Chapter 6 Playlist Thank Me Later
THE NEXT MORNING I head in for my shift at Pearl’s. Trish is in her office, and while I rehearsed how I’d ask about the music at the restaurant the entire walk over because I knew I’d be nervous to ask, the Nickelback song blaring as soon as I walk in spurs me into immediate action.
Our customers deserve better than this.
“Hey, Trish?”
“Yeah?”
“Would you mind if I changed up the music a little?”
She just shrugs. “Fine by me. I just put it on the first radio station I found and never bothered to change it. You’re welcome to take over.”
I accept this appointment with the same gravity I’d feel if she’d handed me the keys to the cash safe, and immediately download Spotify onto the computer connected to the system. I log in to my account, and my mood is instantly lighter as the first few notes of Vance Joy’s “Riptide” hit my ears.
I’m smiling as I leave the office. Today will be a good day.
My elderly would-be fiancé doesn’t come back today, but apparently that doesn’t mean romance in this dining room is dead.
While Myles and I are hanging around the host stand, keeping an eye on our respective tables and watching for new customers to arrive, Ned strolls by with the dish bin against his hip on one side, and his opposite hand up in the air, a slip of receipt paper between his fingers.
He pauses in front of Myles. “Those girls at table six left a phone number for you, bro.”
Myles’s ears turn pink as he takes it, and Ned saunters off.
I lift my brows, absolutely delighted and charmed by his bashfulness, and he gives me a wry glance. How many numbers has he gotten?
“Don’t start,” he says.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“It’s all over your face,” he says as he tucks the paper into his pocket, and I wonder if he’s actually going to call them. “Also, you’re one to talk. I heard about the proposal yesterday.”
“Yeah, three gorgeous college girls in bikinis and a sweet man old enough to be my grandfather. Those are the same.”
He laughs, and a starburst flares in my chest. Myles thinks I’m funny.
“Well,” he says, “I’ll need all the help I can get, with that new guy in town.”
Myles needs zero help in the ladies department, but I won’t say it out loud. “What new guy?”
“I don’t know, some dude who was at the bonfire the other night.
Chuck had a get-together last night, and all the girls were talking about him.
Kristin Bevers said she saw him at the grocery store, and I swear they all acted like it was a celebrity sighting.
” Myles shrugs, like he’s not actually all that bothered by it.
Just as I wonder if it’s the guy I met at the drink table that night, whose laugh I still remember, a middle-aged couple walks in. They ask about bar seating, and Myles offers to show them the way.
I make a round to refill drinks and get the check for a six-top, and by the time I get back to the host stand, three new tables have filled up.
The rest of my shift flies by in a blur, and before I know it, the dining area has cleared out and it’s time to head home.
One entire side of the restaurant is windows, with a gorgeous view of the ocean, so you’d think I’d have noticed the dark wall of clouds rolling in.
I guess I was super focused on my customers.
I notice them now, though, as I hang up my apron, grab my purse, and head to the side exit all the employees use.
“Crap,” I say, stopping under the awning seconds before I’m pelted by raindrops.
“Everything okay?” a voice asks from behind me.
I turn to find Myles, swinging his car keys around his index finger.
How does he still look so perfect and put together after that shift?
Not a single hair is out of place, and his white Pearl’s shirt (this one has a cartoon lobster) is pristine.
Meanwhile, my ponytail has partially fallen out, I have a huge pen mark on my forearm, and one of my no-show socks slid down an hour ago and has been tucked underneath my foot ever since.
“Yeah,” I reply. “I just forgot to check the weather before I came in today. I walked and didn’t grab an umbrella.”
“I could give you a ride,” he offers.
“Really?” I ask, meeting his eyes. Even with the clouds it’s brighter out here than inside, and I notice that his hair’s already turning white-blond.
I wonder how much time he’s spent on the beach since school got out.
He could be surfing by the pier every morning, and I’d never know.
Surfing’s one thing I never got into even though I grew up on the beach—getting the good waves requires waking up waaaaay too early.
I realize with surprise that I haven’t been to the pier or down by the volleyball courts at all since Kat left. It’s only been six days, but for me even that long is unusual. Maybe I should head down to the pier this weekend.
By yourself? my brain asks.
Which, rude. I do have other friends, okay? I could call Ruby, or even Shelby.
“Sure,” Myles says, bringing me back to the restaurant. “I’m not in any hurry to get home.”
I don’t love the idea of getting soaked, and definitely don’t mind the thought of spending more time with Myles, so I nod. “Okay. That would be great, thank you.”
“I’m in that Bronco over there,” he says, holding out his clicker. The lights flash as it unlocks.
“Myles Ford drives a Ford,” I quip, and immediately cringe inside. Just a few short hours ago I was thinking how I was playing it cool around him, and then I go and say something cheesy like that. I won’t blame him if he rescinds his offer to drive me home right here and now.
But he just laughs and says, “Come on,” and we take off at a jog through the rain.
I’m a little breathless when we get in and close the doors, and Myles twists around to reach into the back seat. He straightens back up with a beach towel that he hands me. “Here. Might be a little sandy, but at least it’s dry.”
“Thanks.” I wipe down my arms and squeeze out my hair, then hand it over.
He does the same with his arms and swipes the towel across his hair with one hand. “Man, I love rain.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” He turns on the ignition. “Always have.”
“I’m the exact opposite. I want sun, sun, and more sun,” I say, and circle my hand in front of my face. “Obviously.”
He tips his head at me, confused.
“All the freckles,” I explain, and even though I don’t mind them, it sort of comes out like I’m not a fan.
“Ah,” Myles says, twisting to look behind him as he backs out of his spot. “You know, I’ve always thought freckles are cute on girls.”
He says it in a sort of general, offhanded way, so I don’t think he meant anything by it—but still. Myles thinks freckles are cute, which means he might think mine are cute?
Oh. My. God.
It’s quiet for a moment as he weaves through the parking lot, and it hits me what a small, confined space I’m in with Myles Ford.
He seems long and large sitting beside me, legs stretched out and one hand on the steering wheel.
He runs the other through his hair, then reaches forward to fiddle with the radio.
It smells like Myles multiplied by a hundred in here, bottled up into a concentrate.
If I weren’t so worried he might notice, I’d inhale a deep lungful.
But wait, does that mean he can smell me, too? I panic, wondering if my quick swipe of deodorant this morning held up through my shift. I surreptitiously tuck my chin to my right shoulder, like I’m scratching an itch, and take a whiff. Thankfully, all I catch is the faint notes of vanilla.
“Where to?” he asks.
“Oh, right. I’m out in Pine Cove,” I say, and give him the exact address.
He must know the area, because he says, “Wow, I didn’t realize you lived so close to the water. That’s awesome.”
“The house has been in my family forever. It’s old, so we’re always fixing something, but the location’s worth it.”
“I bet.”
“Where do you live?” I ask, as if I don’t already know.
He doesn’t know that I know he’s further inland like Kat, because she saw him and his brothers leaving their house once while she was on a run.
She adjusted her route so she passed their place on the regular after that.
The area’s thickly wooded and especially gorgeous this time of year, with all the green trees surrounding the large colonial-style homes that are at least twice the size of mine.
“Way in the other direction, by Main and Seventh.”
I nod with interest, like this is completely new information.
It’s quiet again, and I don’t want it to descend into awkwardness—lest I blurt out something random and embarrass myself—so I ask, “Are you doing anything fun this summer?”
“My whole family’s going to California in August to help Matt get settled. We’re gonna stay for a while and do some of the touristy stuff around LA.”
“That sounds cool,” I say. “Where’s he going to college?”
“USC.”
“Oh, wow.” I’ve heard of that one, and it seems impressive. Good at all the sports stuff, I think? “Where do you want to go?”
He shrugs, a strange expression passing across his face. “I’m not really sure yet.”
“That’s okay,” I say, because it feels like maybe I shouldn’t have asked that question and I want him to smile again.
“I don’t know either.” Technically it’s not a lie.
I have it narrowed down to three schools with marine biology programs. I’ve known from the start that I’ll need loans or a scholarship wherever I go.
That meant knocking most of the fancy private schools off my list.
When I was eight years old, molded to the couch as I watched my first Shark Week, I announced to my parents that I wanted to be a marine biologist. I think they figured I’d eventually grow out of it, but I never did.
Everyone in the Ford family has gone somewhere important, so I just assumed Myles is headed in the same direction. I wonder how I’d feel with Ford family expectations weighing on me. “Do you have an idea of what you want to major in?”