“Then there’s the devil of heartbreak that drags you to hell. Always feeding your loneliness, your pain, with blackened memories. The ‘what was’ versus ‘what was not.’ Why would anyone want to live that way?” asked Daemon. Not a thread of his ice-blond hair had fallen out of place. Not a muscle in his pale face moved too earnestly, without a reason or a rhyme.
“And you?” Her control waned under the pools of black in his eyes. “How do you deal with such devils?”
The darkness shifted through her marrow like the chorus of a familiar song. The magic in that room, so thick and coated in blood, filled her lungs.
“I dance alone.” Daemon smirked, exposing the barest hint of sharp canines. “I spin around until I don’t recognize it’s the devil leading me the entire time.”
Elisabeth gasped, but could not escape.
They danced and danced.
—Savannah Kirk, The Dark Prince
Chapter Seven
It turns out constructing an exceptional list of ways to finally ask out your lifelong best friend doesn’t happen overnight. It doesn’t happen in two days. Wes’s been home an entire week and still… nothing.
It’s a Wednesday and Santa Monica breathes easy under a cloudless blue sky. People pass by Once Upon a Page in shorts and no shirt, tank tops and flip-flops. Everywhere, someone’s wearing a shiny pair of sunglasses, reflecting all the good vitamin D.
Today’s excellent weather promises one thing for the bookstore: sparse shoppers.
It means Wes can work on his plan of attack. He sits, cross-legged, in his favorite corner with one earbud in and his Summer for Losers playlist—a collection of mostly Lit and the Offspring and R.E.M.—cranked all the way up. Slouched over, elbows on his thighs, he scans through his phone. He’s surrounded on three sides by wall-to-wall comic-book-cover murals. Each one has vibrant colors or large fonts and action sequences and characters he’s imagined being too many times to count.
More than once, Wes’s mind drifts to Metropolis or Gotham City.
Stop. Focus.
Since opening the bookstore this morning, Wes has been doing what he excels at—perfecting a list. If Wes is being completely unbiased, it’s one of his best yet. And though BuzzFeed, Reddit, Queerty, and a few other websites all highly recommend not crushing on a best friend, Wes has compiled a bunch of ideas from the personal stories he’s read online. His tenacity knows very few limits.
Ways to Score a Date with Your Best Friend!!!
1. Take your crush to a lowkey coffee shop for heart-shaped latte art and sweet pastries and chill music! Avoid all Starbucks!
2. Go to an early showing of the latest romance movie so you have an excuse to invite your crush to dinner after!
3. Adopt a rescue puppy, pack a picnic, and get your crush out to a park for a swoon-worthy day of dog walking and sandwiches!
4. Cook your crush’s favorite meal; you can always land a potential partner through their stomach!
Wes wrinkles his nose at the last two ideas. They’re not the greatest. One, puppies are his kryptonite. He’d probably be too engrossed in those wide, hopeful eyes to remember Nico was around. Also, he lacks the fortitude to ditch the pup afterward. Two, Wes would most likely burn down the loft trying to recreate one of Mrs. Alvarez’s awesome recipes before Nico arrived. That might not go down too well with his dad. Calvin would probably keep the puppy and put Wes in a kennel.
5. Use the beach to write a love note in the sand! Big, dramatic confessions always win!
6. Every geek’s dream—dress up and go on a Cosplay Date!
Last Halloween, as a bookstore promotion, Wes and Nico dressed up as Kid Flash and Beast Boy. Wes, not thinking any of this through, agreed to be Beast Boy. Six showers later, he still couldn’t get green paint from behind his ears and in places that didn’t actually require him wearing the paint. His dedication to authenticity needs parental restrictions.
They strolled around in costume all day, handing out bite-sized candies to children and discount coupons to adults. He doesn’t know if it helped sales at all, but it was fun. It also didn’t hurt to admire Nico in a skintight red-and-yellow costume for eight hours.
Afterward, they walked Ocean Avenue together. Around them, masked heroes and monsters and one too many sexy animal costumes crowded the streets. Wes bought them frozen lemonades. They ate churros, leaning over the pier, watching the way neon lights reflected like stained glass windows against the ocean’s dark surface.
It wasn’t a date, but it was like one. Almost.
Wes wants to get rid of the “almost.” He wants the full thing. He wants it to happen for a reason other than a holiday or a rare occasion.
“Dude!”
Wes nearly thumps his head into a shelf when Cooper flops down next to him on the carpet. A few feet away, someone squeaks like a mouse. Wes blinks at them. How didn’t he notice anyone else in his comic book fortress? It’s the teen from his first Monday back. Their blond bangs cut sharply over green eyes. When their mouth pops open for a “sorry” that’s so soft Wes’s not sure it’s even vocalized, he notices a small gap between their front teeth.
“Have you read this?” Cooper asks, shaking a paperback in front of Wes’s face.
Risking possible brain damage from being assaulted by the book, Wes leans closer for a better look. He’s never read The Dark Prince, but he’s a fan of the cover art. To be fair, Wes loves all his mom’s book covers. They’re done by the same person: a quiet, humble woman in Texas who never does anything in the same artistic style twice. She goes from almost anime-like drawings to real-life portraits.
“No,” Wes finally says, dropping his eyes to his phone.
“Wesley of the Hudsons, future heir to the Savannah Kirk throne, protector of the—”
Wes has gradually been adapting to Cooper’s randomness. He’s funny, too. But two days ago, Wes spotted Cooper smoking up with Anna behind the bookstore, so maybe his humor is herbally influenced.
“How haven’t you read this?”
“Uh.” Wes still hasn’t found the right way to break it to Cooper that Savannah Kirk’s books aren’t as mind-blowing as he thinks. “No time?”
Cooper leans back, eyes wide as if he’s affronted. “But this section,” Cooper opens the book and carefully turns the pages. He taps his index finger on a paragraph. “Elisabeth’s connection with her friends is so real. They protect each other at all costs. It’s the best.”
Armed with his phone, Cooper snaps photos and records one of those time-loop videos before adding filters and captions and hashtags. “I’m bookstagramming this part. Hashtag bookworm homies. Hashtag SME…”
“SME?”
“Santa Monica Escapades,” Cooper says proudly. “Gotta know the hashtags that bring the followers.”
Oh. Right. Wes only knows the bare minimum ones in the comic book fandoms.
“Tagging you too,” Cooper adds.
Wes face-palms. Up until junior year, Wes had managed to keep his name—and face—out of the Savannah Kirk fan communities. It’s not that he cared; popularity for being the son of a bestselling author beats notoriety for being the guy who nearly blinded his best friend with a skateboard or who fell running up the bleachers at a pep rally. It was mostly his mom’s concern. She wanted Wes and Leo to be free of the constant messages about her.
“What’s her next book about?”
“Is she going to write a sequel to the last one?”
“Why didn’t my two favorite characters hook up?”
“Why the hell won’t she reply to my messages? Why won’t she tell me her favorite perfume? WHEN’S HER NEXT BOOK COMING OUT?!”
People are strange. But then junior year hit like a high-speed train. A group of sophomores did a little research—nothing stays hidden on the internet forever—and started tagging him everywhere on social media.<
br />
Since then, Wes’s little social media corner of geekery and Green Lantern fanart has been mobbed with the Kirklands, Savannah’s hardcore legion. He ignores most of the messages, but it’s still weird.
“Oh, this is adorable.” Mrs. Rossi, hand over her heart, stands over them. “Take a selfie and send it to me. Then, Wes, sweetie, show me how to download it. Mr. Rossi bought me a new phone. I can’t work it at all.”
“He’s just keeping you young.”
“Well, I feel old with all these iOS updates or whatever,” Mrs. Rossi complains.
“Never trust the Apple,” Cooper insists, holding up his own phone. “Android for life.”
Wes rolls his eyes. Under no circumstance would he trust an Android.
“Oh.” Cooper stiffens next to him, cheeks flushed. “Sorry, Mrs. R. We should be working, right?” He closes the book and tucks away his phone before standing.
“No, no. It’s fine.” Mrs. Rossi surveys the store. She coughs, and then rubs at her eyes. “No one’s here today.” Then, looking down, she adds with a smile, “No offense, Lucas.”
Lucas. The quiet blond in the hoodie.
Lucas shrugs, refocusing their attention on the graphic novel in their lap.
“Wes, sweetheart?” Mrs. Rossi turns to him. The shadows under her eyes are darker than usual. “Could you stay a little later today? Just until Anna gets in this afternoon.”
Wes lowers his eyebrows. “No problem.”
It’s not as if Wes has some amazing, ask-your-best-friend-out plans to attend to today. He has to fine-tune this list first.
Before he can inquire about Mrs. Rossi’s health, she says, “It’s just a bug or something. Probably allergies.”
Funny, Wes has known Mrs. Rossi for over a decade and she’s never been allergic to anything except Ella’s dramatics.
“I’m sure Anna can handle the store,” Mrs. Rossi says, as if she almost means it.
Anna’s improving, but even Wes wouldn’t leave her in charge yet.
“I can stay longer to help if she needs it,” he offers.
Mrs. Rossi’s mouth stretches into a proper grin. “Thank you. But she’ll have help if…” She studies the thin gold watch around her left wrist. “…that one ever gets here.”
As if summoned through some demonic ritual involving a baby lamb’s heart and Fall Out Boy’s music collection, Ella pushes through the front door. She looks as if Hot Topic’s summer collection vomited over her.
“El’s Bells,” Cooper calls, holding up his phone to record her reaction.
Ella squints at him. “I thought I compelled you not to call me that.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.” Ella snaps her grape gum. Neon green thunderbolt earrings swing from her ears when she tilts her head. “Put away the phone, Zuckerberg. I’m not in the mood.”
Quickly, Cooper lowers his phone, but, from the corner of his eye, Wes can still see him typing away.
Mrs. Rossi tsks before folding her arms across her chest. “You know, Ella, it’d be wonderful if you were, I don’t know, on time for your shifts. Especially in situations like this.”
“Uh, my late is the new punctual around here,” Ella says, hopping onto the front counter.
“You have no respect for this store or the customers.”
Ella looks around. “Um, what customers? No offense, Lucas.”
Lucas waves her off.
“Also,” Ella says, smirking, “the customers love me.”
Chuckling, Cooper hides his face behind both hands. Wes can’t blame him. He wants to do the same.
“Be quiet, hellspawn,” Ella snaps.
Wes turns his attention to Mrs. Rossi. She’s gone from pale white to emergency-exit red. Ella leans back on the counter, unfazed. This isn’t a new occurrence. Their arguments are part of what makes Mrs. Rossi and Ella’s relationship functional. It usually involves shouting and storming off and doors slamming. And Wes, against his better judgment, is always the peacemaker.
“Just take your job seriously,” Mrs. Rossi hisses.
“It’s a bookstore,” Ella deadpans.
“And it’s my life!” Mrs. Rossi leans on a bookshelf, her hands shaking.
Ella, however, doesn’t flinch. It’s a testament to who she is. She’s the type of person to stare a fire-breathing dragon in the eye and dare it to blow smoke her way.
“You’re young,” Mrs. Rossi says, the edge in her voice dulling. “You don’t understand it yet, but the day you do, I hope you remember all of this. I hope you remember the person you thought you were. And I hope you don’t regret missing what life has been trying to hand you, but you continue to act as if it’s charity rather than an opportunity.”
Ella’s mouth is a thin, white line, but she doesn’t crack.
Mrs. Rossi turns her sad eyes on Wes. Before she can speak, he says, “I’ll make sure Anna’s okay.”
Finally, Mrs. Rossi exhales. The “thank you” is implied in her defeated smile.
The thick, eerie silence after Mrs. Rossi exits reminds Wes of being in the loft after his parents had an argument. He’d sit in the middle of his bedroom floor until Leo wandered in and sat next to him. They wouldn’t speak. They’d barely make eye contact. But Leo would grab Wes’s iPad and log into YouTube, and they’d watch funny animal videos together.
“Hey.” Cooper lowers his voice. “She hasn’t rejected my songs yet.” He motions in Ella’s direction.
She’s still parked on the front counter, examining her nailbeds with a neutral expression. Wes expects that much. Ella never lets up on her poker face.
“I’m wearing her down,” Cooper says, all teeth and dimples.
Wes highly doubts that. Cooper’s playing Simple Minds. Unlike most of his peers, Wes liked The Breakfast Club. Don’t get him wrong, it’s problematic and cliché and John Hughes must’ve never met an actual person who wasn’t white in the ‘80s, but he likes this band. He says, quietly, “Word of advice—stay away from Fleetwood Mac. Ella thinks Stevie Nicks is a fraud.”
“Noted.”
“This is bullshit,” Ella huffs. She jumps down from the counter. “She can pretend all she wants, but I know the real deal.”
“What’re you talking about?” Wes asks.
Ella ignores him. She tugs out her phone and thumbs at the screen for a second, then stomps toward the door. Over her shoulder, she shouts, “And Coop? Canceled!” before disappearing.
Unquestionably, Kyra is one of Wes’s favorite human beings. If there was room for a sixth thing on his list of things he loves, Kyra would own that spot. She has huge, loose, dark-brown curls, an addiction to colorful sneakers, and a “California” tattoo running horizontally across the underside of her forearm. The black ink stands out so boldly against her golden brown skin tone.
But it’s not Kyra wheeling into the store on the back of a skateboard that has most of Wes’s attention. He adores her, a fact, but she’ll never be number one on his list.
“Clear the way!” she shouts. One hand holds a cardboard cup above her head while the other grips a narrow hip that Wes only knows in a platonic sense.
Eyes scrunched, Nico kick-pushes them inside.
Cooper, the idiot, ducks and rolls from their path, though the bookstore’s puckered gray carpet slows any momentum they built outside. Something thuds to the ground. Wes really hopes it’s not the new “Fans of Becky Albertalli” section he and Anna spent forty minutes putting together an hour ago. He cares about Cooper’s well-being, but not as much as the books.
Anna nods as Nico and Kyra dismount the skateboard. “Six out of ten.”
“I give it a seven!” shouts Cooper from the floor.
“Seriously?” Kyra giggles breathlessly. “I thought it was an eight-point-five, easy.”
“Hard eight,” Wes offers. “Minus
two for possible destruction to private property.”
Kyra thrusts the cardboard cup at him. “But I bring tea,” she insists. “And a Nico.”
“Disqualification for bribing the judge,” Anna declares. She walks away, smiling over her freckled shoulder.
“Ten for the tea,” Wes says, eagerly grabbing the cup. After the showdown between Mrs. Rossi and Ella, he needs the caffeine. “Soft seven for the Nico.”
“Oh, Crusher,” Kyra says, leaning close with crinkled eyes. “Nico’s an eleven, and you know it.”
The implication in her voice sends a surge of heat from Wes’s neck to his hairline. Is he really that obvious? Has his nonstop ogling—and he hates that word—translated to everyone in California except Nico being aware of his crush?
“Shut up,” he mumbles into the cup’s lid.
Kyra pats his shoulder and says, “You’re my favorite romcom hero,” in her least condescending tone.
“Sencha,” Nico says, pointing at the tea Wes slowly sips. He drops his skateboard behind the counter. “Good?”
Wes hums contentedly. He loves that instant effect green tea has. It’s calming, like watching the surf first thing in the morning. “Thanks,” he says around a sip.
Again, Nico’s eyes scrunch; the lines around his mouth deepen. His hair’s flat today. He looks like he did when he was fourteen, hiding his teeth behind his hand whenever he laughed. Wes, in contrast, spent an hour at the mirror this morning with a palm full of product and a prayer as he tried to tame his curls.
“Why is fixing the nonfiction so daunting?” Anna asks, standing on her tiptoes to peek over a row of shelves near the back of the store.
“Hold up. That’s my jam,” Nico announces giddily. He edges around the counter, then stops to look at Wes. “Enjoy, Wesley.”
Wes flops onto the stool, watching Nico disappear.
Cooper sits next to him, holding his left arm. “I think I broke my tibia.”
“That’s not your tibia,” Zay says, strolling in with his backpack and a brown paper bag covered in dark grease spots.
The Summer of Everything Page 7