Sun-Kissed Summer

by Marta Brown

  “Katie,” I pant as she runs her hands through my hair, peppering my jawline with kisses and making it almost impossible for me to say what I know I should. We need to stop. “Katie,” I say again, but the words get lost when she drags her hands down the back of my neck, grips my shoulder blades, and pulls my body down until our legs, our hips, and our mouths are tangled in a perfect mess. Like our bodies were made to fit this way. Together.

  Together. When we’re sober.

  “Katie, we need to stop,” I finally manage to say, hating myself because I know I’m right, despite every bone in my body screaming to keep going. Katie deserves more than just a drunk hookup, and I want more too. I want her heart.

  Pushing myself up, I twist my body until I’m on my side and Katie is tucked into the crook of my arm, still close, but now with enough distance I can think again.

  “But I don’t want to,” she murmurs, craning her neck until her lips press softly against mine. “I want to be kissed like in the books.”

  I brush my thumb down the side of her cheek, and it kills me to not take her in my arms and give her the kiss she so desperately wants—and deserves. “Trust me, one day you are going to get kissed like that… but nothing about this,” I wave around the empty apartment and then between us, “is that kiss.”

  Katie’s eyes fill with unshed tears, and my heart plummets like a kite without wind. A small voice in my head shouts to kiss her. To give her what she wants. To give her anything and everything she’s ever wanted. To give her my heart. But she already has that.

  “I know. I just… I’d give anything to have an epic summer romance, and you taste so much like powdered sugar,” Katie mumbles incoherently, her lip jutting out in a small pout. “But then Jessica said real life isn’t like the books, and I should lower my expectations when it comes to this kind of stuff… except I don’t want to be just another notch in Brad’s belt—”

  A notch in Brad’s belt? And now, she’s broken it. My heart.

  “And I’m sure I wouldn’t be any good anyway, since I don’t have any experience. At all. But you’re you and I’m me,” she rambles aimlessly. “And we’re best friends…”

  “Is that what this is?” I fume, more at myself than at Katie, since I’m the fool who thought this might actually be more than just practice for her and Brad.

  Apparently, I was wrong.

  Pushing up off the couch completely, I pace the room as Katie’s eyes fail to follow. Her gaze—and the hope this might have meant more to her than just preparation for the real deal—droops under the weight of too many drinks. And the truth. She is never going to see me the way I see her. Or she sees Brad.

  “Ollie, where are you going? Are you mad?” my best friend asks as she pushes herself into a sitting position, completely unaware what she does to me, her lips still pink and swollen from our kisses. And I can’t be mad. Not at her.

  But me? Now that’s a different story.

  “Katie, do you ever think about me?”

  Katie’s eyes, while still unfocused, widen. “Like…?”

  Stopping dead in my tracks, I turn and face her. Ready to tell her how I feel—how I’ve felt for as long as I can remember. Ready to finally man up and ask her if I should stop. Stop hoping. Stop wishing. Stop trying to be anything but her best friend. “Yes. Like that.”

  “Oh,” Katie says, bringing her fingers to her mouth, like the answer might be there, resting on her lips. “Ollie… I think… that…”

  “That I’m a great guy, but…” I finish for her, since I pretty much expected the dreaded friend zone speech was the most likely outcome of me finally asking her how she feels about me.

  “No,” she chokes out, her flushed skin taking on an all new shade of pale white. “That I’m going to be sick.” She leaps from the couch, rushes to the bathroom, and slams the door shut so hard the walls shake.

  Okay. Now that I didn’t expect.

  “You okay in there?” I ask through the door a couple of minutes later—despite knowing the answer just by the sound of it. “Can I get you something?” Like a rewind button? For the both of us.

  “How about an answer to why my sister does this all the time,” Katie manages to spit out after flushing the toilet for the second time. “What part of drinking is fun?”

  With a tight laugh, thinking back to less than an hour ago when Katie looked like she was having the time of her life, I joke, “Maybe you should ask past Katie because she seemed to have the answer when she was dancing on top of the tables.”

  “Nooo,” Katie moans, and this time, my laugh isn’t tight, it’s deep and uncontrollable, since I can’t believe she’s actually in there puking from drinking too much. Talk about a different girl. “Hey,” she calls out, her voice echoing into the porcelain bowl. “Stop laughing, it’s making me want to throw up.”

  “Again?”

  I shouldn’t have bothered asking, because the answer is yes.

  Twenty long minutes later, and what sounded like an entire ocean worth of sex on the beach drinks down the drain, Katie emerges from the tiny bathroom with her hair wild, her skin pale, and her eyes bloodshot. And looking absolutely miserable.

  “Why?” I ask as I help her to the couch to lie down, because what else is there to ask at this point?

  Katie lets out a small hiccup before pulling me down to the sofa with her and curling into my side. “Because it’s not as easy to be myself with Brad… not like it is to be with you.”

  Grabbing one of the quilts off the pile of our fort blankets, I drape it over our laps and sigh. “What am I going to do with you?”

  Slowly she opens her eyes, like she’s waking from a deep sleep, and smiles. “No,” she leans up and kisses my cheek before letting her lids flutter closed and snuggling back into my arms, “what am I going to do with you?”

  I lean down and kiss her forehead. “I don’t know… except probably thank me in the morning.”

  Chapter 23

  Katie

  Ugh. Is it possible to still be hung over two days later? Because I am.

  Promising myself I’ll never drink again, I roll over and moan at the bright red numbers on my bedside clock telling me it’s ten am and I’m late for work. But at least that’s better than yesterday, when I was too sick to show up at all.

  The crick in my neck from sleeping on Ollie’s couch two nights ago pinches as I rotate it back and forth to loosen it up, and I’m left wondering for the millionth time why Jessica likes going out and drinking. Nothing about it was fun.

  Then again, I don’t really remember much, so I might not be the best judge of how the night actually went.

  “You know, if you’re still under the weather, you can take today off too,” Grandma says, strolling into my room with a steaming mug of ginger tea and some dry toast. Her go-to remedy for the stomach bug—or an alcohol-induced stomach bug—but she doesn’t need to know that.

  “Oliver’s holding down the restaurant while Grandpa and I head down to the beach to set up the booth. So, don’t worry.” She sets the cup and plate on my nightstand before pressing the back of her hand to my forehead to check my temperature. “Just get better. I wouldn’t want my little kite surfer to miss her big contest since you and Oliver have been working so hard.” Grandma pats my hand, and then jingles out of my room with a smile. Her bells, bracelets, and charms are particularly loud this morning.

  ‘Since you and Oliver have been working so hard.’ I cringe as her words fill my throbbing head with guilt. If she only knew yesterday’s dawn patrol practice was really just a cover to explain why my bed was empty at the crack of dawn after passing out at Ollie’s.

  Even though I’d like to take another day off, for more reasons than one, I can’t let Oliver do both his job and mine for a second day in a row. Yesterday was bad enough.

  Finally mustering up enough energy, and nerve, I throw off the covers, grab the first pair of jean shorts I can find. After slipping them on with a white ribbed tank top and a pair
of strappy sandals, I toss my hair into a ponytail. I finish with a quick dab of lip gloss and an even quicker coat of mascara before taking one last glance in the mirror, my stomach in knots.

  Well, at least I look better than I feel.

  But that’s less from the drinks, and more from the fact I’m about to see Oliver. Because despite remembering very little about my night out with Brad and his friends, I clearly—and embarrassingly—remember everything about throwing myself at Ollie.

  I also remember getting totally and completely friend zoned.

  But I figure he doesn’t need to know that. Right?

  …

  “There she is,” Big Pop says loudly before untying his apron and tossing it on the counter as I walk into the back office, the smell of bacon grease Grandma has stored for her car flipping my stomach even more. “Uh-oh, looking a ‘lil green there, sweets. You sure you’re up for work?”

  “I’ll be fine, but it’s probably best if I work the front and not the kitchen.” Less wafting food smells, and hopefully, less awkward small talk with Ollie.

  Grabbing a stack of flyers for the booth, Pop shimmies out from behind the desk, careful not to knock the piles of papers scattered around with his belly, and smiles. “That’ll be great. I have Ollie working the front too, so you’ll have backup just in case.”

  Yeah. Great. “But I thought you and Grandma were setting up the booth; who’s on the griddle then?”

  “That new hire, Marco.” Grandpa shakes his head with a grin. “Boy, was Oliver right.”

  I furrow my brows. “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, Oliver’s been suggesting all sorts of ideas for improving the restaurant. Like hiring a full-time cook so I can focus more on growing the business than growing my waistline.” Grandpa laughs, patting his middle. “The time off the line has already allowed me to dig into the books and find some extra cash we could use to help the restaurant run a little smoother. Again, Oliver’s idea. Those fancy college classes he’s been taking are really paying off. I won’t be surprised if he’s running this ol’ joint one day.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek, not only embarrassed for throwing my drunken self at Oliver, but for wanting to avoid him today, when the truth is that he’s the best friend I could ever ask for. The way he cares for my grandparents… and me.

  Wrapping my arms around Pop, I bury my throbbing head into his chest and admit to myself what Grandpa already knows. Oliver is right. About a lot of things. Especially about not hooking up with your best friend when she’s totally wasted.

  “All right, I’m goin’ to meet Grandma. You and Oliver hold down the fort, m‘kay?”

  The mention of a fort only adds heat to my already red cheeks. How stupid of me to try to turn our sweet date, and the even sweeter kiss, into more than Ollie ever intended it to be—practice for Brad. The real guy I should be kissing.

  With a quick peck to the top of my head and a backwards wave, Big Pop lumbers out the back door and into the sun, leaving me to face my best friend. Alone.

  I take a deep breath before pushing through the swinging kitchen doors and grabbing an apron off the hook. “Hey,” I manage to say when I enter the dining room, although it comes out a tad softer than normal. Shyer. “Sorry I’m late.”

  Oliver lifts his head from the table he’s busing and gives me a tentative smile. “Feeling better?”

  “A little.” I smile back before taking the rag from his hand and going to work wiping down the table as he starts to stack the dirty dishes in his grey tub—falling back into our normal routine. “Thanks again for taking such good care of me.” I drop my eyes to the table, wanting to apologize for my behavior, but not really wanting to admit I actually remember what I did. “I’m, uh… sorry about everything… I mean… if the smell in my hair the next morning was any indication… I was kind of a mess.”

  In true Oliver fashion, he shrugs it off like it was nothing. “Hey, we’ve all been there. So no harm, no foul,” he says, pressing his lips into a tight line—and thankfully not mentioning the kiss either. “Right?”

  “Right,” I agree with a laugh, but it sounds forced to my own ears, so I’m sure Oliver isn’t fooled at all.

  Ugh. This is so stupid. We’re supposed to be best friends. Or at least I hope we still are after how I acted. “Hey, what do you say to a night in? Just the two of us. No drinks, fake dates, or fancy clothes,” I say, wanting nothing more than everything to go back to normal between us. “Just movies, popcorn, and M&Ms—your faves.”

  Oliver finishes clearing the table before tucking the heavy tub of syrup-covered dishes under his arm. “Um…”

  “I’ll even let you pick the movie,” I offer to sweeten the deal, knowing how much he loves to watch me squirm during the scary movies he always picks. But I guess it’s fair since I love watching him squirm during all the romantic movies I always force him to watch too. “Deal?”

  “On one condition,” Oliver says, grabbing the damp rag from my hand and tossing it over the side of the tub with a cautious smile.

  I furrow my brows. “Anything.”

  “We have to have a DP session tomorrow morning. Otherwise, we’ll never be ready for the competition. So we have to call it an early night, ‘kay?”

  Feigning a pout at the idea of waking up so early, I finally nod. “Fine, but don’t expect me to thank you in the morning.”

  Oops. So much for not letting on I remember at least some of that night.

  Chapter 24

  Oliver

  “Wanna tell me what has you wound so tight?” Megan asks from the spot next to me on the couch, her face covered in green goop as she files her nails. Her unexpected question reminding me she’s even here.

  “Huh?” I reply, even though I know exactly what has me wound up tighter than my kite strings in a storm. Katie.

  “Seriously,” she snatches the changer from my hand and mutes the TV, “you’re gonna break the remote flipping through the channels like that. What gives?”

  Slumping into the cushions, I drag my hand through my hair and debate telling her exactly what happened between Katie and me on this very couch a few nights ago—or actually… what didn’t happen—when a soft knock interrupts my thoughts.

  Megan furrows her brows at the door, and the small action cracks the green goop around her eyes and across her forehead. “Did you order pizza or something?”

  “No, it’s Katie.” I push off the couch to answer the door, even though Katie knows she doesn’t have to knock. She never has. But these days, nothing between Katie and me feels like it used to. Nothing feels normal. Which is ironic since tonight we’re supposed to have a ‘normal’ night in. I guess we’ll see.

  “Well,” Megan smirks as she blows on her nails, “that explains it.”

  With my hand on the doorknob, I stop and shoot her a look. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  “Megan,” I growl under my breath so Katie can’t hear me on the other side of the door, knowing her ‘oh, nothing’ never truly means ‘oh, nothing’.

  “It’s just—after seeing you two dancing at the bar, it’s no wonder you’re wound so tight.”

  “What in the hell does that mean?” I ask in spite of the fact I don’t totally disagree with her.

  “Oh, come on. The sexual tension between you guys is kinda off the charts. I’m actually surprised you guys didn’t finally hook up. Despite being on a date with some other guy, she looked pretty into you if you ask me.”

  Swallowing, I try and mask my reaction, but I fail. Hard.

  “No freaking way,” she whispers before slapping her hand over her mouth in surprise. “You didn’t. Did you?”

  Yes? No? Kind of? Shit. I don’t know.

  I give up and shrug. “It’s hard to explain, but now is not the time. So zip it. Okay?”

  “Fine,” Megan mouths before pretending to zip her lips closed and tossing the imaginary key over her shoulder as I open the door, and this time
, I’m the one who looks surprised.

  “Took you long enough,” Katie teases, standing in my doorway wearing the same outfit she wore the day I picked her up at the airport, her face makeup free and her hair in a messy ponytail. “I was starting to think I got stood up.”

  I step back and rub my hand down my face—hoping my expression isn’t giving away the only thought running through my head. She. Looks. Beautiful.

  Then again, she always looks beautiful to me. Even in a pair of baggy jeans, an old, worn in T-shirt, and her glasses.

  Clearing my throat, I remind myself to act normal and to quit staring. “Uh, sorry about that. Guess, I didn’t realize it was you, Four-eyes McQuinn,” I tease back, using the nickname I coined when I was twelve. When boys were mean to the girls they liked.

  “Funny, Stringbean McHayes.” Katie laughs as she pokes me in the ribs when she walks by. She plops down on the couch, propping her feet on the coffee table with a smile, and just like that, it feels normal again.

  “All right, I’m gonna go,” Megan says, jumping off the couch and heading for her room—not an ounce of subtlety in her bones. “So, you two kids have fun. But not too much.” She lifts her brows suggestively, creating another Grand Canyon-size crack in her face mask and sending tiny green flakes falling to the floor. “Mom should be home soon.”

  It takes everything in me not to grab a pillow and lob it at Megan’s head when Katie asks, “What’s that supposed to mean?” Her eyes are wide and her cheeks flushed.

  Megan barks out a laugh, but I’m not sure if it’s at my expression or Katie’s, since we both look guilty.

  “Omg, I’m kidding.” She waves her hand indifferently in our direction, like she really doesn’t have a clue about what may—or may not—have gone down between Katie and me. “Like anyone has to worry about pipsqueak and pipsqueak Jr. getting into too much trouble,” she says, using her and Jessica’s childhood nicknames for us before disappearing into her room and leaving Katie and me alone. In my living room. Again.