66. Valentine
Something shakes my arm and I groan.
“Valentine,” my mom says.
“I’m not human,” I croak. “I need like four more hours.” I sent them a text last night, several actually, telling them where I was and apologizing for being out so late. I’m not stupid—I literally just got un-reflective-period-ed or whatever.
“Valentine, we’ve come from the doctor’s,” Mom says.
I sit up so fast that my room sways. “What? Now? What did she say?”
Mom takes a seat on my bed, and Dad stands on my white carpet.
“Please tell me you’re okay,” I sputter before she can get a word out.
Mom pushes stray hair out of my eyes. “While there are no guarantees that this won’t be a challenging pregnancy in all the normal ways, the doctor says that the tests look good. That the baby and I both look healthy.”
“Best news I’ve ever gotten,” Dad adds.
For a second, I just stare at them, trying to make sense of their words. My mom’s okay, I repeat in my head. And the moment the idea takes root, my throat tightens. I try to swallow, but there’s no stopping it; I start sobbing.
“Oh, honey,” Mom says, pulling me into her and wrapping her arms around my back. “I know it’s all overwhelming—”
“It’s not that,” I cry into her shoulder. “I thought you were going to die. I thought something happened—” But I can’t go on because it’s too awful to say.
“Where on earth did you get an idea like that?” Mom holds me tight, but I can feel her head turn to look at my dad.
“I heard you guys arguing about it,” I say between stuttered breaths.
She’s quiet for a beat, probably trying to sort out what I might have overheard. “Listen,” she says, gently pulling back and looking me in the eye. “That was our mistake. Those were our fears, and not even things that had come to pass, just the projection of future obstacles that might be. The things we said to each other were not for you to take on. First and foremost, we’re your parents. Best job of our lives and one that we take very seriously. I’m not going anywhere.”
And while I get that it’s all a moot point now anyway, I needed to hear her say it.
I wipe at my wet cheeks and then bury my face back in her shoulder. She holds me tight and I listen to her heartbeat, something I used to do as a little girl.
“Now,” Dad says after a few minutes. “Since I’ve taken the day off, how about I make us all some celebratory blueberry-and-chocolate-chip pancakes?” he asks, and my mom and I both give enthusiastic approval.
“I’m just going to jump in the shower,” I tell them, energized by relief. “Be down in ten minutes.” I pull my phone off my nightstand as my parents exit and type a slew of excited texts to August about Baby Sharma.
But as I pass my vanity on the way to the bathroom, I catch sight of the spot where my Berkeley sticker used to be, and my pep fizzles. Now more than ever, it feels like there’s no way I can go to California. And as much as I don’t want to have that conversation, I know I can’t avoid it.
When our celebratory breakfast is over, I put my dishes neatly in the dishwasher and know that if I don’t do this now, I’ll lose my nerve. “August,” I say, like somehow the act of declaring his name will inspire bravery. Even so, I delay and make him a coffee peace offering.
When I finally do walk out onto my porch, I pause. August didn’t bring Berkeley up last night, and the only reason I can figure he didn’t is because he must have thought it was an empty threat, that I’d never in a million years abandon our plan.
While I deliberate, Bentley’s screen door opens. And as it turns out, that’s all the motivation I need. I bolt off my porch and into August’s yard.
I climb into August’s room and find him propped up on his elbows in bed, squinting at the early-afternoon light. “You’re awake. Saves me the trouble of dragging you out of bed by your feet.” I try to make my tone light, but I’m buzzing with nervous energy, and I miss the humor mark.
He rubs his hands over his face and thanks me for the coffee I shove at him.
August studies me for a second with that annoying best-friend expression that suggests he can hear my thoughts. “You cool?”
“Yes. I mean, no. Honestly, I’m confused.” I pace on his rug, but the information doesn’t flow out of me in a thoughtful explanation as I imagined. It doesn’t even trickle; I say nothing at all.
“Tiny?”
I push my hair over my shoulder, taking a deep breath. “Man, I just... I do not know how to say this. I’m trying. You see that, right?” I open and close my mouth, attempting to figure out how not to ruin the bonding we did last night.
“So this is about Berkeley,” he says in a knowing tone. There’s something in his voice, a tightness that makes my mouth go dry and my stomach clench.
I can’t bear to look at him. “Yeah.”
August doesn’t respond, and when I’m brave enough to sneak a peek, he’s staring down at his coffee.
“Berkeley’s great, but... it’s a goal we created in fifth grade when we thought it’d be cool to be in summer weather forever. And now...” I trail off, picking at my nails, which I just painted.
Silence.
My stomach flips in a bad way. “I’m just not convinced California is for me. And my mom’s having this baby, so.”
“Tiny,” he says, and even though his voice is quiet, it stops me. “You decided this before the baby. You took the Berkeley sticker off your mirror weeks ago.”
“Yeah, but I guess the baby solidified it?”
He shakes his head, not accepting my answer. “Say you don’t want to go, but don’t blame it on an outdated goal. You researched every top-ten business school last year and came to the same conclusion over and over—that Berkeley was the best. Not the best in the country—that always changes—but the best for you.”
I press my lips together to stave off a whimper at how right he is and how well he knows me.
“Last winter you literally spent three days making a schedule of all the non–New England things we could do in California. Not to mention the fact that the day we found out we were accepted, you canceled movie night so you could pick out classes.”
I frown. “Fine. You’re right. I just don’t want to go.”
“If I thought that were true, I wouldn’t argue. But you’re acting like one of the people from our cases, letting your fear stop you from doing something you care about.”
My eyes whip to his. “That’s a shit thing to say.”
“Okay, then tell me one reason you don’t want to, and not because you suddenly changed your mind, something substantial.”
I open my mouth, ready to regale him with my best logic, but I only sputter. “It feels too far.”
“Okay, why?”
“Because, August. I love this place, and I’m secretly a lame townie. Are you happy now?”
“I get that you love it,” he says. “But—”
“No, you don’t. You’ve been trying to get away since forever. You don’t like being in your house. You’re always frustrated with your mom. You barely talk to anyone besides me. You gave up on this place when Des died.” I stop abruptly, wishing I could pull it back. We only just started talking about her, and now I’m on a path to muck it up. I break eye contact. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
For a moment he just sits there, looking out the window and concentrating on something far away. And when he does finally speak, he says the one thing I never thought he would. “Everything you said is true. But if you think I don’t understand why you love it here, you’re wrong.” He pauses. “And it’s still not a reason.”
I bristle. “You of everyone should know that you don’t get to decide other people’s lives for them. You say I’m acting like someone from our cases. Well, so are you—the crappy boyfriend.”
“Valentine,” he says, and the shock of him using my full name makes me freeze. He takes a breath, in what I can only assume is an effort to not snap back. “Last night you did something for me. You got me to confront a part of myself that I’d hidden away. And when I came home and laid down, it was the first time in forever that I didn’t feel anxious in the quiet, that I wasn’t sketching my fears onto the ceiling—”
“Sketching?” I say and glance at his ceiling.
“Imaginary sketching,” he clarifies. “For months now, sketches have been appearing in my thoughts. These past few weeks they’ve gotten more insistent. I haven’t been able to get away from them, like the parts of my personality I’d locked away were messing with me.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I say, my voice more subdued.
“Because I didn’t want it to be real. It made me feel like a failure, like I couldn’t even do one simple thing—give up art for my sister.”
My eyes widen. “Des would never want you to give up art for her.”
“I know,” he says, thoughtful. “But it felt like I had to. And now I look at you, the best person I know, and I don’t want you to make the same mistakes I did. If you don’t want to go to Berkeley, if you’ve actually changed your mind, then I’ll support you. You know that. But if you’re doing it because you’re scared, then I’ll fight for you the same way you fought for me.”
I let out a long exhale and drop into his desk chair, eyeing him suspiciously. Who is this open, expressive August? “It’s not that I’m scared,” I say. “It’s that I’m worried.”
He considers it. “Well, I’m scared,” he says so genuinely that I think I misheard him.
“No. You’re not.”
“I am. I’m scared that I’ll never paint again. I’m scared that I will. That I won’t be able to afford Berkeley, that Mom won’t be okay without me. I’m scared all the time, Tiny.”
I press my lips together, straightening the neon bracelets on my wrist.
He waits, watching me as I try to untangle my thoughts. “Tell me what you’re worried about.”
I exhale. “I don’t...” I stop, slowing down and really thinking about it. “It just feels like leaving is permanent, ya know?”
“Like you can’t come back?”
“Exactly,” I say. “I mean, I know I can come back physically. No one’s stopping me. But I just worry I’ll be different, that you’ll be different, that everything will change.”
“We will,” he says, and my stomach drops. “But that’s okay.”
“But what if it’s not?”
“Do you remember that time you decided to cut your own bangs?” he asks.
“Way to kick me when I’m down.”
He smirks. “You freaked out, begging your parents to let you get hair extensions.”
“And they refused like the heartless beasts that they are.”
“Because you can’t go backward, your mom said, that the only way through things, especially hard things, is forward,” he says. “Even if you stay here, you’ll change. Nothing stays the same, no matter how much you cling to it.”
I chew on my bottom lip, studying my knees. “I just wish we could restart this summer, get a do-over on Summer Love, have a little more time.”
“I don’t,” he says, which weirdly is the most surprising statement of this whole conversation. “Because if things didn’t play out exactly the way they did, I’d never have had that conversation with you last night. And even if I got Ella to date me, it wouldn’t work because I’d still be closed off.”
I consider his words and the possibility that I’m holding on to some romanticized version of our lives, trying to trap myself in the amber of it. The problem is that even if I can rationalize it, it still feels like by moving away I’m losing something big and important.
“Besides,” he says, “you love creating businesses. And you love Berkeley, almost too much. Do you really think you won’t regret not giving it a chance?”
I frown at him, annoyed that he has a point, several actually. “Maybe,” I admit.
“Does that mean you’ll at least think about what I said?”
“I’ll think about it,” I concede, and even though I’m still unsure, I’m also grateful he’s giving me space to decide—something I’m not sure I’d do if the situation were reversed.
My phone dings and I grab it. But when August’s phone dings, too, I know what it is without looking—an email to our work account.
We glance at each other, an unspoken agreement to change the subject passing between us.
“Have you spoken to any of our clients?” he asks.
“No, have you?”
He shakes his head. “I think we should.”
I sigh. It seems today is all about mess maintenance. And truthfully, I’m here for it. Things have felt like they were spinning out of control for too long. “Okay, well, first we need a good email explaining everything and letting them know we’re here to talk.”
“And we should call some of them, the ones who saw the article, anyway.”
“Totally. We need a list,” I say, swiveling in his chair to grab a notepad. Only as I turn, my foot gets caught on a bag under his desk. I reach down, pulling the handle off my sandal strap and spotting the art store logo on the bag. Unable to resist, I peek inside.
“Something interesting?” he says, walking up behind me, and I sit up so fast that I clip the edge of his desk with my head and start cursing.
He smirks.
“That’s not funny,” I protest, rubbing the sore spot.
“You’re right, karma’s never funny.”
“Was that—”
“Yes, that’s the stuff from my day with Ella. And no, I didn’t throw it out for sentimental reasons,” he says.
“Okay, that’s it. Who are you and what did you do with my grumpy, secretive best friend?”
“I guess I yelled him out,” he says with no hint of sarcasm, and I realize I’m glimpsing the old August, the one before Des passed.
I push, just to see if he’s real. “You miss Ella, don’t you?”
He sighs. “More than I care to admit.”
My god, it’s him. It’s old August. It’s painting August and snuggling-with-Des August and talking August. “What can I do?” I ask.
* * *
The rest of the day passes quickly as August and I manage the fallout of our previous cases. The good news is that most cases are old and have moved on to better things. Daisy even tells us that she’s glad her best friends hired us. Of course, we also get some frustration, but that’s to be expected. Overall, though, I’d say people are understanding, which only makes me mourn the loss of Summer Love a little more. When we’ve put out all the major fires (except Ella of course), we decide to head into town for some dinner at our favorite restaurant, the one with the brick-oven pizzas with bubbly crust and good cheese.
“Menu?” the waitress offers as we sit down at a window table.
“We know what we want,” we say in unison.
“Well, all right then.”
August gestures to me and I rattle off our order. But when I stop speaking, he’s staring out the window, his expression serious.
“Ella?” I ask, because I know he’s been thinking about her all day.
He shakes his head.
“Your dad?” I try again.
“Berkeley,” he says, and I hesitate.
I know we didn’t leave that conversation on a resolution, but I also thought he’d give me more than a handful of hours before bringing it back up.
“I said I’d think about it,” I remind him.
“It’s not that.” He takes a long pause. “There’s something I didn’t tell you.”
I gesture at him to spit it out. “You know I suck at suspense.”
“The thing is...” He uses his straw to dunk the ice cubes in his water glass. “I can’t afford the tuition.”
For a second, I don’t compute. “But your savings—”
“Spent it all on bills this past year to bail my mom out.”
“All?” I choke, and he nods.
Everything we’ve worked for, eviscerated? And now our business is boarded up, with our last and biggest case refusing to pay us. “I’ll lend you—”
“No,” he cuts me off in a tone that tells me that subject is nonnegotiable.
“Scholarships,” I say. “I’m certain you could get one.”
“I did. It only covers five K.”
“What about a loan?” I say, and a sick feeling ripples through me. Even if he gets one, he’ll be in forever debt. And it just seems so unfair after how hard he’s worked. “We can start a new business and—”
“We can’t get a business up and running fast enough and you know it. But yeah, I’m looking into a loan. I just thought you should know.”
“Even if we can’t get a business up in time to help with the first year’s tuition, it’ll definitely help with the other three years,” I say, determined to find a solution.
Some of the worry leaves his face, and I instantly realize my mistake.
“Does that mean you’ve decided to go?” The hope in his voice makes me squirm.
“Uh, well...” I say, breaking eye contact, feeling like a major idiot.
“Sorry, I wasn’t trying to—” he starts.
I cut him off because I’m not sure I can handle the level of guilt associated with him being this understanding. “I didn’t think you were.”
He nods and I stare at my water glass, feeling terrible.
Our waitress brings sodas and warm garlic knots, but I barely notice. The only thing that makes me look up is August asking me if maybe I want our food to go.
I give him the side-eye. “Why would you—” But then I follow his gaze out the window.
Bentley is on the sidewalk, and worse than that, he’s not passing by; he’s headed for the restaurant’s front door.
My face reddens, and my mood goes from bad to worse. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
August looks at me doubtfully. “You want me to talk to him?”
“No, I’m going to ignore him. And that’s that.”
Which is fine, except now Bentley is at the hostess stand and she’s leading him to a table. The only one that’s empty, which happens to be two away from ours. He sits with his back to us; I’m not even sure he knows we’re here. It’s a table for two. And all I can think is that he’s on a date. That a girl is going to walk into the restaurant, maybe even Cassie, and my head is going to shoot off my body like an eff-you rocket.
After what feels like four hours but is probably four minutes, I lose my patience. I stand, throwing my napkin at my seat. “I’m going to kill him, August,” I angry-whisper. “And you’re going to bail me out of jail when I do. You hear me?”
Then I march over there like the Hulk.
I point at him. “This is my favorite restaurant and you know it,” I say, all fire and determination. I can’t so much as breathe or walk out my door without glimpsing Bentley with his siblings or lifting weights or jumping off the dock, and as much as I want to just bounce back and brush it off, I can’t. He meant something. More than something. And I’m angry he broke it.
“Valentine,” he says like he’s relieved, and it’s such an unexpected reaction that I pause.
I glance at the empty seat at the table, and I feel the pain of it deep in my chest. “I can’t believe—”
His eyes widen. “I’m not on a—I mean, no one’s sitting there. I’m here by myself,” he stumbles like he can hear my thoughts.
“Why would you come here by—” I start and stop. “My god, you followed me here?”
He raises his hands in surrender. “No, definitely not,” he says quickly. “I wasn’t following you. I was actually on my way to the hardware store when I...” His voice trails off, and he looks down at his hands. When his gaze meets mine, he seems thoroughly embarrassed. “I was walking by when I saw you and August in the window. You were making that expression you make when you’re really upset. And well, I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I was only going to stay a minute, just to see...” Bentley trails off again and his laugh is sad. “Now that I’m saying this out loud, it sounds ridiculous. It was a split-second decision. I didn’t think it out that well.” He pushes his chair back and gets up from the table, looking thoroughly sheepish. “I do want to talk to you. A lot. But I never meant to put you on the spot. I was trying to respect your space. I just... Anyway, sorry. Again.”
He walks away, head hanging. I glance back at August, who is diligently studying his straw, meaning he heard the whole thing. Bentley opens the door to leave, and yet I stand at his table, frozen by indecision.
He was worried I was sad, I think, some part of me reflexively softening. Ugh. No. I am sad. And he should feel bad about it. I press my lips together, telling myself to go back to August, but still I stand there. When Bentley disappears from view, my chest tightens, like the invisible tether that once bound us together is pulling on me to follow. And like a fool, I head for the door, yanking it open and stepping onto the sidewalk.
The humid air is scented with sugary cinnamon from the donut shop next door, and the cheeriness feels like a personal affront. A second passes before I spot Bentley, who’s turning the corner, not toward the hardware store like he said, but away from town.
I jog up to him, and he looks so genuinely happy about it that I scowl.
“You followed me,” he says gently, like he’s afraid he might spook me if he speaks full volume. I feel his yearning so viscerally that it tugs at me.
I look up at the canopy of leafy green over our heads as though there might be an answer in the tree branches. I shouldn’t have run after him. Why on earth did I think this was the right move?
“You never gave me a chance to explain,” he says quietly when I don’t speak. “You hung up on me.”
His words needle me, and I find my voice. “Because you lied to me.”
He exhales. “You’re right. I did.”
My heart breaks all over again. “Look, I don’t want some lame excuse or an admission that you can be better. The one thing that made me trust you—the honesty pact—is broken and irreparable.”
“I deserve that,” he says, which only frustrates me more.
“Yes, you do,” I agree. And for a second, I stand there awkwardly. How do you argue with someone who isn’t arguing with you?
“But you don’t know why you’re mad,” he says.
“I know enough.”
“Do you?” he asks.
For a brief second, I doubt myself. “Did you or did you not hook up with Cassie?”
“I didn’t,” he says.
“You hesitated on the phone. I know—”
But this time he cuts me off. “She asked me to come over. I said no. Then the next day she called me, hysterically crying.”
I eye him suspiciously.
“Something to do with her parents—without going into detail, they suck. And she needed a friend. So that’s what I was—her friend, just her friend.”
My stomach sinks. Cassie was the girl with the messed-up parents and the affair he told me about? “And so?”
“And she tried to kiss me.”
There it is. “Did she succeed?”
He shakes his head. “I swear. I stopped it immediately. I left, and I haven’t talked to her since.”
I open my mouth and pause. “If that’s true, then why didn’t you tell me when it happened? You told me every detail of that day, including what you fed the twins for lunch, and yet somehow omitted Cassie’s tongue.”
He shakes his head like he’s asked himself the same question a hundred times. “Because I’m an idiot,” he says. “And because I like you—like, really like you.”
“Don’t even. This has nothing to do with you liking me and everything to do with you lying.”
“You’re right. What you said about me being in a bunch of short relationships is true. I got that in my head and was trying so hard not to screw it up that I screwed it up. It’s new to me... caring like this. And honestly, it scares the crap out of me.” He smiles sadly. “I haven’t slept in days. I haven’t gone surfing. Nothing. I’m a wreck. All I can think about is you.”
I purse my lips, not sure how to react. I’ve been furious because I thought he cheated on me, and finding out that isn’t true is disorienting.
“Look,” he says, sighing. “I totally get that I broke your trust.”
“You did.”
“But if you’ll let me, I want to earn it back,” he says.
I eye him. “You sound confident.”
“I am. I have to be. My sleep depends on it.” He pauses. “The thing is, I need you in my life, Valentine. And whether or not you want to hear it, you do make me better. I actually like who I am when I’m with you.”
“‘Need’ is a strong word.”
“I know,” he says.
We look at each other for a long moment, and the way he stares at me is so hopeful that I can feel myself reacting to it, reflexively softening to the plea I see in his eyes.
“I thought about standing outside your window with a homemade sign,” he admits. “I even had the twins help me make it.”
“You did not,” I say, some of the ice gone from my voice.
“I really did. It said VALENTINE SHARMA, PLEASE LET ME EXPLAIN all in caps with a picture of a sad puppy underneath.”
I laugh before I can stop myself. “You know that’s the most ridiculous thing ever, right?”
“Desperate times...” he says with a smile that cuts right to my core.
I shake my head at him, trying to look fierce but failing. “Don’t look at me like that.”
His grin only widens, and I swear I move a step closer without meaning to. “Like what?”
I wave my hand at him, practically grazing my fingertips on his chest, his very beautiful chest. “You know exactly what.”
“I can’t help it; you’re smiling,” he says like this is the moment he’s waited for his whole life.
But try as I might to grasp at it, I feel my remaining frustration evaporating in the warmth of the summer air.
I lift my hands and drop them again. “Fine.”
“Fine?” he asks, and the hopefulness of his tone pushes me right over the edge.
“Maybe we can hang out tomorrow.”
He reaches out like he’s going to grab me and twirl me in the air but remembers himself at the last moment and drops his arms. “Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“Woo-hoo!” Bentley yells, raising his fist to the sky.
“Now go,” I say, trying to resist the urge to grin at him. The truth is I missed him. A lot. And any other week I’d have tried to talk things out with him, to understand fully before I wrote him off. But this week was too much. It strained me in every way possible, compounding and confusing all my problems until I couldn’t tease them apart and I just wanted to torch everything.
“Going,” he confirms, backstepping for a few seconds to get one last look at me.
I head toward the restaurant, making eye contact with August through the window. He shakes his head in a way that says, Oh great, this again. But for some reason I don’t worry about it the way I once did. Things are different with August. Good different.