by Dahlia Adler
She’s dressed to get every single eye in the room on her, and it’s working.
I couldn’t take mine off her if I tried.
The music starts—Shannon must’ve flipped it on—and my brain is such a blur it takes me a few seconds to figure out what song she chose. But there’s a lot of whistling from the hornier members of the football team who do know.
And, with the first word, it clicks.
Demi Lovato’s “Cool for the Summer,” a fucking anthem for girls exploring each other’s bodies.
Jasmine’s low, sexy voice can’t hit Demi’s higher notes, but she’s singing about fooling around with a girl and absolutely nobody gives a shit about her vocal skills. Behind me, even Chase is whistling, his hands on my shoulders, ironically the only thing to keep me steady when my body wants to shake uncontrollably. Every lyric cuts me like a knife, and I wait for her to make eye contact, to tell me to my face that she’s reducing our summer to a little curiosity, but she never does.
Instead, she goes all in, flirting with what feels like literally everyone else in the audience. Thanks to Shannon’s proximity, people are whispering, coming up with their own interpretations, even as Jasmine practically sits in Paulie Wolman’s lap. Everything about this is awful, except that it isn’t. Watching her perform is incredible, and when I close my eyes, her voice strokes me the way her fingers used to. I’m a horrible person, standing with my boyfriend and completely melting at a girl’s voice, at the memory of her touch. To make it worse, I suspect—though you can never know with Jasmine—this song was chosen to tell me to fuck all the way off and give up trying to have any semblance of a connection with her, that any deeper meaning to this summer was entirely in my head.
“She’s good, huh?” Chase murmurs in my ear, dropping his elbows onto my shoulders, lightly brushing a hand against my boob as if he knows watching Jasmine is turning me inside out, making me want to be touched.
That it’s making me want what being alone with him upstairs didn’t.
That I’m more attracted to Jasmine, to this girl who seems to hate me, than I am to my incredible boyfriend.
All at once, way too much crashes into place.
Chapter Fifteen
THEN
It was Declan’s idea to host a low country boil, to persuade my mom to finally eat some local cuisine. My mom grew up on Russian fare—pelmeni, pirozhki, borscht, and all manner of things made with potatoes, cabbage, and/or sour cream. She’ll eat fish eggs before she’ll eat a prawn that’s still got its head on. So, it’s been kind of a struggle for her spending the summer in an area dominated by seafood and barbecue. (Though she loves that the Outer Banks has somehow become a hot spot for Eastern European students to work for the summer. Getting to speak Russian to people who aren’t me or her parents has been the highlight of her summer, I think.) Naturally, Declan sees that as a challenge.
My mother is not amused.
And because he can’t ask my mother to plan a social event she’d rather die than attend, it’s up to me and Jasmine (and okay, hired staff) to get everything going.
“I wish you could see your hair right now!” Jasmine laughs as we struggle to weigh down the gingham-printed tablecloths against the breeze rolling off the Atlantic.
“You encouraged this hair!” I lift my hand self-consciously to my new blond curls. I’m still getting used to the way they dance in the breeze, so much lighter than the inches of mousy gold I left on the cutting room floor of the Seaside Salon. But between the way my new hair frames my face and the deep tan I’m getting out in the Carolina sun, my eyes pop blue-green more than ever, and I look healthy and happy and different.
Jasmine did a photo shoot of me immediately afterward, but I keep stopping short of posting any of the pictures. I don’t want anyone’s opinions yet. I like that it’s something that’s strictly Larissa of the Outer Banks—Tinkerbell, if you will. Something separate from Stratford. Shannon would completely kill me if she knew, but Shannon’s in Paris, posting selfies from beneath the Arc de Triomphe and at little cafés dotting the city. She’s having her version of a fabulous summer, and somewhere along the way, I realized that I am too. I may not be scarfing pain au chocolate on the Champs-Elysées or whatever, but I don’t envy it. I’m about to eat my weight in shrimp, crab, clams, lobster, and corn, and I feel great about that.
“I’m not making fun of the hair under normal circumstances,” Jasmine clarifies, smoothing one of her perfect pigtail braids. “It’s just kind of … everywhere right now. I’m sure it’ll look lovely for the party.”
“I’m sure your face will look lovely for the party,” I shoot back, feeling childish as I kick sand in front of me, being careful not to land any of it on the white plastic folding chairs.
“Was that supposed to be a burn?” Jasmine finishes placing shells on her corners of the table, then does a cartwheel in the sand, her mint-green-polished toes pointing elegantly at the sun. “Pathetic, Tinkerbell.”
“You’re pathetic.” I drop the rest of my shells in a messy cluster and start my own run—roundoff, back handspring, back tuck. Being a former cheerleader has its merits.
“Holy shit.” Jasmine’s jaw drops. “What did you just do?”
“Oh, did I not mention that I used to be on the cheerleading squad?” I blow on my nails.
“You’re joking. Show me again.”
I do, even though it makes me dizzy. It’s worth it for the way she wolf whistles when I’m done and yells, “That’s so hot!” In truth, my form is completely off, and Gia would have so many words for how out of practice I am, but I love that Jasmine thinks I’m amazing exactly as I am.
“I can’t believe I didn’t know you could do that,” she says, wiping away the sweat that lightly beads her forehead.
I shrug like it’s no big deal. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
“Oh, I don’t know if that’s true.” A little smile plays on her lips as she bends to draw her name in the sand. “Let’s see … I know your favorite color is turquoise. I know your favorite author is Clementine Walker. And I know you take your iced coffee with caramel syrup and way too much sugar.”
“Anyone who follows me on Snapchat knows those things.”
“Okay.” She stands and dusts off her hands, crosses her arms over her chest. “I know you used to spend summers at your mom’s friend’s house in the Finger Lakes, and that’s where you had your first kiss. I know the only two things guaranteed to make you cry are dogs dying in movies and the smell of salami and eggs, the second because it’s the only thing your shitty father ever made right. And I know you’re writing a romance novel in that notebook you keep under your pillow, even though you won’t let anyone read it. How am I doing?”
“Not bad,” I concede, giving my sternum a quick press with my palm to try and break up the weirdness building beneath it. “But I know you too. I know you’ve tried exactly six times to replicate your steta’s kibbeh recipe, and that it’s what you’d choose as your last meal on death row. I know your name was one of your parents’ biggest fights, because your mom wanted to name you after said grandmother and your father straight-up refused. I know you still sleep with a stuffed panda oh-so-cleverly named Panda. And I know you’re scared of waterskiing but don’t want anyone to know, because you don’t like people knowing you have any fears at all.”
Her eyes widen. “I am not—”
“Yeah, you are.”
She exhales. “Yeah, I am. How the hell did you know that?”
I watch you. I can’t freaking stop watching you. Wanna know some more things I know? That you have a lightning bolt of beauty marks on the back of your left thigh. That nothing tastes better than sparkling apple cider on your tongue in the hot tub. That every time I hear you reading French aloud to practice for the AP exam, I have to take a cold shower.
“Just very brilliant,” I say with a shrug.
She snorts. “Apparently. Come on, let’s go husk the corn.”
&nbs
p; I jump at the chance to clear my head of the thoughts I definitely shouldn’t be having and follow her into the kitchen, where green piles await us on the center island’s concrete countertop. We immediately get to attacking it, yanking down the leaves and stringy silks and snapping them off at the base. Before long there’s a huge pile of garbage heaped in front of us on the counter, but it smells so sweet and delicious, I want to dive right in.
“You look like you wanna go to town on that,” Jasmine says dryly as we scoop up the mess. “Just remember, it’s still raw.”
“Okay, but I’m starving,” I grumble.
“We’re doing guacamole next.” She opens the fridge and pulls out a bunch of herbs while I grab the avocados. “I promise not to tell if you sneak an avocado or twelve.”
“That’s the kindest offer you’ve ever made me.”
“Probably.”
Together we peel and pit until our fingers are stained green. I’m about to suggest a break when something cool and slimy smushes against my face.
“Did you just.” I whirl around to see a smirk on Jasmine’s face and a mashed avocado slice in her hand. “Oh, no you did not.” I grab an avocado half and leap in her direction, but she’s half a step too fast and we end up in a running battle.
“Gotta be way faster than that, Tinkerbell!” she crows, and in the second she stops to gloat, I wrap an arm around her waist and mash the avocado into her head.
“My hair!” she shrieks, even though we both need to shower before the party.
She rolls out of my grasp as I gleefully hold up my green hands and say, “Avocado oil is healthy for it! You’re welcome, Princess!”
“I’ll show you a princess.” She comes charging toward me and tackles me to the floor, each of us trying to smear the other’s face with goop.
“This is not what I thought you meant when you told me I could sneak an avocado,” I growl.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” She sits up and holds her hands in the air, but she’s still pinning me down, her knees holding tight to my waist. Even covered in green gunk, her cutoff tee a stained and sweaty mess, she manages to look sexy as hell. “Go ahead.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” I take one of those hands and bring it to my lips, licking the traces of avocado from her palm. She laughs, but her giggles taper off as I suck one finger at a time into my mouth.
By the time I’m done tasting each one, the look in Jasmine’s golden eyes could melt the corn off its cobs. I’m about to make a move when Declan’s voice rings through the kitchen. “Girls? Did you do the guacamole?”
Jasmine rolls off me quick as lightning and I jump up, just as Declan walks into the kitchen. Even though we haven’t been caught flirting, we’ve sure as hell been caught making a mess of his pristine kitchen. I watch as he takes in the sight, both of us covered in avocado that should be mashed into his carefully chosen stone bowls, and his mouth quirks into a grin.
“So, not done yet, I see.”
“Uh, no, sir.”
Jasmine snorts. I have not called Declan “sir” once the entire summer. In fact, I have carefully avoided referring to him as anything at all, except to thank him for having me. And when I did call him Mr. Killary, he immediately told me to call him Declan.
I did not.
“There’s still time,” he says with a wink, and he walks out.
“Uh, no, sir,” Jasmine mocks me, and I elbow her in the side. She bursts out laughing, and so do I, and we get to work.
* * *
It takes us twenty minutes of working side by side, with zero fooling around, to finish and clean up enough not to leave a gross mess for the crew that’ll be taking care of it at the end of the night. By the time we head to our respective showers, I positively reek.
As I scrub the smells of onion, garlic, and bell pepper from my skin, I can’t help thinking how funny it is that Jasmine comes off as the most dauntingly sophisticated seventeen-year-old girl on the planet, but when it’s only us, she’s somebody else entirely. She’s playful and warm and has the patience of a saint when she’s teaching me about exposures and light meters and how to get the best angles in selfies. She’s like her dad in her excitement to get me to try new things, and like her mom in how much joy she gets from fashion, makeup, and styling. Yesterday, she finally pulled me into her closet and demanded I let her give me some things she never wears, things she swears are too small, and before I know it, I’m wearing an entirely new outfit from earrings to anklet. (Her having dinky-size feet like mine was too much to hope for, unfortunately.)
And later at night, especially nights when Mom and Declan are at events, or traveling to meetings, or even nights where Mom passes out early and Declan locks himself in his suite, far away from the rest of us … those nights show me something else entirely.
We inevitably end up in her bed, curled around one another and playing with each other’s fingers or giving each other chills until one of us finds an excuse to place a kiss on the other. It’s agony, waiting until I can figure out how to get away with it, or waiting for her to, waiting, waiting, waiting until we can explain it away with sleepiness or drunkenness or just wanting the other one to feel and taste how amazing this new lip gloss is.
I’ve started to think about them in advance, how I might excuse dropping a kiss on this one spot on her neck that always elicits this tiny noise that makes my toes curl. It isn’t quite a moan and it isn’t quite a growl and as soon as I hear it, I’m out of my mind for the rest of the night.
Maybe tonight we can pick up where we left off. If I can get a dab of guac on her throat, I can watch her close her eyes as I lick it off. Hear that sound she makes as I lick again for good measure. And again. Maybe I gently suck at her throat, the way I did the other night. Judging by the way she pressed against me, by the way I can still feel the pressure of her fingertips below my waist, the way I could just barely hear her begging me to do it again …
Images come to mind of sliding off her shirt—for easier access to that spot, of course. Of taking mine off, which only makes sense. Who wants a rough cotton shirt against your skin when someone else’s skin feels so much better? And her skin is so soft, scented with that peach lotion, and—
I don’t even realize what I’ve been doing until my nails scrape the tile of the shower, trying to find something to hold onto while my body shudders around my fingers. I grasp the indentation in the wall meant to hold soap and promise myself that I’ll think about how messed-up this is later, after I’m done feeling so, so good.
* * *
True to my word, I feel like a mess when I dry myself off after the shower. I don’t know how else to describe it because I don’t feel gross, exactly—it’s not like I think there’s anything wrong with masturbating (or, let’s be real, like it’s my first time), or with finding a girl attractive. I just feel confused. And guilty. This is how I think about Chase; it isn’t how I’m supposed to be thinking about Jasmine. It isn’t how she’d want me to think about her. God, if she knew what’d happened, she’d probably never touch me again.
I wish I was okay with that.
I’m supposed to be okay with that.
It’s something we do for fun, not something I think about in the shower or feel down to my bones. It’s not something we do with intention.
But isn’t that what you were just doing, by thinking about how to make it happen? my brain nags. You were trying to plan it, and the whole point is that this is a thing that only occasionally happens between you two.
Except it’s not occasional.
When did it stop being occasional?
It’s too much. It’s messing with my brain. I already have my shower rotation all worked out, and it fully involves a certain number fourteen football player. There isn’t any more space for those kinds of thoughts. Chase has been serving me just fine for years now.
Anyway, nothing’s going to happen tonight. All our friends are coming to the boil, as are Declan’s, and knowing my mom, she invited some of her
new Russian friends. The house and beach will be packed, and maybe somewhere in there will be a new guy to entertain myself with—someone who makes sense, who’ll be a perfect placeholder until I’m back in Chase’s orbit.
I feel firm in this plan as I go full country girl, tying a sleeveless gingham shirt (thanks, Jasmine) under my boobs and pairing it with cutoff shorts. I’ll have to cover up once the evening hits, but for now, I look cute and summery and up for a good time. I style my curls exactly how they taught me to at Seaside and add only the tiniest touch of makeup since I’ve yet to find an affordable mascara that stays true to the word “waterproof” when faced with parties on the beach.
I’m putting in the gold hoops my mom bought me for my sweet sixteen when my mom walks in. “Oh, Larotchka. You look so cute. Someone you’re trying to impress coming tonight?”
“I hope so,” I say with a smile. “But you’re still in your work clothes! People are gonna start showing up soon.”
“I know, I know.” She drops her bag on the bed and fans herself. “I can’t even think about what I’m wearing until I take a shower. They say New York summers are bad, but this heat is unbearable.”
“Missing your dreamy winters of twenty below zero?” I tease her.
“Ha ha,” she says, pronouncing the h’s with the hard Russian kh. “Clearly you have your father’s sense of humor.”
She always does that, brings him up strictly for the sake of crafting insults. I’ve gotten so used to it that I barely notice. But tonight, my head swimming with confusion about romance and relationships, I have a thousand questions about him and them that I know she’ll never answer.
Then again, he was a he, so how much would it really help?
Before I can ask something coherent, she slips into the bathroom for her much-needed shower, leaving me to collapse on the bed with a self-pitying groan.
We’re only messing around. I know that. I’m eternally obsessed with Chase Harding, and I assume Jasmine is still hooking up with Carter, in those rare instances where I lose her at parties or on the beach. It’s not that I think there’s more happening, it’s just …