As I finally took a glass of lemonade, I immediately thought of the beach with Eugene. In the time since they announced the hurricane watch, I’ve thought about him a lot—whether he’ll be okay, what will happen to L&Js, and whether his mom will come home. But he obviously hasn’t thought of me.
It’s Friday now, and I’ve stopped expecting to hear from him. And that has made life a little more bearable. We finished family hurricane prep yesterday and the storm was downgraded to a Category 3 overnight. Orlando, however, was upgraded from a hurricane watch to a hurricane warning. Central Florida will be hit starting tomorrow morning with Daytona taking the brunt of the storm. The hurricane should weaken as it comes this far inland, but it’ll still cause a mess.
Most of the stores in Winter Park were cleaned out of canned goods, chips, and bottled water earlier this week. My family has been partially responsible. We now have a swimming pool’s worth of bottled water stacked around the house.
As I walk into the kitchen, my home is peaceful even with everyone here. Cari sits at the table having tea. Davey is on his fifth meal of the day, and Dad is reading in the living room. Only my mom looks harried.
“Okay, guys, you know I’ll be at the hospital,” Mom says.
Ever busy, she’s wiping down the counters and putting things away. Technically, she doesn’t have to work until tomorrow morning, but she wants to be at the hospital because, in her words, “babies don’t care if there’s a storm—when it’s time to be born, it’s time,” and women who are nearly due will go to the hospital early, so they’ll need extra staff tonight. She said I’ll see when I’m a nurse. I tried to ignore the churning in my stomach that the thought provoked.
“I’ll try to get home as soon as the storm is over,” she says. “But I’m not sure when that’ll be. I hope early Sunday. I love you all. Be good for your father and text me if you need anything.”
She picks up an overnight bag and kisses all of us before heading out the door. Yes, she actually told us to be good like we’re eight years old.
Granted, “good” is relative since the hurricane party is tonight. It’s basically a boozy potluck/block party, but a little more apocalyptic. There’s an end of the world, invincible feeling to them.
It’s a Florida thing.
June and Emily are coming to my street because it’s more fun than where they live, and Justin Michael and Aaron will be here too, so it should be a good time.
I’m not really in the mood to cook—I haven’t been since Eugene ghosted me, but I need to make dishes to bring to the party. I open the fridge and stare, trying to think of what I can make. Sausage and peppers is the easy answer. We also have a million eggs, so I’ll do an asparagus and ham frittata. Plus, we have enough ingredients to make chicken fried rice. I haul out the huge rice cooker and get to work.
While I’m prepping, everyone avoids the kitchen area. I rinse, chop, sauté at my own pace, while listening to music on my phone. And a familiar contentment returns—even if I was reluctant to do it. Loving to cook was never about a boy, although Eugene made it better. But he also made me dive into possibilities I’d shut in my mind, and now I’m just left… unmoored.
I remind myself that I can still cook, still make dinners when I become a nurse. And sometimes I can almost convince myself it’s enough, but it’s not. It feels like settling. The same way it does when I look at the apartment links Paul sends me. He’s all for putting down a deposit right away. And now I’m the one dragging my feet. In everything. I haven’t even officially accepted the scholarship to Valencia. I’ve never felt this unwilling to move forward, and there’s never been a better time for a hurricane party.
As I finish the three dishes, the vultures descend.
“Go away,” I say as I smack a fork out of Davey’s hand. He was headed right for the rice as I was moving it from the enormous cast-iron skillet to a catering pan.
“It smells so good though and I’m so hungry,” Davey whines.
I put the lid on. “It’s not for you. We’re bringing this over to the party. Dad, don’t even think of cutting into that frittata. I see you.”
Dad puts the butter knife aside. “They wouldn’t have missed one piece.”
Cari stole some sausage and peppers while I was busy with Dad. She stands there with her cheeks full like a very tall, thieving squirrel.
“You guys are helping me clean up,” I say, throwing my hands up.
“We’ll do all the cleanup… for a small plate each,” Dad says.
“Gluttons. We’re going to be surrounded by food in an hour,” I say.
“All the reason they won’t miss three small plates,” Cari says. She’s finally chewed and swallowed.
Note: I hate doing dishes. I’m holding out to give them a hard time.
“Small plates. Emphasis on small,” I say.
I make them each a plate and myself one too. Everything came out well, but the chicken fried rice is the best.
We finish our food and I look at the oven clock. It’s almost time to go outside.
“Can I actually trust you with the food while I change?” I ask.
“I mean, I wouldn’t,” Davey says. He’s trying to peek into the rice again.
“Cari…,” I say.
“I got this. Go change.” She folds her arms and raises the warning eyebrow at Davey.
“This is an estrogen conspiracy,” our brother cries.
“Talk like Cousin Wylan again and we’ll tell Mom,” Cari says.
Davey shuts his mouth so fast, his teeth click.
I laugh and go to my room. I reach for jeans and a nondescript tank. The same thing I used to always pick. But I put them away. I can wear those tomorrow when we’ll be cooped up inside until the storm ends. Tonight is a party.
Before I can think myself out of it, I put on a strapless sundress, leave my hair down, and slip on a matching headband. I dab some lip gloss on my mouth and apply blush and eye shadow from the palette Emily bought me.
“Oh my God, who even is this?” Cari asks from my doorway. I turn for her approval and she smiles. “You look great,” she says.
“I’m going to dress better until I feel better,” I say. “Fake it until I make it.”
I try to smile, but tears prick my eyes. Cari steps forward to offer sympathy, but I wave her away. No use crying over a boy who doesn’t like me.
“You’re lucky you’re a giant; otherwise I’d be raiding your closet,” I say.
“You know I’d share. Speaking of sharing…” She hands me a mango spiked seltzer she’d hidden behind her back.
“Goddess,” I say. I crack it open. “Cheers.”
“To us,” she says.
“To us,” I repeat.
We clink cans and I take a long, fizzy pull.
“Love you,” I say.
“Love you too, Jaz,” she says.
We drink the seltzers down and hide the cans before we leave the house. Each of the Yap kids carries a tray of food, and for the first time in a while it feels like it’s going to be a really good night.
CHAPTER FIFTY
JASMINE’S IPHONE
JUNE 21
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Paul
I need to talk to you. Call me as soon as you get this
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
By dusk the block party is in full swing. Cars block off both ends of the street, long folding tables laden with food line the sidewalks, and tailgating chairs are strewn around lawns. Kids play two-hand-touch in the street.
Justin arrived early and helped get the potluck set up. He knows so many of our neighbors still that he’s been sucked into conversation for most of the night.
I’m grabbing a water from one of the coolers when Aaron arrives with a cake he bought at Publix. I’m still not sure how he makes a T-shirt and shorts look this good, but here we are. He even has muscle indents above his knees. I don’t know what to call them let alone how to get them.
“Hey, darlin’,” he say
s.
He leans down and kisses my cheek. There’s a part of me that’s flattered just to be around him and have him pay attention to me. It would be nice, though, if I could feel the same way about him as I did with Eugene. But my lousy heart won’t cooperate. Only Paul comes close and lately… it’s not that close.
“Where should I put this?” Aaron asks.
“Oh, I think the desserts are over there,” I say. “By Cari.”
“Okay. Thanks again for the invite,” he says.
“It was like half my family who invited you,” I laugh.
He grins. “Well, I’ll assume you desperately wanted me here but were too shy to ask.”
He winks and a smile spreads across my face. He’s been friendlier, less guarded since the day at the batting cages. And I just like him. Even if he’s a total sore winner at minigolf.
“Let me go put this down,” he says. “I’ll find ya later.”
He takes off in Cari’s direction, and once he’s by the desserts, they start talking. She’s laughing and a gentle smile lights his face.
They’re such a beautiful couple.
As soon as the thought enters my mind, I can’t shake it. They’re so right for each other. They both have the easy confidence of being gorgeous. They’re the eldest siblings in their families who take the responsibility seriously. They’re ambitious and see their way to success. For him it was baseball, for her it was her “brand,” law school, her podcast—anything she puts her mind to, really. Nothing stands in their way. They’re both so likable and kind and… tall. The way he stares at her, the shy way she smiles back… it could be the spiked seltzer but suddenly everything is clear: they belong together. More than he and I ever did.
Thinking back to our “dates,” it never seemed like they were really dates. He never even tried to kiss me. At the time I thought he was being a gentleman, but maybe it was a lack of interest. Maybe he only likes me as a friend.
But, he’s always asked about Cari. Even when we toured his stadium, he talked to her and escorted her around. I’d thought he was being polite, but now I realize he was into her.
Maybe he was cozying up to me to get to her this whole time.
I search myself for a reaction. This is the Kyle situation again—where I think a boy likes me but instead he’s after Cari—except it feels totally different. There’s a prick of jealousy, but it’s pointless to be jealous of Cari. And I also have no claim on Aaron. I like and I enjoy his attention, but… there’s only one boy I want. And ever since the beach, I can’t deny that. The same way I can’t deny that I really want to be a chef.
I check my phone a last (desperate) time. I have a message! But it’s not from Eugene. It’s from Paul. My chin drops to my collarbone and I stare at the pavement as Emily’s shoes come into focus.
“What’s up?” she asks.
“Nada,” I say.
I try to shake off the sadness, but I know she caught it. June, Emily, and I have talked at length about Eugene, as I continue to be unable to let it go. Like Cari, they both think he really liked me, but 1) I don’t know why they believe that, and 2) it doesn’t help.
“How are things at the Underwood residence?” I ask.
She takes a long breath and sighs. “He’s going to move back in. He pretty much has, but they’re going to ride out the storm together and make it official. They ‘heard’ me at therapy, though.”
“How… how do you feel about it?” I ask.
She shrugs. “It’s their lives. They’re going to do what they want, but they swore they’d continue with therapy. And, I’m out in August, either way.” She drinks from her sweet tea. “But… I hope they make it work.”
“Really?” I ask, raising my eyebrows. This is the calmest I’ve seen Emily about her parents in years and, frankly, it’s freaking me out.
“Yeah, we all deserve to be happy, you know?” She looks me in the eye. “You should text him.”
She doesn’t have to say who. Lately his name feels like taking a bullet, so she avoids saying “Eugene” aloud.
I want to talk to him more than anything, but I cannot bring myself to send him a fourth text. Quadruple texting friends is fine. Quadruple texting a guy who’s made it clear he doesn’t want to talk to you is a restraining order.
“I did text him, remember?” I say.
“I know, but maybe he’s thinking it’s been too long and he can’t text you now.”
“That’s nonsense, but I love you.” I throw my arm around her.
“I love you too,” Emily says. “Where is Cari hiding the White Claw? June drove me over and I could use a good white girl drink.”
I laugh. Spiked seltzer is the unofficial sorority beverage, but it’s so tasty. I take her to Cari’s stash in one of the coolers. While we’re by the tables, I check our catering pans. The chicken fried rice has been a huge hit and it’s already gone. The frittata and sausage and peppers are also low; meanwhile, every other dish looks mostly full. I can’t help but take some pride in that.
I’m wondering whether I should make more when a familiar boy comes strolling down the street.
And I swear my heart stops.
Like it or not, whatever I think about texting, however brave I am behind a keyboard, he still has an effect on me.
“What is he doing here?” Cari asks. She nearly hisses. Aaron looks confused.
“I don’t know,” I say.
My pulse pounds as Paul gets closer, probably from the alcohol. But also, I’m kind of happy to see him. He’s tried so hard lately—all the messages and attention. He’s been consistent when Eugene hasn’t been, and maybe I should give things another chance. Really, what am I waiting for?
But I get a bad feeling as Paul approaches. Something’s off in the way he’s walking. There’s a negative aura in the set of his shoulders. It’s like the time he got into a fight after a field goal was blocked, and I could tell it was coming. That same energy radiates off him—the way you can feel electric charge in the air before a storm.
“Hey, Jasmine,” Paul says.
He eyes Cari and Emily. June and Justin Michael are at the other end of the table. My dad and Davey, who I haven’t seen all night, suddenly appear.
“Oh, hey,” I say.
“Hello, Yap Family. Well, part of it,” he says. His tone is so hostile that I want to step between him and my loved ones.
“You’re not welcome here,” my dad says. His hands ball in fists at his sides.
“And why’s that?” Paul asks. “Because I think I have an idea.”
I glance from my family to Paul then back again. Everyone is so tense.
“You know damn well why you’re not welcome here,” Dad says. “We’ve always been kind to you, but not anymore. Not after the way you treated my daughter.”
In all my life I’ve never seen my father so… aggressive. He’s a peace-loving librarian and right now it’s hard to recognize him. Davey stands to his left, like he’s ready to back up Dad in case this becomes a fistfight. Which is all ridiculous.
“Wait, what’s going on?” I say. I put my hands up. “Dad, Paul and I are okay now. If he wants to be here, he can be. There’s no reason for all of this.”
“You’re so sweet,” Paul says. “So sweet and naïve, Princess Jasmine. Or I should say, Princess Ariel.” He stares at Cari, and I could not possibly be more confused.
“What?” I say. “Are you drunk?”
“No. Sober up, Jaz. Your family and friends have been playing you.”
“You’re the only player here,” June says.
He whips his head toward her. “Hey, Flounder,” he snarls.
June closes her mouth.
I must be so much drunker than I thought, because did he just call her Flounder? I giggle, but I’m the only one laughing. It’s quiet all around me.
A crowd of neighbors has gathered around the highly unusual sight of my dad willing to physically fight someone.
Paul’s hazel eyes are glued to me.
I try to figure out what is going on. Flounder. Princess Ariel. What?
“Why are you talking about The Little Mermaid?” I ask.
“I’m not. I’m talking about The Little Bachelorette,” he says. “You.”
“Huh? Little… what are you talking about?”
“Oh, Jaz, of course you still don’t know.” He pauses and shakes his head like he’s very sorry for me. “How could you know?”
“Know what?” I say.
“Your family set you up. They found three guys to fake date you this summer—a boy next door, who I assume is your old friend Justin Michael over there.” He waves his hand in disgust. “A pro sports player. And a cook. They left you in the dark and made a game show out of it. Your cousins, your whole family set you up and they’re betting on who you’ll choose, with your brother playing bookie. You are supposed to choose one, by the way, to bring to your grandparents’ party, and that boy will be the winner. In case you’re wondering, I’m known as the Resident Scumbag Player—RSP for short. Isn’t that right, Cari? I mean, Anonyma?”
He turns and points to her, the drama probably for the audience.
“She did a whole podcast series about it,” Paul says. “You should look it up. It’s a big hit. You’re famous now, babe.”
My brain has trouble absorbing his words and I hate being called babe, but the one thing that sticks is “RSP.” I’ve heard those initials before, but where? Then I remember. When we were shopping for makeup, June asked me about RSP. I thought I was hearing things. Emily played it off like I was. But June had slipped and used the podcast term for Paul—Cari’s nickname for him in her podcast. About fake dating. About me fake dating.
A boy next door.
A pro player.
A cook.
Justin Michael. Aaron. Eugene. It was… all fake and… broadcast for people’s entertainment?
The horizon slants and the world spins as I look from guilty family member to friend to apparent contestant. I want them to deny it. I want someone to deny it. But I can read in all their faces it’s… true. My entire family teamed up to lie to me. To make a fool out of me as if I don’t do that well enough on my own.
The Jasmine Project Page 20