31. Valentine
I lie on my couch, one leg tucked under a throw blanket and a half-read book open on my chest, staring out the window at Bentley’s house. It’s not like I haven’t had my fair share of good kisses. We’ve gone to an absurd number of parties since we’ve started Summer Love, and as August puts it, I’m a magnet for a particular type of sensitive bro. Not long-term-boyfriend material, just the type to have fun with. But I rarely get involved with anyone in our town. It’s too small and incestuous. No matter who you choose, you’re bound to know someone they dated. And Bentley? I’d argue he’s dated most of our school. And it shows in his kissing—it was so good that I’m still thinking about it, haven’t stopped really. I mean, it’s not a big deal. He’s hot. He’s charming. He’s the perfect candidate for a summer fling. Simple. Meaningless. Fun... I touch my lips. Sweet. Knee weakening. Stomach dropping. Everything that I want to do again. Ahhhh! No! Damn it, brain, get ahold of yourself.
August opens my door, and I sit up so fast you’d think he caught me half-naked. But he’s too preoccupied to notice my reaction; he looks like he’s seriously miffed.
“Can I borrow your keys?” he asks, his eyes far away, thinking about some other conversation. And considering he just came from his house and I’m his only friend, I’m guessing it was with his mom.
I sit up on the couch. “Well, hello to you, too.”
“Sorry,” he says, his head momentarily dipping toward his shoes. He doesn’t offer an explanation, and I don’t ask for one.
He sighs, shrugging off whatever was on his mind.
“So your crêpe date with Ella... fill me in.” Even though we talked about it by text, we didn’t hash it out in person because after my sunset walk with Bentley, Mom and I ordered Thai and watched cheesy romance movies while Dad worked at the kitchen table finalizing details for his big summer work party.
August joins me on the couch. “Not much I didn’t tell you. Things are good in the friend department—”
“Trust?”
“Yeah, I’d definitely say we’re getting there,” he replies.
“Great. Keep planting those seeds about Justin trying to influence her decisions. And maybe it’s time to work on inspiring her a bit—you know, get her feeling like there’s more out there than Justin and his controlling crap? Get her excited about her dreams again?”
“Already on it,” he says, looking a little glum. “I’m teaching her to paint today.”
My brain short-circuits. “Wait, what?”
He attempts a shrug but winds up looking uncomfortable. “Made sense with the whole paint-splattered-shirt thing,” he says like my shock was even remotely about his strategy and not about the idea of painting itself.
“Wow.” For a split second I get inexplicably annoyed. He doesn’t paint for two whole years and suddenly he’s teaching Ella? I know we built it into his character, but I never thought in a million years he’d do anything other than wield it as a cool personality trait.
“It’s not a big deal,” he says, which we both know is absolutely false.
“Au contraire,” I reply, trying to push past my reaction and embrace the fact that he’s taking a huge step forward. “I’m excited for you. What made you decide to take the plunge?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ella?” I offer.
He pauses. “I don’t know,” he says again and scratches his shoulder under his T-shirt sleeve. “I guess she does have this weird way of challenging me.”
And suddenly I don’t like Ella at all. She challenges him? What have I been doing these past couple years? Oh, right, building an entire business to give him resolution. Besides, the last time I challenged August to paint, he didn’t talk to me for two days.
“You okay?” he says, and I realize I’m scowling.
I unclench my jaw. Stop being a crap friend, Tiny. This isn’t about you. “Just got lost in thought a second. How can I help? What do you need?” I say, but he’s looking out the window like he might jump in the water and hide under the dock. And in that moment my whole perspective shifts. This isn’t about Ella or me or any of the rest of it.
“Just need to borrow the Jeep.”
“Are you sure? Should you bring something with you?” I say, wanting to erase that worried look from his brows. “I mean, if she thinks you’re a painter, don’t you think she’d expect you to show up with a favorite brush or something?”
“I told her I haven’t painted since Des.”
But with that one sentence I’m right back to being the jealous friend. And because I know I can’t let it show on my face, I scream in my head, Ahhh! I will Hulk smash you, August Mariani! Then I take a breath and recenter. “You’re really honest with this girl.”
“A little,” he concedes.
“Do you think it’ll interfere with the case?” I reply, which I recognize is both a real concern and maybe not the most supportive thing I could say.
His eyebrows push farther together. “I mean, I don’t think so. I hope not.”
“Look, don’t worry about it. We’re good at this, right?” I say, pulling it back.
“Yeah, right, definitely,” he says and looks away. “I should probably get going.”
I pull my keys from my purse and he takes them, wasting no time in heading for the door.
The instant he’s gone, I lie back down on the couch with a plop. We’re on the same team; we’re working toward the same result, I remind myself. Being annoyed is dumb. But why does being the bigger person always feel like a kick to the nuts?
I pick up my phone and open my texts with Bentley, looking for a distraction.
Me
Want to come over after you’re done with the twins?
Not two seconds later, his reply flashes on my screen.
Bentley
YES.
A warm tingle vibrates through my chest. I’m considering what to type back when my front door opens.
This time I don’t get up. “Back already? Decided I was right about bringing your favorite paint color: smitten-faced red?” I say, attempting to make light of the whole thing.
“Smitten for whom?” my mom asks, and once again I jump like someone threw ice down my shirt.
“Oh, nothing. Thought you were August,” I say quickly.
Mom places a shopping bag on the mail table. “Is August dating someone?” she asks over her shoulder like it’s a happy surprise.
“Uh...” I scramble for a believable response, one that has nothing to do with the job I’ve been lying about for two years. But when she turns to face me, I forget all about Summer Love because her cheeks and nose are splotchy. “Have you been crying?”
“Crying?” she repeats back and touches her face as if to check. “Oh, that. Just some old pictures got me weepy. Nothing to be alarmed about.”
I stand, glancing at her bag suspiciously. Mom isn’t a sentimental crier—not at movies, not at baby showers, not at freaking weddings. In fact, the only time I’ve ever seen her cry is when her father passed. “What old pictures?”
“Some shots I just picked up from Sal’s Photolab. I was going through them in the car before I came in,” she replies, breaking eye contact with me and kicking off her ballet flats. “So tell me about this person August’s dating.”
“You never cry.”
She laughs. “Everyone cries, Valentine, even me.” And she looks at me expectantly to tell her about August, making me doubly nervous.
“It’s new,” I say, trying to sound casual. “He won’t even admit that he likes her.”
She leans in, like this is very important gossip. “Is that why he borrowed your Jeep? Does he have a date?”
My stomach wobbles in an unpleasant way. Lying for the greater good in our case adventures is one thing, but lying to my parents is different. I’ve gotten really good at never mentioning anything in front of them that would inspire questioning exactly so I wouldn’t have to lie. When they ask about catering, I shrug and say, “Just work. Nothing special. Money is good.” They think I work for one of the huge Boston companies that service both the North and South Shore. It’s a prominent enough company that they feel satisfied, but just boring enough that they don’t pry.
“That big a deal, huh?” she says when I don’t respond.
“I, um. You know how private he is. I think he’d be embarrassed if I told you.”
She considers it and nods. “Okay, well, if and when it does become a thing, I’d love to meet...” She holds her hand out.
“Ella,” I say and suddenly feel extra weird that I told the truth.
“Ella,” she repeats, and I drop back onto the couch, guilt nipping at my insides.