Chapter 6 Flirting Won’t Kill You
FLIRTING WON’T KILL YOU
ALICE
Best of all, I barely sleep. I don’t have time for it, and no time for sleep means no time for nightmares that like to cosplay as dreams.
Detailed ink and charcoal sketches of Harley are strewn across my studio, explorations of the doodles I’d scrawled onto napkins a week ago.
I’ve even attempted a few of Jessa, too.
And even though none have made it past the sketch phase—and an empty canvas sits on my easel—I’m more fulfilled than I have been in months.
These ideas aren’t contenders for the exhibition; my gut unfortunately knows that with certainty. But they’re a start—a sign of blooming after a long winter.
It’s progress. It’s something. And something is far better than nothing.
I’m rolling my kneaded eraser between my fingers, playing with the tacky rubber, when my phone’s alarm blares. I scramble in pursuit of it, rummaging through the mess of shit on my worktable, finding it under a pile of charcoal-stained paper towels and crumpled throw-away sketches.
The bright screen flashes with a reminder: Beach Day.
“Fuck,” I mutter as I hit the snooze button and swipe through my missed notifications.
Emails I ignore. Erica and Steph’s messages get noncommittal likes so they know that I’m alive. But I pause on the four unread messages from Jessa.
“Double fuck,” I groan, clicking open our thread.
Did you want to meet at the beach or want me to pick you up?
JESSA
I’m guessing no response means you’re either busy or too scared to make a choice. No worries. Why don’t you meet me in the parking lot at Avalon Cove and then we go from there?
JESSA
I’ve got beach chairs and an umbrella covered—they live in my trunk. And I have all the fixings. So don’t bring anything but yourself and your bathing suit.
JESSA
BTW my housemate might come too since he’s off work today. But let me know if that makes you uncomfortable and I’ll tell him to fuck off.
JESSA
My thumbs hover over the keyboard as I consider what to respond with. Would a ‘Sorry! I forget that time and my phone exist sometimes. See you in a few hours!’ work?
She seems like the type who’d get it, based on our interaction at Mad Mug. And we’ve been texting on and off the past week, participating in an unofficial game of twenty questions.
Jessa lives with two others in a house on Cedar Lane.
She’s worked at Mad Mug for almost a decade but has owned it for five, having taken over for the previous owner when they retired.
She has an insatiable sweet tooth. She listens to punk rock music and while she wants a tattoo, she’s scared of needles.
And even though all those facts sound like a checklist of things you ask someone to get to know them, the back and forth hasn’t felt forced.
Except now I’ve gone and ignored her in the two days leading up to the plans we made.
As if Jessa can sense my discomfort from across town, a new message from her pops up.
Text me back, Trouble. You’re making me worried.
JESSA
Sorry! Was in an art fog all weekend. I can explain later?
Also, I’m notoriously bad at texting.
I’m looking forward to later. It’ll be good to get out of the house.
We’ll work on the texting bit.
JESSA
Don’t forget to put on sunscreen. I have a feeling you burn easy.
JESSA
My cheeks heat and I quickly like her last message before locking my phone.
It could be a byproduct of finally creating again, but I feel lighter, more open than I did last week, and bubbles of nervous excitement pop in my stomach.
Later, after I’ve rinsed off in the shower and slathered myself in sunscreen, guilt stalls my feet at the threshold of the house. The door is open, my fingers wrapped around the brass handle, but the four inch step onto the porch feels like jumping off a cliff.
A demonic voice whispers in my ear, urging me to go back inside.
Shut the door. Stay. It gets crueler the longer I stand there.
Why are you excited? How can you possibly enjoy anything when Ryan isn’t here to?
He would have gone to the beach with you.
He loved the beach. Why are you trying to replace him? Shut the door. Cancel the plans. Stay.
There’s safety here, in the house. To be tucked away in my studio, just me and my memories and my attempts at art. I hurt here, but not any more or less than I have over the past two years.
Sea salt air blows through the open doorway; it smells a lot like hope.
I close my eyes. Hold the breeze in my lungs.
Hope promises connection and assures loss. Hope guarantees an incredible high and teases more weekends in the studio with my muse. Hope is excellent at convincing me the inevitable crash out at the end of this will be worth it.
Hope is dangerous for a woman like me.
If life’s going to hurt regardless, I might as well get something out of it. And I’m desperate to paint again.
I step onto the porch and pull the door shut behind me.
Jessa’s waiting, perched on the back rim of her vintage pickup truck, when I pull into the parking lot. She’s the only person lingering among the few cars and many empty spots; Memorial Day is a week out, so the summer crowds haven’t hit in full yet.
Black bikini straps poke out from the neckline of her tank top, and long, muscular legs stick out from cutoff denim shorts. Her hair is pulled back in a high ponytail like it was at Mad Mug, but her split-dyed bangs brush over a large pair of cat-eye sunglasses.
A wide smile that shows off pointy canines spreads across her face when I hop out of my car. “I told you not to bring anything.”
I shrug, my tote bag shifting on my shoulder. “It’s only my essentials, don’t worry.”
“I’ll worry as much as I want.” She huffs, but her tone is playful. “I need to know if you’ll follow directions. Seems like that’s a big N-O.” Jessa grabs the folded beach chair and bag of towels sitting at her feet. “C’mon, I already sent my housemate ahead of us with the other stuff.”
“I was wondering why you only had one chair with you,” I say. “I forgot you said they were coming.”
Jessa taps the side of her sunglasses as we wind down the small path to the beach. “I’m always thinking ahead.”
“Or you’re a control freak?” I ask, fighting a smile.
“I prefer a less controversial title,” Jessa says. “But yes, I prefer to be the one calling the shots. You should get used to that quick or we’ll have issues.”
Dirt and gravel turn to sand, and the hot grains slide between my toes and my sandals; this is the worst part of going to the beach, the walk between the parking lot and the water.
“I don’t necessarily mind that,” I say, slowly. A cloying wisp of sadness crawls up my neck, making me shiver even though the sun beats down on us in full force. “I’ve made enough decisions for a lifetime.”
“Easy,” Jessa says, not skipping a beat. Is she ignoring my sudden melancholy, or does she not recognize it? “I’ve got you covered, babe. Consider me your official decider of things. I already do it for my housemates, what’s one more in the pack?”
I bark a laugh. “Okay.”
Jessa studies me for a long beat, glossed lips pursed. She hums thoughtfully, then turns her attention back to the water.
“What?” I drawl.
“Nothing.”
“Why did you make that noise?”
That devilish smirk climbs up her sharp cheeks. “No reason.”
“You made a judgy noise.”
“It was no such thing.”
“Then what was it?” I press. There are fewer things I hate more in the world than unexplained thoughts.
Jessa spins, long swath of hair whipping through the air, and walks backwards as she talks to me. “I was only thinking that maybe you aren’t a brat after all.”
My eyebrows hit my hairline. “Where did you get that idea?”
Jessa clicks her tongue. “Don’t play dumb, it doesn’t suit you, Alice.” She spins again, returning to my side. She leans in close to fake whisper in my ear. “You’re still trouble though.”
Gooseflesh rushes over my chest as I inch away from Jessa and peer down the beach. A smattering of umbrellas line the curved stretch of sand.
“Which one is yours?” I ask.
“The red one,” she says, pointing. It’s the last and farthest down the strip of beach, near the curve of tall grass that marks the start of the nature preserve.
Many of the beaches on the north shore of Long Island are rocky, especially compared to the south shore.
Up here, on the edge of the Sound, it’s more common to go boating, paddle-boarding, or kayaking.
But there are still gems like Avalon Cove, where the sand is granular and warm.
I shuck off my sandals and let my feet sink into it fully.
It burns, but I know it’ll feel amazing when I hit the cooler grains by the water, and that only pushes me to walk faster.
When I get to the red umbrella, I falter.
Lounging in the shade on a striped towel, with aviators perched on his nose and donning a pair of bright red board-shorts that show off way too much thigh, is the librarian I’ve been drawing by memory for the past week.
“It’s you,” I say.
Harley sits up on his elbows, lifting his sunglasses and tucking them into his white hair.
“Hey, Alice.” His eyes squint with his smile, and their red tint glows in the natural light. “How are you?”
I train my gaze on Jessa. “Meadowbrook’s librarian is one of your housemates?”
“Yeah,” Jessa says, confused, dropping her bag under the umbrella. “Why, is that a problem?”
“He’s the one who recommended I stop by Mad Mug,” I snark, though there isn’t much heat backing the words as I toss my bag down in the shade next to hers. I’m not angry, more shocked, and slightly embarrassed as I try—and fail—to avoid looking at his lean chest. “Now I know why. Nepotism.”
Jessa playfully pokes Harley’s ribs with her foot. “He’s a loyal grassroots marketer.”
“Stop that.” Harley squirms, smacking Jessa’s foot away. He glances my way, and I can’t tell if the pink on his cheeks is the start of a sunburn or a self-conscious flush. “Sorry. Did she not mention me coming today? I can leave if you want.”