“I am so sorry.” It seems like trouble is following me everywhere I go these days.
“It’s my fault,” Jill says. “I forgot.”
“Because I was distracting you.”
“Nonsense, it’s fine. We’ll make another batch.”
“We will, will we?” Lou says, giving her a look that lets me know their relationship goes beyond boss and employee.
“Lou will,” Jill admits. “Lou will make everything better like she always does.”
Lou blushes, humbly turning her face down, and I decide instantly that I like her. “I’m Lexie,” I say, slipping into my childhood nickname like I always do when I’m back in Destin. I extend my hand, but Lou hesitates before shaking it, pausing to wipe her hands on her apron first.
Jill shakes her head. “I didn’t introduce you?”
“I didn’t give you much of a chance,” I say.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Lou mumbles, stringing her words together. Her cheeks are still flushed and she won’t quite meet my eye.
“I’d be lost without Lou,” Jill says. “She’s my head chef and manager and sometimes my therapist.”
“We make a good team,” Lou agrees, still not making eye contact. The way she’s fidgeting, it’s obvious she wants us to clear out so she can get back to work.
“The best,” Jill says. “And Lexie is one of my oldest, closest friends. She’s the one who came up with the name The Broken Crown.”
“Jill talks about you all the time, how talented you are,” Lou says as she goes back to dumping the last of the torte shells. “How’d you come up with the name?”
“I knew it had to be something in the nursery rhyme world because of the whole Jack and Jill thing.”
Jill shakes her head. She’s always hated the fact that her parents named her and her twin brother after a nursery rhyme, but one of my favorite childhood pastimes was making bad jokes, like asking her or Jack to go fetch me a pail of water.
“I looked up the actual rhyme and it jumped out at me in the first stanza: ‘Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water/Jack fell down and broke his crown . . .’”
“‘And Jill came tumbling after,’” she says, curtsying.
“I always thought it had to do with that story about you at homecoming,” Lou says.
“What story about you at homecoming?” I thought I knew all of Jill’s stories.
“It’s nothing.” But by the shade of red her cheeks are turning, I can tell it’s anything but nothing.
“Spill,” I demand.
“It’s not a big deal.” She turns and heads to the pantry to get ingredients for the replacement tortes. “I was nominated homecoming queen senior year.”
“You never told me that!” I hated these reminders that life went on in all the years I was gone.
“Because it’s embarrassing.” She starts to weigh out the ingredients, but Lou shoos her away and takes over.
“I want to see pictures!”
“Never.” Jill shakes her head. “Besides, there aren’t any. I lost the title before pictures were even taken.”
“You were dethroned?” I ask. “How did I not know this?”
“It’s hardly something I brag about.”
“But you told Lou!”
“Lou and I spend about a thousand hours a week together.”
“There aren’t that many hours in a week,” I say, not bothering to do the actual math.
“I’ve told Lou a lot of stories about you,” she says, trying unsuccessfully to change the subject.
“You leave me out of this,” Lou tells Jill.
I laugh, feeling more normal than I have since Tommy got sick. And just like that, it’s back on my mind, a shadow over everything.
Jill must notice the shift in my demeanor, because she’s instantly back by my side. “We should let Lou get back to work.”
“Of course.” I stand up. “I’m sorry, again.”
“Nonsense, accidents happen.”
“It was really nice to meet you.”
“Don’t be a stranger,” Lou says, finally meeting my eyes. Her gray eyes sparkle, and I would compliment them if I didn’t think it would make her even more uncomfortable.
“You made quite the impression,” Jill says as we walk back into the front room.
“With Lou? She was probably scared I’d start crying again.”
“She liked you,” Jill says.
“Aunt Lexie?” I hear a soft voice behind me.
I turn around, my arms open, greedy for more love. Abigail hesitates before timidly stepping in for the hug. I pull back from the embrace to get a better look at her.
Almost eighteen, Abigail is timid, but beautiful in a quiet, unassuming way. The ice-blue eyes she inherited from Adam are striking and her strawberry-blond hair hangs past her elbows. She’s got her mom’s fair complexion and the perfect amount of freckles across the bridge of her nose.
I bring her back in for another hug. “It is so good to see you.”
“How’s Uncle Tommy?” she asks, stepping back toward the counter.
I glance back at Jill, not sure how much she’s told the kids. Her sad smile tells me all I need to know. “He’s doing okay, sweetie. He’s going to be so excited to see you.”
Abigail looks down, her long hair falling in front of her face. She pushes it back, looking toward her mom. “Can I go see him?”
Jill shakes her head. “Not now, Ab. Let’s let them get settled first.”
Abigail looks disappointed but doesn’t push.
“I should probably get back,” I say.
“Dinner tomorrow?” Jill asks, sounding as eager to see Tommy as Abigail.
“Yes, please.”
“I’ll make something special,” Jill says.
“No, let’s go out,” I say. “Camille’s for old times’ sake?”
“Can I come?” Abigail asks, looking back and forth between us.
“Of course you can,” I answer for Jill. “Everyone’s invited, even your brother.”
Abigail rolls her eyes, and this time, I don’t hold back my smile at the apparent sibling rivalry Jill said had gotten even worse since Adam left.
I wonder sometimes how different things would be if CeCe had a brother or sister. If he or she would be another person for CeCe to bicker with, or if the two of them would pair up against me.
We thought about it, Tommy more than I did. As two only children, we agreed it would be nice for CeCe to have someone else, but the timing was never right.
And now, we’re all out of time.
Chapter Twenty
CeCe
I still haven’t texted Beau back.
It’s not that I don’t want to see him. I just don’t want to talk about everything that’s going on, which I’m sure will be all he wants to talk about.
To my friends back home, my dad is just another dad. He’s the man they see for a second when he picks me up or drops me off at school, the guy who takes us to the mall and knows to stand just far enough behind us that we have our space, the one who makes his famous cream-cheese eggs in the mornings after they sleep over.
But Beau’s different. He knows my dad has a theory for pretty much everything. And that it’s not the best idea to laugh at one of his lame jokes unless you want to keep hearing more of them. Beau knows that my dad’s the best listener in the whole world and that sometimes his advice isn’t terrible. He knows that he says “interesting” about almost everything—even when it’s not. And he knows that my dad gives the best hugs and is never the first to let go. Or maybe that’s just with me.
I reach over to grab my phone off the nightstand, staring at it for the seven-hundredth time today, even though it’s only 10:03 A.M. and I know that if Liam hasn’t texted back by now, he’s not going to.
I look down at the textless screen again. It isn’t even 10:04 yet. I sigh even though no one is around to hear me. Time moves so slowly down here; this summer is going to feel like a
million years. Although that might not be the worst thing if it’ll feel like I have more time with Dad.
Mom’s words keep running circles in my mind—Theater camp will be here next summer, but your dad won’t be. I can’t believe she said that to me, as if I don’t know he’s dying. I’m not stupid, but I hadn’t really thought about the fact that he won’t be here next summer. Or the summer after that. Or the rest of the summers for the rest of my life.
Puppies. Rainbows. Kittens. Unicorns. Ice cream. Puppies. Rainbows. Kittens. Unicorns. Ice cream. I cycle through the list of things that should make me smile, just thinking about them. If I can fill my head with enough happy thoughts, maybe the sad ones will go away. Puppies. Rainbows. Kittens. Unicorns. Ice cream. It isn’t working.
I think of more things to add to the list—a curtain opening to the thunderous applause of an audience, the first bite of a perfectly cooked meal, Liam’s lips, my feet sinking into the sand, the beach. The beach. That’s what I’ll do.
Swinging my legs off the bed, I open the bottom dresser drawer to consider my bathing suit options. The one-piece, no. The tankini, maybe. The bikini, no way.
I shouldn’t have let Sofia talk me into buying it. Of course, that was before I was mad at her. I haven’t put it on since that day in the dressing room. It’s cute and it looks okay on me, but it feels too much like a bra and underwear to wear in public. In front of actual people.
The tankini, it is.
I put the suit on, pick out a cover-up, and throw my hair in a ponytail before heading downstairs. Hopefully I can get out of the house without an interrogation from Mom. She’s always so awkward when we first get down here, like she doesn’t know what to do with herself. Or me.
I pause at the bottom of the stairs, looking around. The coast is clear. “I’m heading to the beach,” I call out so I won’t be lying when I say I told them where I was going. I slip out the front door, closing it behind me. Freedom.
“Where are you off to?” Mom says from the porch swing. I didn’t notice her sitting there, but I shouldn’t have been surprised. She’s always out here.
“The beach,” I answer, even though it should be obvious since I’m carrying a beach towel and a beach bag.
“Is Beau going with you?” she asks.
“No, why?” I ask. She’s never cared who I hung out with before.
“I just want you to be careful.”
“Around Beau?” I laugh. His mom is her best friend, and he’s like a brother to me.
“When boys are teenagers, things can just change. And his dad—” She stops herself even though I already know his dad is a scumbag who left his mom for a younger woman. But that has nothing to do with Beau. If anything, he hates his dad more than his mom does. “Just be careful.”
“Sure, whatever.”
I take the porch steps in one giant leap and head down Luke Avenue. I resist the urge to look back because I know she’ll be watching.
Switching my bag to my other shoulder, I decide to take Barracuda down to Old Highway 98 since there’s public beach access at the end of the road. And not because I’ll have to pass Beau’s house on the way.
The house across from his has a For Sale sign in the yard. I’ve met the McKeens, the family who lives there, a few times. The kids, William and Madeline, are a little older than Beau, who’s a little older than me, but we’ve all hung out before. I wonder where they’re moving.
“Take a picture, it will last longer.”
I turn around and see Beau sticking his head out of his bedroom window, his white-blond hair sticking up, looking like he just woke up.
“Hey,” I say, trying not to sound like I care. But it is good to see him.
“I’m coming down,” he says, assuming I’ll wait for him. Which, of course, I do.
While I’m standing there, getting sweatier by the minute, I take a good look at the front of the house that I know almost as well as my own. It’s funny how you can look at things so many times your entire life without really seeing them.
The picket fence is more off-white than the bright white it usually is, and the outside of the house looks like a paler shade of pink. The grass is too long and the bushes are growing wild with some branches sticking out farther than others. My stomach does a somersault. This must be what a house without a dad looks like.
“Hey,” Beau says, jumping over the fence instead of opening the door like a normal human.
“Sorry I didn’t text you back.”
“S’okay.”
I shift my beach bag back to the other shoulder, not sure what else to say.
“You going to the beach?” he asks.
“No, thought I’d hitch a ride back to Atlanta.”
Beau looks confused. “But you just got here?”
“I’m kidding,” I say. “Yes, I’m going to the beach.”
“Want a good-looking guy to join you?”
“Know any?” I tease.
Beau smiles and starts walking toward the beach, but I don’t move because I know he’s not ready to go yet, even if he thinks he is. Sometimes it’s painfully obvious that I’m the smarter one, even though he’s a year older.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” I ask.
“Like what?”
Boys. “I don’t know, like, maybe a beach towel? Or sunscreen?”
“I’ll share your towel.”
“Will you?” I raise my eyebrows.
“And you probably have sunscreen, so I don’t need anything else.”
I shake my head and take the few steps to catch up with him.
“So how’s your boyfriend?” Beau asks, not wasting any time. He texted me the day after the first party at Liam’s house and I told him everything—including how I was convinced that I was going to be the last girl in high school to be kissed. He told me he’d help me change that, but I’m sure he was just joking. He thinks of me as a sister, not like a real girl. And besides, if the stories he’s told me are true, he’s got plenty of girls chasing after him.
“He’s not my boyfriend.” I try not to sound as disappointed or embarrassed as I feel. It’s a lot easier to talk about this stuff when there are hundreds of miles between us and he isn’t standing right in front of me, looking cuter than I remembered.
“So you never got that kiss?”
“I didn’t say that.” I give him a wry smile, but he’s not going to get any more details out of me. Maybe if we were talking online, but no way am I going to tell him in person when he can see me blush.
I start to cross Old 98 to get to the beach side of the road, but Beau grabs my hand and pulls me back just in time to avoid an old man riding a bike.
“Watch out,” the old man shouts as he speeds past us.
“I just saved your life,” Beau says, looking proud of himself.
“Maybe you shouldn’t have bothered.”
I look both ways and cross the street now that it’s clear. At the top of the wooden steps that lead to the beach, I stop to take a quick picture to post on Instagram. Just because I don’t want to be here doesn’t mean I can’t make it look like I’m having the most amazing summer for my friends back home.
The beach is so beautiful I don’t even need a filter. The white sand is glistening under the sun and the water looks like it has a reverse ombré—going from a lighter shade of green to darker shades of blue where the water gets deep.
Beau slides past me, practically flying down the wooden stairs. “What are you waiting for?”
I sigh and take the steps one at a time, just to prove that I’m more mature than he is.
THE BEACH IS pretty crowded, which I assumed it would be. Beau waves me over to the spot he found, halfway between the water and the sand dunes. I make my way toward him through the maze of towels, where a mix of tourists and locals are enjoying the beach before the afternoon sun gets too hot.
“How’s this?” Beau asks.
“Perfect.” I drop my bag in the sand and hold up the top two corne
rs of my towel, passing the other two to Beau. If he’s going to share, he can help spread it out.
He sits down, claiming the bottom half of the towel, and motions with his hand, inviting me to join him. As if it’s his towel, not mine.
I sit down and pull my knees up to my chest, looking at the couples and families around us. Sometimes I like to pretend I’m in a scene of someone else’s play—that we’re all characters acting out our own stories.
The young family coming in from the water, I decide, are just here for a week. The mom wants to buy a little vacation house, but the dad doesn’t think they can afford it if they want to send their kids to college. The older couple in the folding chairs are retired. They used to live somewhere in the Midwest, maybe, and moved down here when he stopped working. They wish their kids would visit more often.
The older woman smiles in my direction and I quickly divert my eyes, embarrassed to be caught staring. I wonder what she thinks of us—Beau and me. We’re clearly not related. Maybe she thinks we’re a couple, which is just as weird.
“Get my back?”
I look up at Beau, who has his shirt off and my sunscreen in his hand. “Help yourself.”
“I already did.” He smiles, missing the point. “But I need help with my back. Don’t worry, I’ll return the favor.”
I haven’t decided if I’m going to take off my cover-up or not yet, but I take the sunscreen from his hand and scoot closer to his side of my towel.
He flexes his back a little and I notice he’s filled out since the last time we came down here. I’d ask if he’s been working out, but I don’t think his ego needs to be boosted any more than it already is.
I squeeze the lotion directly onto his skin. His back tenses up as soon as my hands make contact, and I hear him take a deep breath. I make wide circles, going as quickly as I can. The white lotion disappears into his skin and I slide back to my side of the blanket, rubbing my hands over my arms to get rid of the excess sunscreen.
“Your turn,” Beau says, turning around to face me.
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