4. Valentine
Bob’s Beachfront Diner displays a No Shirt, No Shoes, No Food sign, but the enforcement of said sign is nonexistent. Half their summer customers are teens in their bathing suits and towels, having just been at the beach or headed to it.
“Tell me that you have this under control,” I say to August as he checks his phone, which currently has no texts from Ella.
He dips his grilled cheese in ketchup. “‘Control’ isn’t exactly the word I’d use,” he says in a way-too-casual tone for someone who went rogue on our carefully curated rules.
I point a fry at him. “I swear, August Mariani, you better get yourself together. We have barely more than three weeks to close this case before her dream of going to school in London disappears. Not to mention that we won’t get paid.”
He nods, his forehead scrunched in what I hope is concern.
I consider throwing the crazy-expensive Berkeley tuition in there as well, just to drive the point home, but the words get caught in my throat, my stomach dropping a little at the thought of going to California in two short months. I pause, taken aback by my own reaction. There are a handful of things in this world that I’m certain about—that there is a bright side to every situation, that I’d fight to the death over a warm chocolate croissant, and that UC Berkeley is the start of a lifelong adventure. And by some small miracle (and three years of intense strategizing), August and I both got in. We were those weird kids who’ve always known what we wanted to do, only instead of wanting to be doctors or actors or whatever, we obsessively collected office supplies for our future companies. We didn’t have your typical lackluster lemonade stand; we made a killing with freshly squeezed lemonade and homemade cookies during the height of tourist season, and a garden-weeding business wearing matching outfits that adults thought were too cute to say no to. Berkeley business school is the dream that came true. So why, oh why, am I stumbling over something I’ve thought a thousand times before with enthusiasm? Please, brain, level with me.
The people in the booth behind us, which seats four but is packed with six of our classmates, whoop and laugh loud enough to make August frown.
“Well, lucky for you, I snagged us an invite to a bonfire tonight in Ella’s town that is supposed to be the summer-kickoff party,” I say, sipping my strawberry lemonade.
August smirks. “You were in that music store for what? Ten minutes? Most of which was spent spying on and texting me. And somehow you got invited to the summer party?”
“So you’re impressed?” I quip, feeling smug.
“I mean, yeah. Like, a lot. All the time,” he says. This is what makes him good at his job—he’s never afraid to give a compliment, to let other people be awesome. And unlike most humans I know, he doesn’t think that other people’s greatness in any way detracts from his own, something he got from Des. And as I think it, I imagine how sad she’d be that he pushes everyone away now. I consider bringing her up again, but before I get the chance, Bentley slaps his hands down on the end of our table.
He’s wearing a short-sleeved wet suit that’s unzipped and folded down at his waist. “Wow. First you show up in my yard this morning, and now you follow me to the diner. Should I be blushing from all this attention?” he says with a grin.
“Depends,” I say. “Do you feel pretty?”
Bentley stands, rubbing one hand over his abs and puffing out his chest. “Like, really pretty,” he says, and I smile.
“Bent,” Charlie Atkins calls from two booths down. “We’re trying to order, man.”
But Bentley only waves his friends off and keeps his attention on me. “What do you say to a surfing lesson today, Valentine? Onetime offer to spend your whole afternoon soaking up sun with yours truly.”
I glance out the window at the warm sand and glistening water, momentarily tempted. “No can do. August and I have work.”
He shrugs like he figured as much, and his friends call his name again, flapping their menus at him to show how badly he’s holding up their ability to scarf greasy food. “I swear you two are obsessed with everything boring,” he says like we’re offending the essence of summer itself. “Just for the record, I’m not giving up. Not now, not ever.” He taps our table twice for emphasis.
August rolls his eyes and Bentley walks away, neither of them directly acknowledging the other. August looks from Bentley to me, his gaze questioning.
“What?” I say.
“Nothing,” he replies and breaks eye contact, deciding not to voice his opinion.
“So the party,” I say, putting us back on track.
He chews. “Cousins? Normal routine?”
“Yup.” I swallow a mouthful of veggie burger. “We’ll say you’re staying with me in our new summer place while your mom takes your yacht up the coast. I’ll make it a point to spend time with the boyfriend, see what I can learn.” I pause, leveling him in my gaze. “And you find a way to make nice with Ella even if you need to break out in song.”