Chapter 15 Then Fourteen Years Ago
Then
Fourteen Years Ago
“Leens. It’s getting out of control,” Maren announced during a sleepover the week before Boardwalk Night. We sat facing each other on her plush pink comforter, a dwindling container of her mom’s chocolate chunk cookies between us. “What are you going to do?”
“Hard to say,” I said around a bite of cookie. “But I’m leaning toward nothing?”
Maren’s white-blond eyebrows shot up two inches.
“You’re the one who said I shouldn’t read too much into it. That he’s nice to everyone.”
“Yeah, I did think that. At first. But I changed my mind! There’s no way he’s this nice to everyone.”
She had a point.
Everything had changed after that night at Twisters.
The most obvious example? Sebastian drove me to and from every shift we shared for the rest of the summer.
Even after my leg healed, his Jeep kept showing up in my driveway.
Sometimes we’d stop at Wawa or QuickChek on the way so he could get gas and an Arnold Palmer, and I’d pick up a pack of Twizzlers if the stash in my work locker was running low.
The rides were short, but the minutes we spent singing along to CDs he’d made at Sam Goody—they were usually heavy on Boys Like Girls, Yellowcard, Blink-182, Third Eye Blind and Sugar Ray, a combination I’ll forever think of as beachy pop punk—and talking about everything from work gossip to celebrities added up. We got to know each other.
If we worked a morning shift, we’d bring bathing suits to change into, then join whoever else was off for the day and a bunch of kids from our high school on the beach, dispersing to hang out with our respective classes.
Usually I’d meet up with Maren and either my parents or one of the Murphys would pick us up, but he always checked in with me, made sure I had a way to get home.
But it wasn’t just the rides—his whole demeanor around me shifted, too.
Sebastian had always been friendly to me in a we’re-all-part-of-a-group way, but now he treated me as an individual and sought out my company.
He picked me for two-person tasks like silverware rolling or sweeping and mopping.
At lunch he snuck me extra waffle fries from the kitchen (everyone knew they were my favorite).
On more than one occasion I even caught him clearing one of my tables for me when I wasn’t looking.
And then there was the touching. A lot of it.
A chummy arm slung across my shoulder while Tina divvied up our closing tasks.
Surprise bear hugs from behind to startle me while I counted out change at the register.
On nights when we closed alone and he finished stacking all the chairs before I’d wiped down the last window, he’d throw me over his shoulder and do it himself while I kicked my legs in mock distress the whole time.
Once, during a painfully boring all-staff training for the new computer system, he absently played with my hair for seven agonizing minutes.
I wasn’t an idiot: I knew that there was a strong possibility all that touching was his particular brand of teenage flirting.
But I also constantly reminded myself that he never quite crossed that invisible line.
If friendship were a room and other possibilities lurked just outside, we lived at the threshold.
I let out a sigh of frustration and collapsed backward onto the bed. “Why can’t he just be a jerk like a normal guy? That would be much easier to deal with.”
Maren smiled at this. “Crazy idea here, but have you ever considered just telling him how you feel?” We’d officially abandoned our pledge of a Sebastian-free summer. Time to devise a new game plan.
“Do I imagine myself doing that? Sure. But then I imagine him rejecting me and decide I’d rather have some of his attention than none of it, even if I’m making half of it up in my mind.”
“That sounds healthy,” Maren said.
“He could be with any girl at school,” I went on. “Actually, he could probably be with any girl at any school in the tristate area. I just find it hard to believe I’m even on his radar. Romantically speaking.”
A pillow connected with my face. It was remarkably soft (the Murphys had the best pillows) but still startling.
“What gives?” I asked, shooting up.
“Don’t talk about my best friend like that.”
I crossed my arms.
“I’m serious! You’ve always been smart and thoughtful and talented and cute—and then you grew those.” She gestured to my chest and I crossed my arms tighter. I’d recently had to buy my first D-cup bra. “You’re totally hot.”
I snorted. The truth was I did sometimes catch glimpses of myself at certain angles—in the car’s side mirror while driving somewhere with my parents, or while taking ridiculous selfies on Maren’s Photo Booth app—and think: Pretty.
Attractive, even. But for every good glimpse there were at least four bad ones.
Angles that exposed my nose as too long, my jawline too masculine, my skin too oily.
The notion that someone like Sebastian might find me attractive wasn’t inconceivable, but it did feel unsustainable.
Sooner or later, he’d see something he didn’t like.
“You said it yourself just now: It would be easier for you to move on if he gave you a reason to. Even if you don’t get the answer you want, I think it’s worth asking the question. And Leens? You’re running out of time. He graduates this year!”
“He does, doesn’t he? Thank God you reminded me.”
“What’s with the sass? I’m trying to help!”
I huffed. “Fine. So what’s your grand plan? You want me to confess my love to Sebastian by the end of the summer? Invite him on the Ferris wheel and deliver a speech out of a rom-com?”
“I was picturing the Zipper, actually,” she deadpanned. “Something with a little more danger.”
“Hot,” I said, grabbing the last cookie. “I’ll bring a barf bag.”
We stayed up late watching Gossip Girl, but I found my mind drifting from Blair and Chuck’s latest tiff to my own dilemma.
Maren was right: My time with Sebastian was running out.
If what he told me that night at Twisters was true, he’d be far from Brantley Beach starting next fall.
What did I really have to lose, if I knew I’d lose him either way?