Five Georgia #2
It takes her so long to swap her cutoffs for athletic shorts and a sports bra that I’ve found the rackets and filled our water
bottles and am sitting behind the wheel, ready to go, by the time she comes out and hauls herself into the car.
“I still can’t believe you didn’t take the rest of the weekend to party in the city with Eden,” she says, removing a handful
of candy wrappers Eden left on the seat.
“I have my priorities,” I tell her.
“Oh, I’m aware, Georgia,” she says with a smile. She fiddles with her sunglasses and looks out the window at the sun spraying
down through the trees. She seems unusually quiet.
“What are you thinking about?” I prod.
“Nothing. Just . . . guacamole, I guess.”
“All you ever think about is food, Daisy. How was Jenna and Holly’s party last night?”
Daisy shrugs. “It was . . . um. Good. Really good!”
“Anything interesting happen?”
“Depends on what you’d call interesting,” she replies. Classic Daisy. She loves to be coy.
“I hope you and Scarlet didn’t make a total scene,” I tell her.
“Georgia, we’re not five. And no, we didn’t.”
After that, Daisy broods and ignores me until we pull up at the club.
We check in and find the boys already out on a court, easily rallying the ball back and forth. Rhys is what my mother would call “a tall drink of water”—his height and build, his dark skin and radiant smile, make him magnetic to look at.
Rhys clocks us as we enter the court and lets the ball sail past him, jogging toward me with a huge smile on his face that
wipes away all the angst I was feeling earlier. “Baby,” he says, enfolding me in his arms. I can practically feel Daisy’s
judgment (she hates that he calls me “baby”) but I don’t care. I fall into Rhys’s arms, into the delicious scent of his sea
salt and cedar body wash.
His lips find mine and we kiss, and for the whole minute that my eyes are closed and I’m surrounded—the feeling of Rhys, the
smell of Rhys, the presence of Rhys—I get this immense sense of peace. Like falling into a hammock on a beautiful day, but
better, since I get easily bored lying around in hammocks.
Then I become aware that we’re kissing in front of Mateo and Daisy, and I pull away.
Rhys wraps an arm over my shoulders, and with his other hand, he offers my sister a fist bump. “Hey, Daisy! Been a while!”
“Hey, Rhys,” she says as Mateo jogs over toward us from the other side of the court. “Who’s this?”
“That’s Mateo Roman,” Rhys says. “My buddy from Connecticut. You’ll be seeing him around the club even when I’m not here.
This guy is way better than I am. And you know I don’t admit that easily,” he adds with a laugh.
Mateo smirks. “And you wouldn’t admit it at all if you weren’t forced to by blatant evidence.”
“Whatever, dude,” Rhys says playfully.
I glance at Mateo, surprised. Rhys isn’t being modest—he really is an incredible tennis player, so Mateo must be impressive.
He’s quirkier looking than my boyfriend, which matches his quieter, moodier personality.
He’s tall, too, but thinner than Rhys, and a little more feminine, with an angular nose, wide-set eyes, prominent cheekbones, and messy hair.
Cute enough, but there’s something about his face—it’s impossible to read. Gives me untrustworthy vibes.
Rhys joins Mateo on the far side of the court, and Daisy and I take the closer side. But our attempt at a game is disastrous.
Daisy and I both have competitive personalities—our dad was a pro athlete, after all!—but no amount of determination can get
us even close to the guys’ skills, and it’s rather annoying for everyone, them included. Quickly we realize it’s best to swap
partners. Rhys and I team up against Mateo and Daisy, and that goes much, much better—mostly because Mateo is basically playing
for both himself and Daisy.
Letting off a little steam on the court helps my mood . . . as does dreaming up some activities for me and Rhys to do alone later. A little swim in the lake. Or a bike ride into town to pick up some sandwiches for a late picnic somewhere private.
We have so much to catch up on!
I’m so lost in my fantasy of the rest of our afternoon that I inch up too close on the net and miss the ball on my side completely.
“Baby!” Rhys shouts, exasperated, as I realize the winning point just went to Mateo and Daisy.
“Oops!” I run over to him. “I’ll make it up to you, promise. Why don’t we rematch next weekend? I could use a break,” I say.
“Yeah, all right. My game’s off today, anyway,” he says, and his signature smile is back on his face in no time.
“I’m hungry,” I announce. “Maybe we should sneak away for some lunch?”
“We just ate an hour ago,” he tells me.
“Oh. Well, what do you want to do next? I was thinking we could grab a couple bikes and—”
“I told Mateo I’d show him around Laurel Lake today. You know, all the good spots to hang out. Since he’ll be here all week
on his own.”
Mateo and Daisy cross over to where we’re standing. “You act like I can’t take care of myself,” Mateo says with a laugh.
Rhys rolls his eyes. “You really can’t, though. Girls, do you want to come with us?”
“We’d love to! Right, Daisy?”
Daisy shrugs. “Sure, I guess. As long as Eden doesn’t get too lonely without us.”
“Hang on, I have an idea,” I tell them, going into director mode. “Mateo, why don’t you drive my car. You can take Daisy to
pick up our cousin Eden. She can show you how to get there. And I’ll ride with Rhys!” I turn to Mateo. “You’re okay with that,
right?” It’s not exactly a test or anything. But the sooner he understands who takes priority in Rhys’s life, the better.
It’ll just make things a whole lot smoother for the rest of the summer.
Mateo looks back and forth between me and Rhys. “No problem. Where are your keys?”
I dig them out of my bag and toss them to him, and before those two can dwell too much on being ditched, I grab Rhys by the arm and steer him out of the club.
“Finally!” I say cheerfully as we climb into Rhys’s car and close the doors. I put my hand on his leg as he starts the engine,
and he puts his free hand on mine.
“Oh, Georgia,” he says, smiling to himself and shaking his head.
“What?”
“Are you going to be like this all summer?”
“Like what?”
“Jealous of my time with Mateo. Baby. Don’t worry, he’s not your competition.”
I laugh. “I know that!”
He glances at me. “And I know you. You get possessive.”
“I do not!”
He laughs. “It’s okay, I like it. It’s cute.”
I sigh. He does know me. “Fine, you’re right. But only because our time together is so precious. I hate having to share your attention.”
“There’s enough of it to go around,” he says.
I take a deep breath, reminding myself that this is true. I don’t need to be anxious about my time with Rhys. We have all
the time in the world. We have our entire futures together.
But still. Rhys is like a bright light—he’s the person everyone looks toward when he walks into a room.
He doesn’t just go to parties in every single social circle at his school, he holds court at them.
Groups naturally gather around him, moths to a flame.
I can’t help but feel jealous and uncertain occasionally.
I am genuinely a naturally confident person. . . . It’s just sometimes hard to believe that I’m the one he’s chosen to commit
himself to, when anyone would die to be with Rhys.
“Feel better?” he asks me.
I love him so much, but sometimes it kills me how well he can read me. I hate seeming down or insecure around him. I smile. “Of course, baby. I love you. And by the way, I’m a jerk for not congratulating
you sooner. I’m so proud of you for getting the internship. You’re gonna kill it.”
His smile is huge. “Thanks! I’m super excited about it. I really think I’ll learn a lot, and obviously it’ll open up even
better opportunities next summer.”
“Right! It’s so amazing.” Once again, I take in how handsome, accomplished, smart, and kind Rhys is. I quickly forget my momentary
annoyance over Mateo and the weekends-only thing, and remember instead how freaking proud I am to be this guy’s girlfriend.
Together, we are going places.
It’s as if he’s had the same thought. “And I’m proud of you too. Lifeguarding is no joke. I know that process is rigorous
as hell.”
“I mean, I don’t quite have it guaranteed yet. I need to test in,” I say sheepishly. “But,” I add, “I feel really prepared.”
Every year, there are up to twenty teens vying for these spots, and the lake needs, at most, a staff of five or six.
They usually only end up with that many qualifiers anyway because the drills and the safety and stamina tests are so grueling.
The lake is remarkably calm, but Mr. Bailey, the beach director from the lake association, is originally from Australia, where, word has it, he nearly became a pro surfer back in the day and takes water safety super seriously.
You also have to be seventeen. The last summer we were here, I was only fourteen, but I watched the drills and started practicing them on my own.
And even though it was three whole years ago, Mr. Bailey told me to come back and test in when I was old enough to qualify.
“You’re the fittest and most responsible person I know,” Rhys tells me. “You have it in the bag.”
He’s probably right, but the test-in is on Tuesday—only a few days away . . . an overheated feeling comes over me, like a
restless itch.
“You know what? Much as I want to hang out with you and Mateo and the girls, I should do some more training anyway. Can you
drop me at the beach?”
He looks at me in surprise. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah. I can jog home from here easily enough.”
“Great. And I’m sorry about this. I know we don’t have that much time before I head back to the city,” he reminds me. As if
I’d forgotten!
“Why don’t you come by later to say hi to the family and, you know, kiss me good night.”
He smiles. “You got it.”
He hangs a right instead of continuing toward town like we’d planned, and soon, we’re pulling into the dirt lot with the wood-planked path that leads down to the public access beach.
Before getting out of the car, I lean across the console and kiss him slowly, deliberately.
He moans as we kiss, and his hands find my waist. “I really missed you, Georgia.”
I sigh into him. “I know. Me too.”
“Don’t go just yet,” he whispers.
“Okay,” I whisper back.
He pulls me closer, and I crawl all the way onto his lap. We make out a little more, his hands moving up inside my shirt.
I’m conscious of wearing a super unsexy sports bra.
“Maybe we should park somewhere more private,” he says.
I pull back a little, hitting my head on the car ceiling. “Not right now. Besides, in this small town even the trees are watching.
Let’s find some time alone later, okay?”
And then I shimmy back over to the passenger side and open the door. As I grab my gym bag, I lean back inside the car for
a minute. “Have fun!” I blow him a kiss, secretly pleased with myself.
Because now I’ve flipped the tables on him and reminded him just how much he wants to get me alone.
Leave them wanting more.
Works every time.
I keep a couple of spare swimsuits in my gym bag so it’s easy enough to throw one on in one of the wooden stalls in the dingy beachside locker room.
Despite it being a Saturday, there are only a couple of families hanging at the beach today, and a few other stragglers sunbathing and reading.
The beach feels almost private. Probably because it’s so early in the season; some schools are still in session, and a lot of folks don’t come out
to Laurel until the big Fourth of July festival, which is a couple of weeks away.
I start with running across the sand from either end of the beach and back, getting my heart rate up until I’m pouring sweat.
Then I wade in and begin my laps. The water is pleasantly cool. Laurel Lake’s not huge, but it is surprisingly deep at the
center, and holds its cold temperature longer than some. The water won’t get truly warm until August.
I feel strong and relaxed as I push myself to faster speeds, lapping the deepest part of the swimming area marked by a series
of buoys. I know rest is good for building muscle stamina, though, so I alternate between hard laps and “rest” laps. It’s
during one of the latter that I notice one of the people on the beach—a teen guy, though I don’t recognize him—staring at
me. He’s got dark hair and warm, sun-kissed brown skin, and he’s sitting on a bright red towel in swimming trunks and a loose-fitting
tank top, leaning back on his elbows. His face is distinctly pointed in my direction. What else could he be looking at?
I duck my head in and out of the water as I swim, but every time I sneak a peek, he’s still watching me. He looks to be around
my age, maybe a little younger. He’s got a book in his hand, a finger marking the spot.
I keep looking over, wondering if I’ll catch him returning to the book, but no—he’s got his eyes on me like I’m a fascinating TV show.
I decide it’s best to ignore his rude behavior, and refocus myself on perfecting my freestyle stroke.
When I finally feel my body getting exhausted, I turn toward the shore and wade out, cool water dripping down my legs, drop
by drop, as a breeze picks up.
I can’t help myself, and briefly cast my eyes over to the guy with the book. He can’t possibly still be watching me, can he?
I breathe a sigh of relief. The red towel is no longer strewn across the sand, and the boy, whoever he was, is gone.