Chapter 5
VALENTINA
Despite the way I’d fled our last encounter (back into the bathroom until I was sure he’d left again), there was a net-positive to Caden’s appearance.
When, an hour later, we trekked into town—a walk on which I was usually either still drunk from the night before or sober enough to be violently hungover—I felt fine.
No headache, no sickness, and no whiny I’ll never drink again.
At least from me. Iris, for example, was still whining plenty.
My shower had definitely helped, and the rest of the alcohol’s effects had to make way for whatever argument Caden and I had had—if one could call anything with that amount of sexual tension arguing. Every now and then, it had felt like prolonged foreplay.
But no matter how spectacular the tension, Caden was a blindingly bright neon sign that spelled, in capital letters and with an exclamation mark behind it: NO!
There was exactly one rule to my guy-choosing, and it was usually easy enough to follow: he can’t be friends with my friends.
Unfortunately, judging by the way Iris had locked her arm with his, laughing at something he’d said to Alfie, Caden had infiltrated my circle in less than twelve hours.
And had unknowingly become off-limits.
Plus, I had other things to focus on this summer. Things that didn’t have piercing blue eyes, a bleach-blond buzzcut and incredibly skilled fingers.
My summer bucket list rested peacefully in the pages of an otherwise empty journal, at the bottom of my tote bag.
I hadn’t told my friends about my plan yet—mostly because the majority of items on there didn’t seem like their kind of thing, and I didn’t need to push my plans onto them when we’d been perfectly content with theirs for years—but I did have one.
Eight items on a list that had been angrily scribbled into the book.
After I’d come home from college, handed Mom my degree, and gotten a disinterested nod in response.
A well done, before she’d asked me to cook or clean or fix something broken in the house.
After I’d busted my ass for four years studying physics, sacrificing a college life that could’ve been much more fun and much less studying, only to not get what I’d wanted out of it: my family to be proud of me.
At least happy or excited about something I’d done.
Nobody had given a shit.
And after twenty-two years of exactly that, something had snapped.
Not in the way that would get me on national news, but in its more introspective, self-aware counterpart.
Where I hadn’t put a knife in my hands, but a pen.
Where I hadn’t violently lashed out but instead asked myself What the fuck am I doing all this for? And the answer hadn’t been me.
I’d never really done anything for myself.
For Mom, yes, because life had seemed so hard on her after Dad left, she’d barely noticed how hard it had been for me, the child.
For my little sister, yes, because she shouldn’t have had to suffer the consequences of constantly fighting parents, an absent father and an emotionally unavailable mother.
I had tried to keep that household from collapsing for so long—distract the people inside of it from the fact it was—I’d just been chasing some kind of appreciation.
At that point, it hadn’t mattered for what. Keeping my Mom alive or being a mom for my sister or good grades in school. Anything would’ve done. And that realization was so sad, so depressing, it had been like a slap in the face. Something needed to change.
Do something for yourself, Valentina. It hadn’t been my voice that said it, but it had been in my head. So, I’d written that stupid, trivial bucket list. And that alone had made me feel… better. Like I was finally doing something right.
Having this tiny little thing to myself. Living out what should’ve been part of my teenage years, but never finding enough space between running a household and going to school, raising my sister, and working enough part-time jobs to keep us afloat.
My priorities had been elsewhere, and at the time, it had been fine. But I was almost a graduate student—and I had a whole two months on Oakport Island in which I didn’t have to worry about my family (as much).
Why not make use of that?
sleep outside
go for a run
full-moon walk
skinny dipping
break a law
watch the sunrise
sex on the beach (not the drink)
play pool
By the end of August, I’d be a changed woman. Or, at least, a woman who’d been skinny dipping and had sex on the beach.
Technically, I’d broken a law already. Yesterday, when I was rushing to get here and went ten miles over the speed limit. I was still debating whether I’d let it count.
So, between finding a way to break the law and the courage to go into the ocean completely—never mind the fact that I wanted to do it naked—I was busy enough this summer. Focusing on myself, I think?
I didn’t need to think about a problem named Caden Callahan as well.
My eyes slid back to him, his animated conversation with my friends, and I couldn’t help but sigh.
In annoyance, perhaps, that he’d showed up here.
Then that I hadn’t told my friends about…
Us (if that’s what he wanted it to be—an us), because Iris would’ve never let him join if she’d known we had history.
Even less if she’d known it was good. Good enough that, for just a second, I wondered if he could be the rule I’d break.
I dismissed the thought—didn’t even let myself entertain it—when the familiar clocktower of Oakport’s biggest town (which was still quite small), announced our almost-arrival. Everyone still suffering from last night’s antics groaned in sweet relief.
East Isleton had a single road running in and out of it.
Winding through white, modern storefronts and paint-chipped restaurants, past the well-cared-for hydrangeas blooming in various colors, and the American flags flying high beside most buildings.
The red-bricked sidewalk was appreciated after walking two miles on the side of the road, in constant fear of being run over.
The sight was as familiar as the view from the roof of my house had been growing up, and that distinct feeling of Coming Home settled in my stomach again. Quiet. Peaceful. Completely and utterly content.
Remind me again why we think this whole walking-into-town thing is a good idea?
Iris muttered, slinging her arm across my shoulder (and leaning very heavily on me for support).
She and Alfie had abandoned Caden to walk with me— which, yes, gave me some satisfaction.
Sure. Every year, we make the same mistake.
Of walking? Alfie asked, amused. Or drinking until we don’t know our own names anymore?
Both, we said in unison. Iris nodded so grandly, she immediately stopped short, both hands coming up to her mouth.
I’d been surprised she hadn’t thrown up on the way here—the quick motion must’ve finally done it for her.
Definitely both, she confirmed. I’m gonna have to sit, guys.
The only thing that can save me now is a scoop of lemon ice cream.
Behind us, Anni gave a sound of approval. Last one at Charlie’s is a lazy egg! She started running, barely made it past us, and stopped. Which must’ve been around the same time she remembered that she was hungover, too. Okay, no. Never mind. Forget I said anything.
She means rotten egg, right? Alfie whispered conspiratorially, both of us still focusing on Anni, and the way she held her throbbing head, regret written all over her face. That’s how the saying goes? Last one there’s a rotten egg? He seemed like he might not actually be sure.
Oh, shut up, Alfie. The blonde threw an amused glare over her shoulder despite the headache. It’s the same in German, alright? Lazy and rotten both mean faul. Come on, repeat after me. F-a-u-l.
All of us muttered some variation of Here we go, rolling our eyes and laughing and giving Anni that look as we walked into Isleton.
It’s the one thing she loved teasing us about: that she spoke a second language, while we felt lucky to know one well enough to communicate with each other.
Okay, we get it—you speak two languages, oh-superior being that you are.
Why don’t you try running to Charlie’s again?
Last one there’s a faul egg, right? Alfie shot back, to which Anni simply held up her middle finger.
They both laughed. A cackle that felt so synchronized, I wasn’t quite sure which belonged to whom as he skipped a few steps over to walk beside her.
Then regretted his skipping in a wave of nausea.
It was hard to explain, sometimes, that my friends’ bickering felt more like home than my childhood bedroom.
That I could probably discern the pattern of their footsteps from that of a thousand others; that their laughter mixing with the touristy bustle of the boardwalk was more familiar than the tone of my mother’s voice.
That the way Iris locked her arm with mine was the most normal thing in the world, and that I’d probably die without it.
I have a confession to make, she said bluntly, the way she did anything, and half of her weight rested on me as we continued walking, a few feet behind the rest. I feel awful. And I can’t go another second without telling you. Don’t be mad at me, she prefaced.
Immediately, I was on high alert. Because of what my best friend was about to tell me, sure. More so, because it immediately reminded me of my own confession—that I should feel awful, and that I shouldn’t be able to go another second without telling her about Caden, either.
My eyes flicked to him, walking ahead, when I snickered, What did you do?
Promise you won’t be mad, she repeated, lifted her head from my shoulder to narrow her gaze at me. Swear it.