Chapter Eight #2
As I stood awkwardly in line next to my secretly separated parents, trying to keep my shoulders back and wondering if I should’ve gone with a maxi skirt instead of a mini … I kept scanning the crowd for a version of Finn in a suit with a GQ haircut, trying to pattern-match.
And then a head-turningly cool guy decided to make a hell of an appearance on the dock.
A cool guy—in a vest.
A vest over an oxford button-down with the sleeves rolled back.
Also: Ray-Bans, and perfectly faded Levi’s 501s, with a short-on-the-sides-but-long-on-the-top haircut.
I took it all in, along with his vintage canvas-and-leather duffel bag, like he’d just stepped out of the pages of some aspirational lifestyle magazine.
Was he Finn?
He was far away—but maybe.
I should mention that men in vests was my weakness. It was just a thing with me—for as long as I could remember. Any kind of man in any kind of vest: Sweater, suit, puffer. Scottish tartan. Tuxedo. Even a fishing vest might do in a pinch.
Is a vest appropriate cruise wear?
Hell no.
But did this guy somehow make all the dudes in flip-flops and sweatpants look like total amateurs?
You bet your life jacket he did.
Guessing from the crowd’s reaction, I wasn’t the only vest person in line to board.
Everybody stared as this guy strode past us like he was on a catwalk.
Whoever he was, he was somebody. Did he own the ship or something? Was he an actor I wasn’t recognizing? Or the son of some nautical billionaire?
Or possibly all of the above?
This guy wasn’t just cutting the line. He was walking right past it like it was irrelevant. He was focused on something else entirely—something up at the front—and it took a few minutes of gaping at him before I realized that the something he was focused on was … me.
He was walking right toward me.
As he got closer, all my visual questions started answering themselves.
And then I knew. Even before he pulled off the shades.
Dammit.
It wasn’t Finn. It was Cooper.
Cooper. In a vest. Looking almost sadistically cool. Not to mention: radically different from the last time he’d showed up unannounced in my life looking like Grizzly Adams.
He smiled big when he saw me recognize him—and then, in one graceful swoop, he dropped his bag, sidled up to me, crooked his arm around my neck, and clamped me into a headlock.
“Cut it out!” I said, instantly mad, as I batted his thigh to make him let go.
He kept me clamped against him as he greeted my parents.
He was messing up my blowout. Monster!
“Cooper! Let go! Cooper!” I protested. Then, appealing to a higher power: “Mom! He’s messing up my hair!”
But I guess my mom was just as mesmerized as the rest of us.
“Cooper,” she said. “Were your eyes always this blue?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Cooper replied.
Now I was thrashing around like a caught sailfish—but to no avail.
Cooper was bigger than he used to be.
“Where’s JoJo?” Cooper asked next, like he had no idea he had me in a headlock.
My parents thought this was hilarious.
“She should be around here somewhere,” my dad said, playing along.
“She’s not playing hooky, is she?” Cooper asked, clamping me tighter as I kicked at his leg.
“She wouldn’t dare,” my mother said.
Finally, I landed a good jab to the shin, and when Cooper flinched, I was able to bite him on the hip.
“Ow!” Cooper said, like I’d attacked him for no reason.
He released me, and I stood up, indignant—and then I punched him in the stomach.
“JoJo!” my mother scolded as Cooper doubled over.
But he recovered fast and stood back up straight to say, in my defense, “That’s our standard greeting, Mrs. Burton.”
I tried to give him a withering glare, but Cooper just started laughing.
“You look exactly like a rooster right now,” he said, reaching for his phone.
“Don’t take my picture,” I said, well aware of how ridiculous I sounded. “And don’t call me a rooster.”
Cooper shrugged. “Stop looking like a rooster and I’ll stop calling you a rooster.”
I flipped Cooper off and turned to my mother. “How could you let him mess up my hair? This blowout cost a hundred bucks!”
“Did it?” my mom said, wincing like I’d made a bad financial choice.
“It was an investment in my future,” I said, slugging at Cooper’s midsection again.
He darted back, and I missed.
That’s when Ashley and Brody showed up wearing matching T-shirts that read, in big scripty letters with arrows pointing at each other, I’M WITH MR. and I’M WITH MRS.
Cooper stepped forward to give the bride a civilized hug.
“Ashley doesn’t get a headlock?” I demanded, finger-combing my hair back into place.
“That’s our thing,” Cooper stated. “Plus, Ashley’s a grown-up.”
“We’re so glad you could make it,” Ashley told Cooper, grown-upishly.
“Me, too,” Cooper said.
Brody was older and hadn’t known Cooper in high school. He squinted, trying to figure out exactly who Cooper was. “Are you”—Brody glanced my way without making eye contact—“JoJo’s childhood bestie?”
“That’s me,” Cooper said, sounding oddly proud.
“That’s a tough job,” Brody said, like we could all agree I was a real pain in the ass.
But Cooper just gave me an affectionate look and said, “Yeah, but somebody had to do it.”
“The word in the family,” Brody went on, “is that you’re the only guy she’s never dumped.”
Oh, god. This again. “Cooper and I never dated, Brody,” I said, not hiding my annoyance. “So I never got a chance to dump him, did I?”
Cooper gave me a sly smile. “Missed opportunity.”
I was still mad about the rooster thing. “I’ll say.”
Ashley leaned toward Cooper, gesturing at Brody to explain: “Brody and JoJo dated in high school. Briefly. For like a week. But they never even kissed before she dumped him.”
“I remember,” Cooper said. Then he looked at Brody. “Still mad about it, huh, buddy?”
God. Where was my EJECT button?
Then I had an idea. “Hey,” I said to Cooper. “You aren’t trying to cut the line, are you?”
Cooper looked around. “I was just saying hi.”
But I was already rolling my suitcase his way. “Come on, pal,” I said, tugging on his arm until he grabbed his bag and followed me. “No cutting. Let’s move. All the way to the back.”