“I know you’re thinking about it,” Eugene says. “Saturday night. It’s not inventive, but we could do L&Js. You said you’ve never been, and chicken for staff meal doesn’t count. We could do the tasting menu and Collins will hook us up. He owes me.”
Whoa, wait. The tasting menu at Lantern & Jacks? How badly does he want me to get into the ocean? And why?
My muscles itch to comply. The comfort zone claws at me and asks if I’m really willing to risk it all for fine dining. But yes, yes I am.
And I’m also so very tired of being… me. Of this obsession with staying safe. Of pushing away what I want.
I step in ankle deep. “How far in do I have to go?”
“Farther than that,” he yells. “Far enough to show me you can swim, because I’m starting to doubt it.”
He’s treading water some yards out. I don’t like to be where my feet can’t touch the bottom, which means I don’t go in far at all. But I also don’t go to fine-dining places, either. It’s one thing to read about and see the food. It’s another entirely to taste and smell it.
I take off my cover-up and he whistles.
“Did you just whistle at me?” I ask, tossing my cover-up onto dry sand.
“Me? No. I don’t know how to whistle. But when I find the guy who did…”
I laugh my weird deep chuckle. I’ve always felt self-conscious about my body, and Paul fed into it with his skinny burrito suggestions. But Eugene looking at me feels so different. Like he’s admiring me instead of criticizing.
With my confidence temporarily boosted, I get into the water. I walk in until I’m about to my waist. He likes me. Really likes me, and that draws me in.
I go to where the water is at my top. He makes me feel like I can do things. As if dreams are possible. Like even if I go in over my head, I’ll be okay.
The comfort zone crumbles around me, and I say screw it and start swimming.
I’m not great. Let’s not kid ourselves. I’m serviceable and maybe won’t drown.
By the time I reach him, I’m a little winded. He’s all smiles though.
“So you can swim,” he says. “Or whatever that was.”
My mouth opens in the shape of an outraged doughnut. I take my hand and hit the surface, splashing him.
I’m still in shock. I haven’t behaved this way since… probably seventh grade. Before the bonfire and bistro. Before I found it easier to hide in Paul’s shadow than to risk being me.
Eugene runs a hand down his face, wiping water droplets off his nose. “Oh, really,” he says.
I yelp because he comes at me. I try to swim toward shore, but I think it’s pretty obvious I don’t make it. He swims after me and tackles me in the water. A wave crests and we’re under for a second before breaking the surface.
We wind up close enough to the shore that he can stand in the water. And I’m wrapped around him and breathing hard. His chest is rising and falling rapidly too, but he barely exerted himself.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
My hair is plastered to my face, but I nod.
He strokes it back. “You’re so much more than you think you are,” he says. “You can do whatever you want—whatever you truly want. I know it.”
And right now, here in the ocean with this boy whose smell makes my stomach flip, on the best date of my life, wrapped around him because he dared me to swim, I feel it.
I lean forward, and this time, I’m the one who kisses him.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CARISSA’S PODCAST NOTES
JUNE 10
I know, I KNOW, I said I would shut down the podcast but… I didn’t say when. Yes, that’s a loophole, but they do know I’m prelaw, so…
It would’ve been easy to delete the podcast if it weren’t a hit. The Little Bachelorette is so organically popular. I haven’t even promoted it—not really. I accepted a couple of spotlights, but it’s mostly been word of mouth. Episode one already has 35,000 downloads and is trending toward 40,000. Better yet, there’s not much of a drop to episode two. In fact, the third episode numbers are an uptick from the second. Bringing June on was key. If I brought the boys in, I’m sure I could pass 50,000 downloads.
But the family is right: every hit only increases the possibility of Jaz finding out. Every time the numbers creep up, I’m both thrilled and fearful. But only the one Reddit user linked me to the podcast, and I ignored the comment. Hopefully no one else will notice.
The family has agreed to never tell Jaz about any of this. The full competition is only six weeks long. It’s a blip—a summer of love when she should’ve been seeing other guys anyhow. Who cares how she wound up meeting them. And it’s not like the guys will suddenly, suspiciously disappear when this is over. Justin Michael has said he’ll remain friends with her regardless of whom she chooses. And Aaron said he’ll keep in touch. The only wild card is Eugene, and he’s been that way from the start. Unfortunately, it looks like he’s the one she truly likes. I worry about him, and to some extent Emily, going rogue and telling her about the competition. And there are times, when they express doubt, that I wonder if we’ve done the right thing, but she’s so happy that it’s hard to say this was wrong.
And, okay, yeah, there’s something in it for me, too. I’ve wanted a new challenge, and Jaz is changing for the better. So I don’t know—is that okay? Do the ends justify the means?
I swear I will shut this down soon, but before I do, I think I’ll invite Aaron onto the podcast. People are clamoring to hear from the boys. And I’m the closest with him. Plus, he’s the most entertaining. He’s also a big fan of my other podcast, and we message a lot about it. He’ll know the style and flow I’m looking for and he tells the best stories. The listeners will fall for him just like Jaz should’ve.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
When Eugene starts the truck, I’m shocked to see it’s already five thirty p.m. The day flew by in a blur of swimming, amazing food, and even better kisses.
He unlocks the glove compartment while I wipe sand off my feet. When I climb into the passenger seat, I smile at Eugene, but he’s wearing a troubled expression. The whole day since we swam has been smiles and laughter, so this is an icy shift I feel across my back. He’s upset with me. He doesn’t have to say a word. It’s the same way I can tell someone’s tone is off via text. Even the weather seems to have changed, with clouds rolling in.
“You, um, have some messages,” Eugene says. He hands me my phone. “I didn’t mean to look. I thought I’d grabbed my own phone.”
Immediately, I think it’s Emily and feel awful that I locked my phone in the truck. She probably needs to talk. Her family therapy session was today and she was going to tell her parents everything she’s feeling.
I swipe my screen and I have six notification previews. But, they’re not from Emily—they’re all from Paul. Five are “remember this” pictures, as he continues to send me a virtual scrapbook. The last one is him saying he can pick me up from work tomorrow, which we never discussed. And he’s still saved in my phone as ♥ Paul ♥ because I am the slowest donkey in Donkeyville.
“He’s… Paul is… it’s complicated,” I say.
Eugene nods and begins to drive. “You’re dating him?”
I turn my phone over and over again in my hands, trying to figure out what to say. The truth is probably the right answer. One I should’ve told him a while ago, maybe after our first kiss. Probably before.
“No,” I say. “He… well, I was. But he wanted to take a break this summer and see other people. We were together for all of high school and he was the only boy I’d ever dated. And up until very recently, he was the only guy I’d kissed. We were supposed be apart before deciding whether to move in together before college and… I don’t know.”
Eugene is silent for a while and it’s awful. The day is slipping away from me and all I want to do is claw it back. And it’s all because of the limbo with Paul. The one I accepted, leaving August 1 hanging over us because I was
too scared to lose him. Too scared to lose what little I had. Maybe I’m the one who needed the safety net.
“I should’ve told you. I’m really sorry,” I say.
“So, you’re thinking about going back to him once the summer ends?” Eugene asks. He said it casually, but his jaw is locked.
I shake my head. “That’s what he had in mind—a break until August where he could do whatever, and I guess whomever, he wanted. And I was ready to go along with it even though my friends and family told me I should move on. I just… I guess I didn’t think I deserved better. And then I met you.…”
I take a deep breath. It’s been so long since I’ve put myself out there, but at this point what do I have to lose? If I don’t take the chance, he’ll be gone. I can tell. So I say what’s in my heart.
“I’ve never felt this way,” I say.
A small smile crosses Eugene’s lips.
I exhale, relief coursing through me.
As we pull onto I-4, the tension in the cab clears. He rests his hand on mine and it feels like a lifeline.
“I’ve never felt this way either,” he finally says. “I get why it would be hard for you to just end things with him, even if it wasn’t great. I’ve never dated someone for that long, but my parents say a partner becomes a part of you after a while.”
I nod, eagerly. “It’s exactly that. It’s hard having years tangled up with someone, and honestly, the most difficult thing has been letting go of the future, of all the plans we made. He’s a part of me, but I’m not sure he fits anymore. It’s like my eyes have been opened to the spots that warped over time.”
The truth of my own words hits hard. I felt it at lunch with Paul. I’ve thought it since I had a better time at my graduation party without him—that he doesn’t really fit together with me anymore. But it was too difficult to admit it.
“I understand,” Eugene says. “Really.”
“I’m sorry I lied to you.”
His brow wrinkles. “You didn’t lie.”
I shake my head. “I did. I should’ve been upfront about the situation with Paul. I didn’t tell you the whole truth and that’s the same as lying. Maybe worse because I knew I was keeping you in the dark.”
Eugene looks to the side even though we’re going straight. Something about it is off. But I don’t know what.
The atmosphere in the cabin shifts, and his hand returns to the wheel. My lifeline is gone and my stomach drops. I wait for him to talk again, to say something, but nothing comes. And I don’t know how to fix this, because I don’t know what I said.
He doesn’t say a word, but somehow as we drive away, I know we’ll never have another day at the beach again.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Well, it’s official: I’m a web stalker. I’ve looked up Eugene’s socials so many times that he’s the first suggestion when I click the search bar. I should have my mail forwarded to his Instagram, since I live there now.
I messaged him Tuesday morning thanking him for the beach day, and although I stared at my phone, I got nothing back. Then I playfully texted after minigolfing with Aaron on Wednesday (I’d suggested mini-golf certain I’d be better at it than disc golf and he still kicked my ass), and nothing. I keep checking my phone, trying to will him to message me, but it hasn’t worked. I’ve started hearing phantom dings when there isn’t a sound.
I guess he can’t get past me being dishonest. At some point I’ll have to accept that. But it feels like I opened up again only to have the response be: Not you, Jasmine. Never you.
In truth, I’m really not in the mood to go to the Orlando Museum of Art right now, but I pull into the parking lot anyhow. I promised Justin Michael I’d meet him and I won’t stand him up during a couple’s painting night. Plus, it’ll be nice to spend time with him. Maybe it’ll make me forget about Eugene.
I smooth my black dress as I get out of the Rolla. Justin’s waiting by the entrance because he’s punctual like me. His long legs are out in front of him as he leans against the wall. When our eyes meet, he stands up straight and smiles. And seeing him does make me feel better. I was so wrapped up in Eugene that I forgot about the instant comfort of being with Justin. How I can be myself, not some girl who has to break out of her comfort zone every thirty seconds. I’m good enough as is with my old friend.
“Candy,” he says. “Right on time.”
I smile and he picks me up in a hug. I sigh contentedly. I’ve gotten used to his new smell of aftershave and mint, although I miss the newsprint.
“You look great,” he says.
I comb my fingers through my hair. I let Cari use the diffuser thing on me today.
“You’re looking good too,” I say.
Justin raises his chin and adjusts the collar of his button- down like a model. I laugh.
“Ready to do this?” he asks.
“Ready to watch you paint? Yes, I am,” I say.
Justin was always more of an artist than me. He and June would doodle elaborately. I liked to draw, but I have no style of my own. I’m a good copier, so I might be okay at paint-by-number or whatever this is tonight.
We walk into the entryway of the museum and follow the signs to the art night. We find the right classroom and pause in the doorway. We are the youngest people here by about four decades. I can’t help it, I start laughing. Justin tries to maintain a straight face but ends up laughing with me. It’s like we walked into a nursing home. But we’re used to having a world of two, so we make our way through the elderly.
The instructor is a smooth sixty and gives us a look. She clearly has no idea why we’re here. Neither do I, but we put on our smocks and take our seats.
“Welcome to art night at the museum,” she says. “This is a paint and sip, but I think we have a couple of painters here who are a bit too young for the sip part.”
The elderly stare at us and break into chuckles. Heat hits my face as I blush and shrink in my seat.
Justin leans into me and whispers, “Do I know how to show a girl a good time or what?”
I laugh and the instructor gives us another side-eye. I clear my throat and give her my most innocent face.
“Well, then, tonight we’ll be continuing our cubism series with a look at Jacob Lawrence’s work. Are any of you familiar with Lawrence?”
The room is silent until Justin raises a finger. Of course he knows.
“He was a Harlem Renaissance painter. Famous for his migration series,” Justin says.
I glance over at him. He’s such a nerd.
The instructor lights up, visibly impressed. “Very good! Jacob Lawrence is arguably the most famous Black American painter of the nineteen hundreds.”
She moves to the center of the room and unveils a painting. As she drones on about the art and the life of the artist, I watch Justin listening with rapt attention. He always loved to learn. No one teased him in middle school, though, because he’s a boy, good at basketball, and so likable. As his popularity grew, people wondered why he hung out with me. I wondered why he still hung out with me.
“So tonight,” the instructor says, “let’s create portraits with the abstracted treatment Lawrence shows here. But instead of self-portraits, I want you to paint a likeness of your partner.”
You’re kidding, lady. Where’s the Starry Night paint-by-number?
I look around and maybe two other people seem skeptical. I glance at Justin, who smiles like he’s completely into this.
“Let’s do this,” he says. He angles his chair across from me.
“You know I don’t have any… what’s the word,” I say. I tap my chin. “Ah, yes, ‘talent.’ Fresh out of talent.”
He raises his eyebrows. “That’s not true. I’ve seen you draw.”
“I can copy,” I say.
“That’s a talent. This is just adding paint after drawing,” he says.
I shake my head.
“All right, then you can model for me instead.” He squints and frames me with his fingers, and y
eah, okay, this is worse.
I make a face at him.
“There’s my muse,” he says.
I full-body sigh, but my shoulders shake as I silently laugh. “Fine.”
I grab a pencil to sketch and he smiles.
“You don’t have to pose or paint,” he says. “I was only kidding. If you don’t want to do a portrait, you can just keep me company. I’m going to paint what I remember, anyhow.”
“I’m just glad it wasn’t nude night,” I mutter.
Justin laughs so hard, he spills his water. “Now that would’ve been a date.”
I laugh too as I start my sketch. It’s not going to be good, but at least it’s supposed to be abstract.
“I mean, if you want to disrobe, I won’t stop you.…” Justin peers around his canvas and waggles his eyebrows at me. I flick some water at him.
“Stop interrupting the genius at work,” I say. I sit importantly behind my canvas as he laughs again.
After a while, the instructor walks around, probably just to make people feel self-conscious. She, of course, takes time to admire whatever Justin is working on.
Teacher’s pet.
He won’t let me see his painting until he’s done. I’ve asked, like, a dozen times.
The instructor comes behind me and is less than impressed by my offering. I get some kind of “hmm” sound and that’s it before she moves on.
Still, as I paint over my sketch, it’s not bad. It’s not going to be acquired by this museum, but I followed the guidelines well enough. I might’ve done a lot better if I were allowed to have the wine the adults are guzzling instead of a bottled water. Plus, I keep wondering what Justin is working so hard on. It’s not like him to keep things from me.
After another hour, time is up and we put our paintbrushes down and clean our hands. We return to our seats and untie our aprons. I peer over at Justin, who is being unusually cagey.
“I still can’t see the masterpiece?” I say.
The Jasmine Project Page 18