Chapter 1
Nearly Two Years Later
I barely have one foot through the door before I hear, “You’re late.”
It’s Max.
She breezes past me. A stack of dirty plates is balanced in her hands. I look at the time on my phone.
Sixteen minutes late, to be exact. A new record.
I wish that was funny. That I had a reason to laugh. I didn’t mean to be late, again. To stay in bed after two different alarms went off, curled in on myself, staring into the blurry edges of nothingness. Waiting for the tide to recede.
It’s been almost two years, and I still haven’t learned how to stop it from happening on my own yet. I’m not sure I ever will.
“You’ll never get promoted like this,” Max teases from behind the front counter.
I flash a weak smile. “From busboy to cashier is considered a promotion?”
“Not with that attitude!” someone calls from the kitchen. Junie, no doubt.
Max shakes her head. “Napkins are restocked. Shakers refilled,” she tells me. “I reset tables three, four, and eight. I also—”
“Cleaned the restrooms?” I chance with little hope.
Her lips twist into a smirk. “Even I have limits, August.”
As I pass her, Max adds, “And I’m taking a cut of your tips. Compensation for all this extra labor.”
I shrug. Whatever. I don’t have the strength to care. Besides, Max is the only reason I have this job. The only reason I managed to survive the last two years of high school with minimal incidents.
I owe her more than the sad tips I take home every week.
On my way through the pizzeria kitchen, I say, “I’m gonna be late on rent. Again.”
“I’m shocked,” she deadpans.
My feet drag as I go.
The employee restroom is tucked in a corner of a slender hall. Just beyond my boss’s office. I stride by with my head down, but Angela is nowhere in sight.
Behind the locked door, I strip off my wrinkled T-shirt. I replace it with a loose heather gray Viva Catalina’s shirt from my bag. In the water-speckled mirror, my reflection taunts me.
Mussed auburn curls rest against my forehead like tightly wound ribbons. The warped lighting washes out my mellow brown skin. Faint dark circles sit under my eyes like bruises. I never get enough sleep. My cheeks seem thinner too, my jaw too long.
Most days, I almost don’t recognize myself.
I don’t see August Clarke anymore.
Just a shadow of who I used to be.
Before the accident, I remind myself. As if I needed it.
The scents of fresh dough and earthy basil hit me the moment I’m back in the kitchen. My stomach growls. I forgot to eat before catching the bus. It’s not the first time.
“ ’Sup, August!” Junie calls in his infectious, surfer-like drawl.
I wave half-heartedly to him and Tonia as they work on new pies. From there, I move on autopilot. It’s the same routine: clear tables, gather dishes, clean the customer restrooms.
Dad would love that. Knowing I’m using my gap year to refill toilet paper dispensers. That I’m working at a pizzeria instead of being a freshman in college.
Fall quarter at UC Santa Barbara started this week. That’s where I’m supposed to be. That was the plan.
Our plan.
But even after struggling to fill out the application and pretending the acceptance decision mattered, I knew I couldn’t do it without him.
Without London.
When I emerge from cleaning the toilets, a melodic pop song is playing overhead.
Something from the eighties. Viva Catalina’s music taste matches its decor: nostalgic.
From the classic red gingham covering the plush booths and stools to the art on the walls.
Not the kind of place eighteen-year-olds like me and Max would go voluntarily.
Which is why I like it. I never run into old classmates. Kids who know what happened sophomore year.
“Order sixteen! Double pepperoni to go for Dana!” Max calls out.
I slide behind the counter to fold napkins around clean silverware next to her. “What is this?” I point to the speakers.
She snorts. “Not a fan?”
“No.”
“Well, Angela loves this stuff.”
I try not to grimace. “Does she hate the customers?”
Max rolls her eyes. She’s unfairly pretty. Silky, straight raven black hair scooped up into a bun on her head. Warm beige skin with hints of rose in her cheeks. She has her mom’s heart-shaped face and her dad’s delicate bone structure.
“No one cares but you,” she comments.
The pizzeria is slow for a Thursday in late September.
At the far corner booth, someone sits, head bowed.
A group of thirtysomethings share a pie outside on the patio.
The regulars gather at the bar: Miranda, crunching on a salad; Howard, piling grated Parmesan on his cheese slice; Hal, peeling off his ball cap, sweat dripping off his pale white skin as he orders his usual. But Max is right.
No one seems to care about the music. Only me.
I feel an itch in my palm. A want to scrawl lyrics on a blank page. To write something different, better. I quickly shut that feeling down. Who would I show it to, anyway?
“Hey.” Max nudges me. She’s a generous five foot six. But I’m six one. The height difference means her pointy elbow collides with my lower ribs. “Can you run an order to table nine?”
“The corner booth?” I look up from the same fork-and-knife duo I’ve folded and refolded three times now. “Why can’t you?”
“I’m busy.”
My eyes narrow. “With what?”
She holds up her phone like that’s an answer. “I’m texting a girl. We met at orientation. I think she likes me.”
“How can you tell?” I ask.
Max gives me an incredulous glare. She once told me she gives off clear sapphic vibes. I laughed until I was breathless. It’s another of the many reasons I love her. There is no greater gift in the world than having a friend as queer as you.
“I need a better excuse than that,” I say.
She ponders. “Best friend law?”
I’ve known Maxine Cho since ninth grade. Back when she fearlessly dumped her jug of ice water on a trio of boys who called me Sideshow Bob and tossed my books across the hallway floor. She didn’t even flinch after they sneered at her. There was a spark in her brown eyes, as vibrant as lightning.
I knew in that moment we’d be best friends.
Since then, she’s always had my back. Even at my worst, Max has been there. It’s still not enough to convince me to do her job for her.
“A valid but overused reason,” I say. “I have things to do.”
She grabs my elbow before I can walk away. Her grin is like a hurricane. “It’ll be worth it.”
Discreetly, she gestures to the corner booth, where a boy sits alone. His chin is lowered. From this distance, his features are slightly shadowed, but—
“He’s cute, right?” Max whispers.
I don’t answer. At the end of the bar, Hal coughs roughly. He rotates his left arm in a small circle above his head. Sweat dampens his shirt. Tonia drops off a glass of water and fresh napkins for him.
Max’s elbow digs into my ribs again. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
She exhales as her phone pings. “Just take him his order. He’s into you.”
The comment surprises me. Absently, my thumb traces the ink stained on the inside of my left forearm—a daffodil. Then, purposefully, my hand reaches for the threaded bracelet around my wrist. Blue twined around yellow. I never take it off.
It was a gift. Now a reminder.
Max notices. Her eyes soften with sympathy. I avert my gaze before that look turns into something worse:
Pity.
Without thinking, I focus on the corner booth again.
Early golden-hour light filters through the large window. It glints against the boy’s dark hair. A crown of flames. He studies every movement around the pizzeria: A family of four walking in. Junie tossing mushrooms on a new pizza. Hal mopping his face dry.
I don’t recognize him. He’s not a regular. Santa Barbara is made up of more college students than locals. Streams of tourists who come and go. People who never leave their mark.
But something stirs in my belly, as if I should know his face.
“Auggie,” Max tries. Her voice drips with that tone I hate. The unspoken you can’t live like this forever; you need to try again.
It’s a conversation I dance away from at every opportunity. Because I don’t know how to have it. Even after all this time.
I wish there was a way for me to tell her—to tell everyone—that I can’t move on as easily as they did. As if that night never happened. As if they’ve made their peace with the past.
So instead, I say, “You don’t even know if he’s into guys.”
Max scoffs. “He’s stared at you at least ten times since you got here.”
That sounds like a lie. But heat still prickles my face.
Max slides a warm plate into my hands while reading the order ticket attached to it. “His name’s Cary.”
The intense sweetness of pineapples rises into my nose. I frown at the slice of pizza. It’s not even Hawaiian with ham…only pineapples.
Who orders that?
When I hesitate, Max gives me a “polite” shove. A scowl threatens to darken my face. But it’s not worth it. Max has already returned to focusing on her phone. This is no longer her problem.
An impatient throat clears.
I almost drop the plate. How did I get to table nine so quickly?
Up close, this boy’s beauty is unnerving.
His features are like the carved marble of statues in the art galleries Max loves.
High cheekbones, a long straight nose, lips shaped in a delicate bow.
His dark brown hair reminds me of damp soil after a storm.
It’s slicked away from his face, a single curl resting against his forehead.
He looks around my age, yet somehow older. It’s hard to describe. Like he’s seen the world in ways I haven’t.
A bored expression blooms over his face.
“Is that mine?” His voice is rich and deep. He has an accent I can’t place. Foreign but strangely familiar.
“Y-yes,” I stammer.
His eyes are black as the sea underneath a moonless sky. They’re hard to look away from.
I clear my throat, pretending to read the ticket. “Cary?”
One of his eyebrows flexes. There’s a sharp contrast between his all-black clothing and pale gold skin. His gaze drifts from the plate to the open space in front of him.
Oh, right.
I slide the pizza onto the table. “Here you go.”