Us at the Beach

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Us at the Beach Page 14

by Stephanie Street


  It’s been like this all summer. Of course, we hung out every day. Playing video games, working out, helping her mom with her daycare kids. After all day together, we usually ended up sort of flirting. Nothing serious, you know, I never meant anything by it (not much, anyway). Most of the time I was just trying to get her to blush or I’d say something to make her eyes widen and say ‘Co-nnor’ the way she does when she can’t really believe I’d just said what I did.

  But sometimes, she gets this look in her eyes, and I know I’ve gone too far. But I can never guess what’s gonna put that look on her face until after it’s already out. All I know, it makes me feel horrible. Allie is my best friend. Seriously, the most important person in my life. I don’t even know what I’d do without her. Probably die.

  We tested it out one time when we were little, but not on purpose. My jerk parents thought it would be fun for me to go to this sleepaway camp the summer I was nine and Allie was seven. I made it one week without her before the camp people called my parents and they had to come pick me up. After that, I threw the hugest fit whenever they even mentioned doing anything that would take me away from Allie for more than a day or so. See? Death.

  Rolling onto my back in the middle of her bed, I stare at the poster of N’SYNC tacked to the ceiling. And I know I’ve got to say something to make her laugh again.

  “You know, Al. The school printed these posters of all the senior football players. Full size.” I point to her boy band poster. “I’d be happy to give you one to put up right there. I’ll even help you hang it.”

  “Sacrilege! How dare you?” She pokes her head out of her closet, her face a mask of feigned outrage. “How would I ever fall asleep without J.T. and his boys right by me?”

  I grin at her, trying to hide the fact that her comment kinda made me feel hot all over. Allie’s always saying things like that, stuff that I could totally take the wrong way. Allie’s mind may never be in the gutter, but mine usually is and now I seriously want to put my poster up there so Allie can fall asleep every night looking at me and not some boy band from fifteen years ago.

  Not that our relationship is like that. At all. No, Allie and me- purely platonic. I mean, sure I’ve thought about it. Ever since Mrs. B pulled me aside when I was thirteen and told me she wasn’t stupid and let me know it wasn’t appropriate for me to sneak into Allie’s room through her window anymore and have secret sleepovers, I haven’t been able to think of Allie as just my friend. Since then, I think of her as my friend and a girl. It sucks.

  Plus, I used to love our secret sleepovers. See, there's this treehouse outside Allie’s second story window that allows easy and secret access to her room. We used to have so much platonic fun, playing video games with the sound down or watching scary movies and no one ever knew. Or at least we thought they didn't.

  I wonder if Mrs. B knows I didn’t actually stop coming over until I was sixteen and it had become damn near impossible to hide my reaction to Allie and I sleeping in the same bed. Seriously, I can’t even tell you how tempted I am sometimes to take advantage of that stupid treehouse.

  But I don’t. Everything is ‘just friends’ (well, mostly) because you see, I can’t lose Allie (please see the aforementioned sleepaway camp story). What if I try to take things to the next level? Or even mention it and Allie runs screaming from the room?

  Connor loses Allie forever.

  Not. Going. To. Happen. I just couldn’t survive that kind of world. So instead, I keep up a steady stream of girlfriends that don’t really mean anything and spend every spare minute outside of school, football, and stupid social obligations to the popular crowd- with Allie.

  And, for now, I don’t let on that my mind has gone down completely inappropriate paths, because she is smiling at me again. Instead I ask, “How do you feel about physics after your first day?”

  And all is right with the world as she launches into a detailed description of the huge homework assignment Richardson laid on her class the first day (but isn’t due until next week, she reassured me, since we’ve been playing video games for three hours). See? That’s what happens when I keep my non-platonic thoughts to myself- Connor still has Allie.

  To keep reading look for The Perks of Dating You for purchase or Kindle Unlimited on Amazon!

  Chasing Paris(Now available on Amazon)

  Chapter One

  Paris

  Fifty-eight. Fifty-nine. Walk two minutes. You’re doing great!

  Stupid motivator. Even on the lowest setting, the perky voice with the fake accent coming through my headphones is irritating. Almost as irritating as how out of shape I am. Seriously, one minute of running feels like a marathon. I half expect a crowd of cheering fans to be waiting at the end of my one-hundred-yard run, a paper ribbon strung across the black track for me to break with my humongous boobs. Okay, they aren’t that big, but after one hundred yards of them bouncing violently with each step, I kinda wish I was an A rather than a large C.

  My chest isn’t the only part of my body bouncing, either. When did my thighs get so big? And I am so not happy about the muffin top overflowing around the waistband of my stretchy yoga pants. I won’t even mention the state of my hiney.

  Run one minute. You can do it!

  No, no, no! How did two minutes go so fast? I pick up my pace, but only slightly. I’m so out of shape my run is just a step below a jog and even then, my calves are burning and my butt cheeks feel like I’ve done one hundred yards of lunges. Not that I know what one hundred yards of lunges feels like- but I can imagine!

  Thirty seconds left. My lungs are burning. Breathe, Paris, breathe. It’s like my body is staging a mutiny after so many years of inactivity. I can imagine my heart and lungs and every muscle in my body throwing in the towel, wiping their hands of this crazy idea of mine to ‘get in shape’. Where ‘get in shape’ is a euphemism for ‘fit into a bridesmaid dress for my brother’s wedding in two months’. The one my mother intentionally ordered two sizes too small.

  Walk two minutes. Keep it up!

  Thank goodness! Sucking air in through my nose and blowing out my mouth, I pray I won’t faint on the high school track. It’s almost dusk and I’m here alone, just like I planned. My previous recon missions have informed me that coming to the track at any other time of the day will mean ‘running’ with super fit people. If I wanted to do that I’d get a gym membership. The only problem with this choice is now if I faint, I’m on my own.

  The other downfall to exercising so late- my feet hurt after a long day of work at the bakery. The bakery. I blame the ten pounds I need to lose on the bakery I own. I mean, have you ever met a skinny baker? No. I didn’t think so. The bakery is also part of the reason I don’t exercise in the morning. I already get up before the crack of dawn to get everything baked fresh for the day, there is no way I’m waking up at two o’clock in the morning to exercise, my mother or not.

  Run one minute thirty seconds. You got this!

  I’m glad no one is around to hear me groan at this announcement. I wish I knew who this chick was so I could punch her in the face. One minute and thirty seconds? Doesn’t she know I can barely make it for thirty seconds? Seriously, one minute is pushing it, another thirty seconds might be enough to send me into cardiac arrest.

  Okay, Paris, focus. It’s usually at this point in my work out that I begin cursing my mother and the universe that blessed her with a high metabolism and endless self-control and cursed me with a passion for sugar in all its many forms. This wouldn’t be a problem except for the endless disappointed looks in my direction whenever I happen to cross my mother’s path. Which I’ll admit occurs less and less even though I’ve just moved back to my hometown and opened a bakery.

  When I left my hometown of Watson, Georgia after graduating from this very high school, it had been with the sole purpose of escaping my mother and her perfection complex. I was desperate to get away from the endless criticism I’d endured all my childhood and adolescence. My mother’s strident
voice still echoes in my ear every time I pick up a cream puff. Paris, don’t eat that, you’ll get fat. Paris, stand up straight. Paris, don’t lean. Paris, don’t you want to be thin like the other girls?

  The day I told her I was leaving home to attend a culinary school in New York had been the most nerve wracking, and the most liberating, day of my life. I packed everything I owned in the little Toyota Tercel I bought with money earned over two years working part time at Panera Bread and never looked back.

  Between working at Panera and spending all my free-time trying out recipes from Pinterest, the decision to become a pastry chef had been an easy one. I love to bake. Unfortunately, the two-year pastry arts degree had cost a small fortune. Thankfully, my grandmother on my dad’s side loves me even though I’m a size- well, let’s just say I’m not a four, six, or eight and leave it at that- and thought becoming a pastry chef was a brilliant plan. She chipped in for more than half my tuition and I covered the rest with loans, grants, and scholarships.

  Walk two minutes. You’re almost there!

  Oh, I’m light-headed. Feel the burn, Paris. Man, I thought this was supposed to get easier over time. This program says I should be moving on to longer run times with shorter walks, but I’ve been doing the very first workout every day for two weeks and I still feel like I’m going to die of a heart attack. I can’t even imagine upping my times. How do people do it?

  I mean, seriously, every Monday morning as I sit and eat an orange scone and a large glass of whole milk, I scroll through my Facebook feed, reading post after post about the different 5k’s people ran over the weekend. The color run. The mud run. The CrossFit challenge run. Run. Run. Run. Like, it’s all they ever do. And in every picture, they stand, sweaty and smiling, arms thrown around other equally sweaty and smiling weirdos. How do they always look so happy? And don’t even get me started on the crazies that run mini-marathons. I just don’t get it. And now here I am, desperate to shed a few measly pounds for the sake of my health- because let’s face it my mother will kill me if I don’t fit into that dress- running like an idiot. No smiling, although there is a lot of sweat, and I can’t even run one complete lap around the track. This is bull crap!

  Two one-minute runs and a five-minute cool down later, I finally make my way through the opening in the fence surrounding the track and toward my car. I’ve upgraded from my Tercel to a Corolla. It’s not new but it’s in better shape and has less miles than the Tercel. Plus, due to a large Christmas bonus from the fancy restaurant I worked at in New York, it’s paid for.

  After tossing my phone onto the passenger seat, I slid into the driver’s seat, my muscles screaming Hallelujah! all the way. I reached for my water bottle and took a long draw of the cool liquid, wishing with all my heart the aluminum container held Dr. Pepper and not water. But Dr. Pepper is not going to help me lose ten pounds, so I’m determined to just be thankful my ice hasn’t melted all the way, leaving me with ninety-degree water.

  Damn. Pulling the water bottle away from my lips, I notice the front right side of my hood is lower than the left. Rolling my shoulders to ease the tension growing in them, I can’t help but think how much I really do not need to deal with this right now. Throwing open my door, I got out of my car and walked around to the front.

  “You have got to be kidding me!” I groaned, seriously tempted to curl up on the hood of my car and cry. My front right tire is completely flat. I must have run over a nail or some glass on my way to the high school. Shoulders slumped, I stared at the deep lavender sky above. It’s dark enough that I can see several stars twinkling. While there is quite a bit of traffic on the road in front of the school, I am by myself in the parking lot. I briefly consider calling my brother to come help me. But he lives almost an hour away and that’s just ridiculous.

  “Don’t be such a dumb girl, Paris,” I scolded myself. Taking a deep breath, I reached through the driver’s side window and popped open the trunk.

  “Ugh. It just gets better and better,” I grumbled, taking in the state of my trunk, overflowing with supplies for the bakery. Growling with irritation, I began unloading the boxes into the backseat of my car.

  It took forever. The boxes are small and I could only shuffle a couple of them at a time from the trunk to the backseat. I’d planned to unload them onto a cart in the morning once I made it to the bakery, so I didn’t pack them in a more efficient container. Dang. By the time I unload the trunk, it’s dark and the lights in the parking lot have blinked on.

  “Well, crap.” I’ve unloaded the spare and the jack, as well as the tool to remove the lug nuts, but as I haul the tire to the front of my car, I notice I’ve parked in a shadow. There is hardly enough illumination from the nearest light to make out the outline of the black tire. Reaching through the passenger side window, I retrieve my phone off the seat and turn on the flashlight app.

  “Hey, do you need some help?”

  Aaron

  “See you after my run,” I said into my phone before touching the red button to disconnect the call with my buddy, Jace Thomas. Jace hates running on the track and refuses to come with me to the high school. It’s the only part of our workout we don’t do together. But I like running on the track. I never have to worry about obstacles or distractions. It’s just me and my music and the oval blacktop.

  After plugging my headphones into my ears, I tuned up the new Imagine Dragons album. The music immediately gets my blood pumping, my body reacting to the beat like Pavlov’s dog. Bracing my hands on the door of my pickup truck, I work to stretch out my calves and hamstrings. My eyes scan the area around me, my years of military training kicking in without conscious thought. Survey. Assess. React. Even after four years, my body and mind refuse to relax.

  I parked my truck on the far side of the track, away from the parking lot. I prefer the isolation of the gravel service road running behind the football field. I always park under a light, but it’s reassuring that, for the most part, no other cars will park beside me.

  Kicking my heel back, I grab it and pull it toward my ass, stretching my quads. Rolling my neck from side to side, I survey the parking lot. One vehicle sits parked right in the center. The trunk is open and a woman walks around to put something into the back seat. Curious, I drop my foot to the ground and begin walking toward the track, my eyes trained on the woman who returns to the trunk and collects more items to store in the backseat.

  The high school parking lot seems a strange place to play shift-the-shit, but what do I know. Invested now, I can’t seem to take my eyes off the woman. Jogging slowly from the far side of the oval, I make my way down the straightaway and around the curve, every step bringing me closer. Even from a distance and with the little bit of light coming from a lamp not too far from her, I can tell she has some sweet curves, an hourglass figure that has my eyes traveling the length of her more than once. She’s wearing tight black calf-length running pants and a fitted lime green tee.

  As I begin to round the second curve, I know I won’t be able to see her if I keep going, so I slow to a walk. And like a stalker, head toward the fence watching her long ponytail swing from side to side with each sway of her hips. Damn. I could watch this woman shuffle packages from her trunk to her backseat all day.

  I can’t tell if her hair is brown or something else. Maybe red- a dark red. I can’t get a good glimpse of her face, but her profile shows me high cheeks, pouty lips, and a cute upturned little nose. Man, I hope she isn’t married because I am seriously checking her out.

  She walks back to her trunk, lifts the bottom out of it and reaches in, pulling out the spare. Well, that makes sense. Glancing at her vehicle, I notice it’s a little lopsided. Wow, Aaron. Talk about being distracted. Changing course, I move to exit the track and start toward her, absurdly excited that she has a flat tire and I have an excuse to approach her. Vaguely aware that I am gawking at her like a horny teenager, I make my way to her car and ask, “Hey, do you need some help?”

  Chapter Two

/>   Paris

  “Aaahh!”

  Yeah, that’s right. I screamed.

  Bloody murder.

  And not only that, I jumped a foot and shined the bright light from my phone right into the eyes of the most beautiful man I’d ever laid eyes on. Dark hair. Bright eyes. Chiseled face. Gorgeous skin. And muscles. Muscles. For. Miles.

  “Oh, my goodness, y’all scared me to near to death!” my thick southern accent accused, attesting to the fact that I had indeed been scared near to death, because let me tell you, people in New York do not like southern accents and I’d all but kicked mine over the last few years.

  “I’m sorry,” beautiful man laughed, squinting and holding a hand up to shield his eyes from my light because I was still shining it in his face.

  “Oh, my gosh. I’m sorry,” I exclaimed, lowering my phone almost regretfully because how could I keep checking him out in the dark? Beautiful man blinked as his eyes adjusted to the darkness again.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you. I don’t know how you didn’t hear me walking up.”

  I didn’t know, either. Good grief, he could be a serial killer and I’d just let him walk within three feet of me. My heart rate, which had already been accelerated by the appearance of Mr. Hottie, threatened to beat out of my chest, this time with fear. He must have noticed, because he held up his hands and started reassuring me.

  “Hey, I’m sorry. Next time, I’ll stomp my feet and clear my throat really loud.” His voice was smooth and comforting like he was used to calming hysterical females. I tried to remain wary, I mean, the guy could still be a serial killer- a really, really hot serial killer.

  “No, I- It’s okay. I was just focused on trying to figure out how to change this tire and hold up my light at the same time,” I paused, inhaling a calming breath. “Sorry about blinding you.”

 

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