone knew who Keme was.
Indira had extended invitations to the people she knew would come.
Althea and Bliss Wilson had pinched Keme’s cheeks, which was super cute, but not nearly as cute as when Bliss had given him a card with a very chesty gal on the front, and Keme had turned bright red.
Althea and Bliss were still cackling about it.
JaDonna Powers was there, one hand clapped protectively to her hair (I liked to think of it as Church Hair, and she was clearly worried the shellac wouldn’t hold up to the sea breeze)—she’d brought Keme a shotgun, which according to her, everybody at the timber yard had chipped in to buy.
Bobby had immediately taken it and put it in his car.
Seely was there, and Tessa, and Jemitha Green, who was writing a story about the party for the town newspaper.
Mr. Cheek was there (he’d worn one of those old-fashioned striped bathing suits that ran from ankle to elbow, and he’d pinched Bobby’s bum and then immediately ran straight into the ocean before Bobby could catch him).
Less ideal, in my opinion, was the fact that Bobby had also rounded up his and Keme’s friends from surfing—you could pick them out from the rest of the crowd because they were all in wetsuits, and because they were all annoyingly fit and athletic, and because they had long, salt-streaked hair that made them look like models stepping away from a shoot.
Just for the record, I had not opted for a wetsuit.
And I definitely didn’t look like a model.
I looked like someone who was reconsidering his life choices—particularly, the choice (made over and over again) to have seconds and thirds of everything Indira made.
The surfers were bad enough. Seeing Bobby in his little scrap of a tank top and his five-inch swimsuit, with all that golden skin tight over finely developed muscle, was enough to make me rummage around in the Jeep until I came up with an extra-large T-shirt.
(It said SURF ARRAKIS, and it showed a guy riding a sandworm, and yes, I’d gotten it when Bobby and I had started dating and I’d thought this would be a great way to be supportive).
We hadn’t been dating long, and this was one of our first public appearances as a couple, and I was starting to realize that being seen with Bobby invited unwanted comparisons.
But again, this was about Keme. Not me.
Keme, for his part, was trying to play it cool.
Aside from that moment of self-immolation when he’d seen Althea and Bliss’s card, he’d been his usual reserved self—nodding, listening, answering politely when he was asked a direct question.
But anybody who knew him just had to take one look to see that he was glowing.
He was in a wetsuit—try keeping him and Bobby out of the water—and I swear to God, when Millie tied his hair back for him, he looked so happy that I honestly thought my heart was going to burst.
I hung out at the improvised tiki bar we’d put up (and, as Bobby had informed us, which we would take down at the end of the party, making sure we didn’t leave any trash behind, on pain of execution—okay, he didn’t say that last part, but it was implied).
I helped Indira craft mocktails. Seely and Tessa jumped in to help too, ignoring Indira and me when we told them to just enjoy the party.
“So, this is where you’ve been,” Bobby said.
I made the mistake of looking up. See, the problem is that Bobby is much, much, much too handsome.
He’s got this perfect jaw. And he’s got thick, dark, silky hair.
And his eyes are this amazing color—a shade of bronze I’ve never seen on anyone else before.
Plus, see above re: muscles. I hadn’t gotten to spend much time with him today because everyone had been so busy getting ready for the party.
(Also, I want to emphasize that I did my job to perfection: keeping Keme occupied—and annoyed—so that he wouldn’t figure out what was going on.) Today, Bobby wore a thin gold chain around his neck.
He had a little sand in his hair, and when he took off his sunglasses, the pads had left little marks on the bridge of his nose.
“Hi,” I said. “Do you want—”
He kissed me.
I wasn’t used to that. I mean, I didn’t object. Like, at all. Quite the opposite, in fact. But it was still a surprise. And it was a surprise how good it felt. It was a surprise—still a surprise—that when he pulled back, I couldn’t stop smiling.
Of course, neither could Seely and Tessa. Or, for that matter, Indira.
Bobby wore just a hint of his goofy grin. “I wanted to introduce you to the guys.”
“Oh,” I said. I was suddenly painfully aware of the Arrakis T-shirt.
And of, uh, my whole yes-to-trifle situation going on underneath it.
Bobby’s last boyfriend, West, had been very much a no-to-trifle kind of guy.
In fact, he’d been a no-to-carbs kind of guy.
He’d also been the pinnacle of human perfection and male beauty.
I wondered if there was a way I could put off meeting the guys until whenever it was appropriate to wear bulky robes and masks—Halloween, maybe?
Before I could come up with a good excuse—I have to wash my hair!—Bobby grabbed my hand and led me away from the tiki bar.
Anxiety is a funny thing. And by funny, I mean it feels like simultaneously asphyxiating and having a heart attack while trying not to poop yourself. Which was definitely not the image I wanted to have in my head the moment before I met Bobby’s cool, hip, confident—and did I mention cool?—friends.
If you’ve never had to approach a group of surfers in the wild, here’s a helpful comparison: imagine yourself in middle school, being forced to initiate an interaction with the cool kids.
Who also happened to be the athletic kids.
With everyone else watching. And it was during gym class. And they were naked. (Mostly.)
I was still fleshing out this newly discovered nightmare when I realized Bobby was saying my name, and all of a sudden I was bumping fists and nodding and mumbling hellos as names were said back to me.
Everybody seemed to run out of things to say at the exact same time, which left us all standing there, trying not to make eye contact.
“Dope shirt,” one of the bros finally said. “Dune is, like, epic.”
“Thanks,” I said. And then, because there’s this nerdy gremlin inside me that won’t shut up, I said, “I heard there’s a six-hour director’s cut version of the David Lynch version, and I swear to God, if I ever get my hands on it, Bobby won’t see me for a week.”
“For a month,” Bobby said drily.
Everyone started laughing—even me.
I was about to protest, but a scream interrupted me. We all looked over to see a sopping wet Millie chasing after Keme. The boy was grinning as he flew down the beach.
The same Dune-loving bro groaned. “Bobby, you’ve got to help him.”
“He’s got no game,” another of the guys complained—but in a way that suggested an older brother’s annoyance more than an actual dig at Keme.
“And you want Bobby to help him?” I asked.
“Hey!” But Bobby was grinning as his buddies cracked up again.
And just like that, it was okay.