Chapter 2
Chapter Two
A man is definitely about to propose to his girlfriend on the beach. It’s painfully obvious.
He twitches nervously as he walks along the shoreline, holding hands with his freshly-manicured girlfriend. She’s wearing a blue sundress that bellows in the breeze, and based on her camera-ready appearance, I’m guessing she knows exactly what’s coming.
In my experience, men suck at keeping secrets.
From my perch in the lifeguard tower, shaded by a pair of cheap plastic sunglasses, I watch his free hand fidget in his pocket like he’s afraid the ring box might vanish.
The Claremont Shores beach is practically designed for proposals—clear water, smooth sand, the red lighthouse in the distance like something off a postcard.
Lucky for them, it’s early afternoon and the beach isn’t too crowded. Their pictures will turn out perfect.
My suspicions are confirmed when I spot a photographer crouched in the dune grass with a camera strap around her neck.
The man stops in his tracks and ungracefully drops to one knee on the wet sand. The woman gasps and slaps her palm over her mouth. They’re too far away for me to eavesdrop on the man’s proposal speech, but I can only imagine the sappy words spilling from his trembling lips.
I grimace and avert my eyes back to the lake. I hate romance.
Okay, fine. Maybe that’s not entirely true. I like the idea of love. I like the thought of having a boyfriend—even though I’ve never had one.
But the painfully hard truth is that I’m far too busy raising my sister and supporting my depressed mother to maintain a relationship. What would I even have left to give to someone else? I’d be a shitty boyfriend.
Not to mention the fact that nobody here knows I’m gay. In a small town like Claremont Shores, being different makes you a target, and I’ve already got enough stacked against me.
So I swallow it down. The wanting. The loneliness. The aching desire for someone to look at me the way that girl is looking at her soon-to-be fiancé right now.
It’s just easier to be alone.
***
Tonight is the annual Claremont Shores sailboat parade. Every year after sunset, hundreds of residents and tourists crowd the pier to watch rich snobs glide past in their glittering, overdecorated sailboats.
Maybe I’m prejudiced against boat owners, but I despise their smug, preppy attitudes. Something about their khaki shorts and forced laughter makes my skin crawl. I had no intentions of going this year, until Maddie asked if she could go with her friends. So now I’m their chauffeur and chaperone.
Lucky me.
After my lifeguard shift ends, I drive back to the trailer park while listening to the radio. My fingers drum on the steering wheel with the windows rolled down, letting the wind whip through my shoulder-length brown hair. It always lightens in the summer, streaked with honey-colored highlights.
Back home, I change into something more appropriate. I know my body checks most of the boxes people seem to care about—broad shoulders, tan skin, chiseled muscles—but the parade is a family event. Exposed lifeguard abs probably aren’t welcome.
I search through my closet and pull on a pair of black jeans. I toss on a white T-shirt with a green hoodie overtop. In the mirror, I catch a glimpse of my freckles scattered across my nose and cheeks—a visible reminder of long hours spent at the beach.
Maddie barges in without knocking, groaning dramatically. “Thank God, you’re finally home. We’re gonna be late for the parade! Hurry up.”
“Relax, Mads. We’ve got plenty of time.”
“We have to pick up Bella and Leah,” Maddie reminds me, snatching my keys off the top of my dresser. She tosses them to me with urgency, and I catch them midair.
I ruffle her hair playfully. She swats my hand away with a scowl.
“Alright, goofball. C’mon,” I say, steering her toward the front door.
In the living room, we pass Mom asleep on the couch, the TV playing quietly in the background. She sleeps a lot these days. Her depression has become brutal over the past few months, worsened by her love of booze. Most days, it’s a struggle just to get her to eat.
“Bye, Mom,” Maddie whispers as she kisses her cheek.
Mom’s eyelashes flutter at the contact, but she doesn’t respond. She readjusts her position on the couch and yanks the knitted blanket further up her body to cover her face. Maddie just pats her shoulder sympathetically.
The amount of patience and grace Maddie gives our mom never fails to amaze me.
“Alright, then. Let’s go,” Maddie says with a tired sigh, dragging me out the door.
***
As I expected, the pier is packed when we arrive.
The sailboat parade is one of the few events each year that draws tourists to Claremont Shores.
Food trucks are stationed in the parking lot, offering sugary beverages and deep-fried foods.
The scents of cinnamon dough and fresh coffee wafts through the air.
Pale moonlight glimmers on the lake as it laps against the shore. Sailboats glide past in a slow procession, decked out in string lights and blasting music from onboard speakers. The crowd cheers and snaps photos with their phones.
Maddie and her friends stand on their tiptoes, but the wall of heads blocks their view.
“Let’s get a better spot,” Maddie tells her friends as she starts to push through the crowd.
I reach out and catch her wrist. She whirls back at me with an icy expression.
“You have your phone?” I ask.
“Duh.”
“Okay. Just don’t wander too far.”
She rolls her eyes. “Relax. We’re literally just going to the end of the pier.”
She scampers off with her friends, shouldering through the horde of people. I watch her bobbing ponytail vanish in the crowd and sigh.
I don’t remember being this bratty when I was thirteen years old. I hope it’s just a phase.
A knot twists in my gut as strangers shove past me, their elbows catching my sides, their sweat clinging to the air. I hate crowds. I didn’t even want to come here in the first place, and I definitely don’t want to be wedged between a bunch of sticky bodies, packed like sardines.
Instead, I separate from the herd of people and climb up one of the dunes bordering the beach.
When I reach the top, I exhale a tired huff and fold my arms across my chest. Below me, a trail of boats drift across the lake surface.
The rich assholes aboard them laugh too loudly, popping champagne bottles and waving like they’re royalty. The sight curdles my stomach.
“You’re stepping on an endangered plant,” a soft voice says behind me.
I spin around, startled. It’s dark enough that I have to squint to make out the guy’s face. He looks about my age—and definitely not a local. I know everyone in Claremont Shores, which means tourists stick out like sore thumbs.
He has smooth, olive-toned skin and short black hair, with two longer pieces of fringe framing his face.
Angular hooded eyes hide behind circular wire-framed glasses.
His gangly frame is buried in oversized vintage clothes.
A cable-knit sweater with a hideous geometric pattern swallows his torso, the sleeves falling past his fingertips.
Despite the scowl he’s giving me, he’s... pretty. That’s the only word that comes to mind.
“Excuse me?” I manage.
“You’re stepping on an endangered plant,” he repeats, slower this time.
I look down. Sure enough, a spiky green thistle plant is crushed beneath my sneaker.
“Okay… and?”
“It’s Pitcher’s Thistle. A protected species.” His tone sharpens, smug in a way that crawls under my skin.
All I wanted was a few minutes of peace, alone and unbothered, while I wait for my sister and her friends. But no—this guy has to swoop in and ruin it.
I step off the plant. Its stem is snapped, one leaf bent at an ugly angle. “There. Happy?”
The man gave a half-smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Wow, aren’t you just a ray of sunshine?”
I ignore him, turning my attention back to the boats in the harbor, hoping he’ll take the hint that I want to be left alone.
He doesn’t.
“It’s actually illegal to kill a Pitcher’s Thistle,” the man adds flatly.
A groan escapes me. “What, are you going to call the plant police? What’s your problem, dude?”
His jaw tightens. “Just trying to look out for my community’s plant life.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Your community?”
“I moved here last week.”
“Oh, perfect.” I let out a sharp laugh. “Just what this town needs—another asshole who can’t mind his own damn business.”
The edge in my voice startles me. I don’t know where that came from. I squeeze my eyes shut and drag in a breath, trying to steady myself.
Why the hell am I so grumpy today? Maybe it’s because I’m stressed about how I’m going to pay rent. Maybe it’s Maddie being a brat. Maybe it’s the pounding headache from the blaring parade music and endless cheering.
Or maybe it’s because I’m so wound up and touch-starved that being near someone attractive short-circuits my brain.
Maybe it’s all of the above.
“I’m sorry. It’s just… been a rough day,” I sigh.
But when I open my eyes, he’s already gone. Only a trail of fresh shoe prints marks the sand where he stood.
***
After the parade ends, Maddie and her friends swarm one of the food trucks, all demanding hot chocolate.
When I spot the prices on the menu posted outside the truck, I nearly say no. Five bucks for a paper cup of glorified sugar water? But then I glance at Maddie.
She’s already self-conscious about our situation. She never invites her friends over to our house, and she constantly complains about thrift store clothes and hand-me-downs from our cousins.
I bite my tongue and dig out the last fifteen dollars in my wallet, handing it over for three wildly overpriced hot chocolates.
The girls sit at a nearby picnic table, chatting about the parade and sipping their drinks. I angle my phone screen away to open up Rotica, a popular gay hookup app. Mindlessly swiping on cute guys is one of my favorite pastimes, which is admittedly pathetic.