Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
I cringe as a country song blares from someone’s Bluetooth speaker. The lyrics are all about beer and tractors, and I want to claw out my eardrums. I don’t understand why people think the whole beach needs to hear their taste in music—especially when it sucks.
It’s Memorial Day weekend, Saturday, one of the busiest days of the year. The beach is packed. Everywhere I look, there are American flag swimsuits, towels, and umbrellas. It’s a patriotic explosion.
Usually on days like this, there are two guards on duty. Thankfully, I’m working with Aliyah today. We sit in the lifeguard tower, each watching our own zone of swimmers.
Crowds like this make me twitchy. My thumb finds a hangnail, and I pick at it while scanning the water, moving my head side to side like we were trained. Look for movement. Look for stillness. Look for trouble.
The cloudless sky offers no coverage from the blazing sun. My skin glistens with sweat. I’m running on fumes.
“Hey,” Aliyah says, nudging me with her shoulder. “Go take your lunch break. I’ve got this covered for twenty minutes.”
I frown. “No, it’s fine—”
“Dude, go,” she says, rolling her eyes at my stubbornness. “We’ll switch after.”
I let out a soft sigh and smile. “Okay. Thanks.”
Grabbing my lunch cooler, I hop down from the tower and weave through the landmine field of towels, tanning bodies, and coolers. I head toward the wooded trail of the adjacent state park. It’s shady and quiet.
The dirt path winds through towering trees. Sunlight filters through the leaves above, casting a green glow on everything. Songbirds chirp around me in a symphony, which is a welcomed change from country music.
I sit down on a log that serves as a makeshift bench.
The surface is molded with a dip, softened from the weight of countless asses that sat here before me.
I drop onto it, open my cooler, and start eating my peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
It’s crunchy peanut butter because that’s what Maddie likes, even if I prefer the creamy kind.
Something moves in the corner of my eye. I glance up, expecting a squirrel or deer.
Instead, it’s Hunter. He’s kneeling next to a plant, wearing acid-washed jeans and a baggy orange T-shirt.
His face is contorted into a scrunched expression that I can’t decipher—maybe a mixture between confusion and fascination.
He’s holding an identification book in his hands, comparing the plant leaves to the illustrations on the worn page.
I freeze mid-chew, captivated by the sight of him.
As if sensing my stare, Hunter looks up suddenly. Our eyes lock, and his body jolts, pressing a hand to his chest.
“Jesus,” he exhales. “You scared me.”
“Uh. Sorry.”
I don’t know why I’m apologizing as if I’m invading his space. This is a public park.
He closes his book and stuffs it in his backpack before walking toward me. Up close, I notice his cheeks are pink, sun-kissed.
“You working the beach today?” he asks. “It looked crazy busy when I passed earlier.”
I glance down at my tank top with LIFEGUARD in big white letters across the chest.
“Oh, right. Duh,” he mutters.
“Just on my lunch break,” I explain. “I… uh, I don’t do well with big crowds.”
He smiles, a little sheepish. “Me neither.”
“Guess that’s one thing we have in common.”
I don’t know what about my body language signals to him that I want company, but before I can protest, Hunter sits next to me on the log. We’re so close our knees almost knock together.
“Hairy Beardtongue,” he says abruptly.
I blink at him, waiting for him to elaborate. Instead, Hunter just stares back at me with those stupid brown eyes. He looks like a puppy, head tilted to the side, waiting for me to throw a stick.
“What?” I ask, chewing around a mouthful of sandwich.
“Hairy Beardtongue,” he repeats. “Penstemon hirsutus. It’s a perennial. Pollinators love them.”
He points to a plant growing next to the log with purple bell-shaped flowers.
My brows knit together. “The flower is actually called… Hairy Beardtongue?”
“That’s the common name, yeah.”
“Why the hell did they name it that?”
“It’s actually quite apt. The stamen has little hairs on it.”
Quite apt. Jesus. Why does he talk like someone from the nineteenth-century? I have to fight the urge to roll my eyes.
“What the fuck is a stamen?” I ask.
“It’s the male reproductive part of the flower.”
I squint at the plant and frown. “So, what you’re saying is that the flower has hairy balls?”
Hunter bursts out laughing. The sound startles me.
In the past, I’ve been described as broody, stand-offish, and grumpy, but never funny. It’s a pleasant surprise to hear someone laugh at one of my dumb jokes.
“Yeah,” he says between chuckles. “I guess you could say that.”
I return to eating my sandwich, and the sound of my lips smacking around peanut butter fills the still air between us. Next to me, Hunter picks at the chipped blue nail polish on his fingers.
“Do you have a favorite flower?” he asks, not looking up.
I swallow. “Um. Not really.”
“Oh. Mine is the Dwarf Lake Iris, Iris lacustris. They’re native to northern Michigan and Ontario, but I’ve never seen one in the wild,” he rambles.
I just stare.
“Sorry,” he mutters, starting to move. “I’m being weird. You probably want me to leave you alone—”
“I like sunflowers,” I blurt.
He stills and settles back on the bench. “Yeah? Sunflowers are cool.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, hard enough to taste the metallic tinge of blood. “I used to plant them with my mom. She used to like gardening. They were her favorite flower.”
The words tumble out of my mouth with a surprising amount of ease. It’s usually difficult for me to talk to strangers at all, let alone about my mom.
“Sounds like she was really cool,” Hunter says gently.
“She’s not dead,” I clarify, realizing how that probably sounded. “She just… doesn’t garden anymore.”
“Oh.”
I finish eating my sandwich in silence. After I swallow the last bit of crust, I grab my venison jerky. I bite off a large piece, ripping the tough flesh with my teeth. As I start chewing, I eye Hunter wearily.
“You’re not offended by me eating meat next to you, are you?”
He rolls his eyes. “No. I don’t care.”
“Good.”
“Honestly, I’m more offended by that,” he says, nodding at my plastic water bottle.
I frown. “What?”
“Do you know Americans throw away 60 million plastic water bottles each day? And a bunch of them end up polluting the environment. You should get one of these instead.”
Hunter pats the metal water bottle tucked in the mesh pocket of his backpack. Like all things in his life, it’s covered in stickers.
My hand constricts around my own bottle, the cheap plastic crinkling in protest. I don’t say anything.
“Oh, and don’t even get me started on your truck,” he groans. “What’s that thing get, five miles per gallon?”
That’s it. I don’t want to hear another word out of his mouth. I slam my lunch cooler shut and stand.
He looks at me, stunned. “What’s your problem?”
“My problem?! God, you’re such a dick.”
“I—”
“Not that it’s any of your fucking business, but I use plastic water bottles because the tap water in my trailer isn’t safe to drink. Food stamps don’t cover filtration systems,” I hiss.
Hunter doesn’t say anything. His throat bobs.
I jab a finger into his chest. “And my gas-guzzling truck? My dead uncle left it to me. Unlike you, I can’t afford a brand-new EV.”
His eyes flicker across my face, nervous. There’s a significant height difference between us, and I’m towering above him. I would never hurt him, but I can see he doesn’t know that.
He opens his mouth to speak, but I don’t give him the chance as I march back to the beach.
So much for a peaceful lunch break.
***
Later that night, after I finish my closing shift at Beachside Burgers, I drag myself home and immediately notice something’s off. When I pass by Mom’s room, her bed is empty, and she’s nowhere to be found.
I blink at the stillness.
Mom does this from time to time—disappears without a trace for several days, or sometimes even weeks. She’s probably getting shitfaced at a bar somewhere. I don’t worry about her anymore. Mom is notoriously invincible, like a cockroach.
Maddie corners me as soon as I slip off my jacket. She demands a ride to her friend’s house for a sleepover. I’m exhausted after a twelve-hour day split between lifeguarding and washing dishes, but I don’t say no.
I drive her across town in silence, nodding along as she rambles about something her friend said at lunch.
When I get back, I park in front of the trailer and just sit there for a second. It hits me—I have the place to myself. This almost never happens.
I text Aliyah.
An hour later, she’s in my bedroom, perched beside me on the bed. The window’s cracked open, and we’re passing a joint between us. I don’t smoke when Maddie’s home, so this feels rare and indulgent. The night air slips through the screen, cool against my skin.
Aliyah takes a drag and exhales slowly. She passes the joint back to me, and I notice a smudge of her lipstick on the paper. I raise the joint and inhale, my eyes gently fluttering shut. When I breathe out, I sputter and pound my fist into my chest, coughing.
Aliyah chuckles. “Slow down, buddy.”
I flip her off, still coughing.
Aliyah’s phone buzzes. She glances at the screen, and her lips curl into a soft smile. I recognize that expression anywhere. I narrow my eyes at her suspiciously.
“Who’s the lucky fella? Or is it a lucky lady?”
Aliyah quickly sets her phone aside. “It’s nobody.”
I tilt my head doubtfully. “Uh-huh. C’mon, spill. I might be pathetically single, but I can still live vicariously through your love life.”
Aliyah sighs. “It’s Cam.”
“From the bar?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, shit. I didn’t know you were still talking to her.”
“We’ve been texting basically nonstop. And last night… we kinda hooked up.” Her cheeks flush.
My jaw drops. I grab a pillow and swat her with it. “Tell me everything.”
She shrugs shyly. “It was… good.”
“Good,” I mock. “Wow, thank you for the riveting details. I’m rock hard.”
“That doesn’t even make sense. Why do you want to hear about this? We’re both women.”
“Exactly. That’s how desperate I am, Aliyah.”
Aliyah laughs so hard she snorts. “I hate you.”
“Seriously, though. What was it like?”
“It was great. Like, mind-blowing. Cam did this thing with her fingers where she—”
“Okay! I take it back,” I say, wincing. “Too far. I’m really happy for you, though.”
Aliyah rolls her eyes as she takes another hit from the dwindling joint. “It’s not just about the sex, though. I seriously think I like her.”
I feel a strange tightening in my chest—a twisted mixture of happiness and jealousy. Just like me, Aliyah has never been in a serious relationship. She claims to be too busy for dating, but the way Aliyah speaks about Cam is different. I’ve never seen this soft and doting side of her before.
“Well, shit,” I mumble. “Now I feel even worse about dragging you out of the bar that night. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t feel bad. Ben was a shithead.”
“Yeah.”
“You deserve a sweet guy,” Aliyah insists, snubbing the joint out in the ashtray.
She falls back onto my mattress and pulls me down with her. I’m not a touchy guy, but Aliyah usually wants to cuddle when she’s high. I run hot, and she’s always freezing. She calls me her personal space heater.
“Have you ever been in love, Mason?” Aliyah asks quietly as she stares at the ceiling.
“No. I don’t think I’ve even had a crush.”
“Seriously? Not even Sam?”
I hum thoughtfully. “Maybe. Sam was nice. We were friends, and the sex was good. But I never wanted it to be more than that.”
Aliyah huffs. “I’m kinda jealous of you, dude.”
“Why?”
“Because crushes suck. They’re terrifying. Like, what if Cam doesn’t feel the same? What if she just wants something casual?”
“Don’t be an idiot. Of course she likes you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Literally everyone likes you, Aliyah. It’s just a fact,” I mutter. “I wish I was more like you.”
Aliyah laughs. “You wish you were a bisexual Black woman?”
“Fuck off.” I huff. “I mean your ability to hit it off with strangers. Everyone adores you, and you make new friends everywhere you go. I’m… not like that. It’s hard for me to trust people, I think.”
“You’re prickly,” Aliyah says, matter-of-fact.
She’s used that word to describe me before. She says I’m like a hedgehog—sharp spines on the outside, with a soft, fuzzy underbelly that’s only shown to those I trust.
Aliyah turns her head to look at me. “Mase, when are you gonna allow yourself to date? You deserve love.”
“I have love,” I argue. “I have you and Maddie and Mom.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
I let out a breath. “Well, Maddie turns eighteen in five years. Maybe I’ll look for a boyfriend then.”
She frowns. “You can’t put your life on hold for that long. That’s not fair to you.”
“Life’s not fair.”
“Ugh, you’re so pessimistic.” She buries her face in my shirt. “Your Mr. Perfect is out there somewhere. I truly believe it. I think he’ll surprise you.”
I seriously doubt it. I know this is just one of Aliyah’s weed-induced ramblings, and I’ve learned not to take those too seriously.
“You need to stop shutting people out,” she continues. “If you want love, you have to be open to it. Like a great philosopher once said: Love is an open door.”
I still in her arms. When her words finally click, I groan with annoyance.
“Did you seriously just quote Frozen at me?”
Aliyah grins, triumphant. “Of course.”
I laugh so hard I nearly cry.
“You’re a fucking weirdo.”
She hugs me tighter. “Takes one to know one.”