by Lucy Gage
I’d laugh if that description weren’t so sadly accurate. It’s not that my dad is a bad guy. He’s not mean or abusive. He’s just strict. And very protective. He and I have worked hard to get me where I am—early acceptance to dad’s alumni, and my number one choice school. Harvard is a lifelong dream come true. He just wants to make sure it stays that way. Anything could happen between now and next fall.
I sigh, letting the anticipation build. Margo and I have spent this year planning out our perfect summer. Because next summer, we’ll be going very different ways. She and Emmitt will be backpacking across Europe while I’ll be preparing for my move to Massachusetts.
Margo knows me better than anyone. She’s been my best friend since I kicked a boy in the nuts for making her cry in third grade. The fact that she kept both the boy and me in her life all these years speaks volumes as to the kind of person she is.
“Oh, my God, Sunny. The dramatic pause isn’t needed. What’d he say?” She draws the last word out and I can no longer hold back the grin begging to burst free.
“After lengthy negotiations, as long as I keep up with my chores, watch Colton during the day while dad’s at work, and stay on track with my summer assignments…” She and I share a look because I have never missed a school assignment in my life, summer work not excluded. I shrug. “Then I’m free from seven to midnight during the week—so long as I don’t have to work. And three weekends a month are all mine with the addendum that weekends will be revoked if I’m late to church even once.”
Margo grabs my arm and releases a squeal. “Does this mean you can stay tonight?”
“Yep,” I sing, feeling every bit of my best friend’s excitement.
“This is perfect,” she says, stopping just outside our classroom door. “Emmitt’s cousin got in last night. We can double tonight.”
I scrunch my nose in disapproval. Margo’s boyfriend has talked about little else than his über cool, older cousin from Seattle spending the summer with his family. “You are not setting me up with Emmitt’s cousin.”
“Why not?” she asks, her voice taking on a defensive tone.
“One, because he’s Emmitt’s cousin,” I say slowly. “Two, I hate blind dates. And three, if I don’t like this guy, I’ll be stuck hanging out with him all summer because I plan on hanging out with you, and I know you’ll be with Emmitt, who, I’m sure, will be stuck up his cousin’s ass. All. Summer. Long.”
She squints her eyes at me, one manicured eyebrow lifting in annoyance. “Let’s go back to number one. What’s wrong with him being Emmitt’s cousin?”
Just because Margo thinks her boyfriend farts glittery rainbows doesn’t mean I do. Emmitt is… Emmitt. He’s the boy who used to pick his nose and chase us with boogery fingers. And if you think I’m holding onto something he did as a kid, lets not forget he’s also the same guy who thinks it’s funny to chug ranch at lunch, and wear a “vintage” blue suit—complete with ruffled shirt—to prom this year while Margo had her dress specially made. It wasn’t actually vintage, either. Or a real suit. It was a costume. Eighties Prom King. He bought it online for thirty-five dollars and thought it was hilarious.
But I don’t think she really wants me to answer her question with a list of negative qualities.
“Nothing, Emmitt is great. But that doesn’t mean his cousin is going to be. And you know I loath blind dates. Whatever happened to meeting someone by chance? Feeling that instant attraction and connection that makes your palms sweat and your stomach fill with butterflies?”
That still exists… doesn’t it?
“Online dating.” She walks into class, dropping her book in the waiting box. I do the same before taking my seat and pulling out my pencil. We have three exams today, and then we’re free for the next two and a half months.
Margo turns toward me as the room continues to fill. “My grandparents were set up by mutual friends and they’ve been together forever.” She shrugs, smiling. “You never know how these things will go. You might not like him. But what if you do?” When I don’t answer immediately, she takes it as me conceding. “Don’t stress. We won’t call it a ‘blind date.’ Or any kind of date. It will just be…” She shakes her head slowly, looking for the right words. “Three friends hanging out, showing the visiting cousin a good time.” She grins, proud of herself. “And maybe, just maybe, you’ll end up being into him.”
I sigh, accepting the inevitable. It’s not like I can avoid meeting this guy all summer.
After packing my overnight bag, I straighten up the living room, making sure everything’s in its proper place. Colton tends to lose the remotes and leave his unfinished snacks and handheld video games lying around. Next, I unload the dishwasher and then make dinner. Mom’s cheesy garlic crack bread and chicken baked penne. Mom loved to cook. Loved to bake even more. And she wasn’t just good at it—she was incredible. Before the cancer made it impossible, she and I would spend hours in the kitchen tweaking and improving her recipes. There’s a decorative box filled to the brim. She safeguarded them more than Mr. Krabs protects the Krabby Patty formula.
Now, this and my memories are all I have left of her.
Days when I miss her most, I pull out the box and read every instruction, every technique noted, my fingers tracing her writing. And I remember her.
It’s more difficult for my little brother. Colt was so young when she died. His memories mostly come from photos and stories he hears from my grandparents and me. Occasionally, if the mood strikes right, dad will even share a glimpse of the woman our mother was. And the man he used to be when she was still alive.
I think he was happier then. Braver. Less lonely.
During dinner, I sip my water, gearing up to remind Dad about my weekend plans. I figure I can slip it in now that he’s filling his belly with one of his favorite meals and relaxing with a glass of wine. But my brother has other plans.
“I want your room cleaned as soon as you’re done eating,” Dad tells Colton.
“I don’t know why you don’t hire a maid,” Colt says through a bite of pasta, glaring daggers at my dad. “It’s not like you can’t afford it.”
Dad sets his fork down on his plate and wipes his mouth with his napkin. “I’m not hiring a maid service. How will that teach you responsibility?”
Colt opens his mouth, a sharp retort on the tip of his tongue, but I intervene before he sours my father’s mood. At ten, my brother has yet to realize not everything warrants an argument.
Like Mom used to always say, “Choose your battles.”
“I need to get going,” I say. When Dad’s gaze meets mine, I continue. “I’m staying at Margo’s tonight. I have my phone and it’s charged. We might go out. Our plans are a little up in the air.” It’s better if I don’t mention why our plans aren’t nailed down. If he knew we were meeting two boys, he’d never let me out of the house. My face warms, something that tends to happen when I’m not being completely honest. I glance at Colt and continue, hoping a subject change will help. “If you get started on your room tonight, I’ll help you finish it up when I get home tomorrow.”
Dad sits forward, resting his elbows on the table. “What time will that be?”
“I’m not sure yet. You said my weekends would be open.”
‘“Open weekends’ doesn’t equate to running wild, Alysun. I need to know where you’ll be, who you’ll be with, and what time you’ll be home. I also expect you to obey your curfew no matter whose home you’re sleeping in. Nothing good happens after midnight.”
“You’re right,” I say softly. “I’ll text you if we go anywhere. And I’ll be home tomorrow by noon to help Colt.”
He nods. “Okay, good. Leave your plate. Colton can clear tonight.” He raises his voice over Colt’s protests. “Since you’re being gracious enough to help him with his bedroom.” He points at his cheek, indicating he wants a goodbye kiss. I give him one and hurry to collect my things.
Margo and I swin
g by the convenience store to grab provisions. Movie night in the park is one of our favorite summer activities. Tonight is a double feature to kick off the season. That means we need twice as much junk food.
And thanks to Margo’s indecision over wearing her new sundress or an old pair of jean shorts, we’re now running behind. FYI, in the end, she went with a random third choice and is now dressed in a romper.
To save time, we split up. She’s in charge of making our kamikaze rainbow slushies while I hit the chips and candy aisle.
I’m trying to decide between Combos or Bugles—a treat I don’t get very often—when a guy’s arm comes into view as he reaches past me. “Scuse me.” Long fingers curl around the last bag of nacho cheese Combos, leaving only one package of the pizza-flavored left.
Suddenly my mind is made up. I grab the pizza ones before anyone can take those too and turn on my heel to locate the sour gummy worms. I’m not expecting for the guy to still be there. Or to be so close. I nearly run into him, my shoes squeaking on the tile as I stop at the last second, but my upper half still has momentum. I’m forced to drop my snack in order to catch myself, which I do by planting my hands on his chest.
“Whoa,” he breathes. His fingers curve around my waist, steadying me.
Everything kind of… stills. I can hear the electric buzz of the overhead fluorescent lights, the beep of the cash register, the occasional ding of the bell above the doors, people talking. I even pick up the distinct whir of the slushie machines as Margo measures out the perfect proportions of each color. It’s all still there, but it’s faded. Watered down. Nothing but unimportant background noise.
Because the guy’s hand is warm and large and every single nerve ending in my hip ignites. Is this what they mean when people talk about feeling sparks?
My gaze moves upward, finding his face. The first thing that pops into my mind is: Brendon Urie, the lead singer of Panic at the Disco—one of my favorite bands. The messy hair, longer and floppy on the top, shorter on the sides. Thick brows over eyes the color of amber. Eyelashes so black and long I’m sure I’m green with envy. Sharp jaw lined in dark rough shadow. And his lips. They’re full and pink and they must have been made for talking or singing. Or kissing. But that’s where the resemblance ends. He’s much fuller in the neck and shoulders and arms and… chest, I realize as it occurs to me my hands are still against him.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice low and deep.
I step back, his hand slipping away and falling to his side. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”
He bends to retrieve my fallen treat. “It’s okay. I think it was actually my fault. I was…” He stands, trailing off, and I peer up at him, waiting. He chuckles, his cheeks blooming with color.
“You were…?” I prompt.
He places the bag in my hand as a puff of embarrassed laughter fans across my face. “I wanted to talk to you.”
Um, what?
I’ve been told I can’t hide my feelings because my facial expressions always give me away. Right now, my confusion must be evident.
“I saw you standing there and I thought you…” He shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “I thought you were really pretty and I was trying to think of something to say. Something clever or fascinating to start a conversation. My brain just kind of short-circuited. Then you turned around…”
My stomach flutters. He thinks I’m pretty?
“And ran right into you like an idiot,” I finish for him. Though I try to fight it, a smile spreads across my face. “But we’re talking now.”
He grins and my heart beats faster.
“I like your shirt, by the way.” He gestures at my retro Wonder Woman tee. It’s faded and old, belonging to my mom once upon a time. I never saw her wear it, but she held onto it for years, so she must have loved it.
“That would’ve been a good conversation starter,” I say, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
“I was afraid it would sound like a pick up line.”
“Like you’re not trying to pick her up?” Margo asks, scaring the crap out of me. She comes to stand by my side, slushies in her hands and a smirk on her face.
“I didn’t say I wasn’t trying,” the guy admits, eyes moving from Margo to me. “I just didn’t want it to sound so obvious.”
Adrenaline swims through my veins and my belly fills with butterflies. Oh. He gave me butterflies.
“What’s your name?” This comes from Margo because she knows I’m terrible at flirting. I’m not very good at talking to guys either. Especially cute guys who make me feel giddy inside.
“My name’s Malcolm,” he replies, eyes still on me. “Listen, my cousin’s waiting for me. We’re supposed to go meet a couple of his friends for a movie. But I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you came along. If you want to.” His eyes flick over to Margo. “You too. The more the merrier, right?”
Slowly, his words replay in my head and I peer over at my friend.
“His cousin is waiting for him,” she parrots. “To meet friends at a movie.”
“At the park?” I verify.
“Yeah,” Malcolm says. “I could meet you there.”
“Sure, we’ll meet you there.” Margo grins widely, handing me my slushie and locking her arm through mine before towing me toward the candy. I glance over my shoulder, catching Malcolm’s smile as he slowly heads over to the checkout.
Holy crap.
I think I like Emmitt’s cousin.
“You know what this means, don’t you?” Margo asks as we gather our blankets and snacks from the trunk.
“That you’re never going to stop telling me you told me so?”
“Exactly,” she trills, beaming. “And,” she adds, “this means we can double all summer.”
I shake my head, unable to understand what her obsession is about double dating. Who wants to hang out with another couple when they’re in love? I’ve never been, but I’d like to think if I were to fall in love with someone, I’d be so in love that I’d want to be alone, having him all to myself. I’m not a big fan of PDA. Margo and Emmitt, on the other hand, apparently like it a lot if my third-wheeling experiences are anything to go by.
She grips my arm, both of us coming to a pause. “Oh my God. There they are. He really is Emmitt’s cousin.”
She says that like she hadn’t already put it together. But I get it. Even though I could logically add it up, there was a part of me that thought it was too coincidental to be real. Not sure why I even entertained that idea seeing as how small our town is. We already know all the available cute guys around here. Of course he’s Emmitt’s cousin from Seattle.
“Seriously, Sunny. This is like…” She shakes her head, searching. “Kismet.” She sucks on her slushie, contemplating. “You and Malcolm were destined to meet this summer.”
She starts walking again and I follow. Malcolm’s head moves, as if he’s scanning the crowd, and the closer we get to the guys the more nervous I feel. I know exactly when he spots me. His gaze falls on me and he grins.
Oh, wow.
Malcolm has the kind of smile that can will a girl to do just about anything to make it appear.
I shouldn’t like him so much already. Let me see… What do I know about him?
Pretty much nothing.
I know his name. That he’s related to Emmitt. He likes nacho cheese Combos. And my Wonder Woman shirt.
And he’s absolutely gorgeous.
Good looks mean nothing though. Even if he makes me melt, that doesn’t mean he’s a good person.
Of course, Emmitt seems to think he’s the GOAT of the family. And Emmitt might not be someone I’d choose for myself, but I can’t deny he’s a really good guy.
Not that it automatically means Malcolm is. I’m sure most serial killers have perfectly nice family members.
“Okay, no,” Margo says firmly. She pulls me to a stop again and I turn to face her. “Get out of
your head. This is something good. Don’t overthink it. Don’t judge it. Just go with it. Let whatever happens, happen. Naturally. Like meeting him in that store.”
I nod. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah. Okay. I can do that.” I think.
Probably.
Maybe.
Emmitt finally notices us and pops up, motioning for us to come over. It’s almost comical, watching in real time as Malcolm realizes who Margo and I are.
“There you guys are,” Emmitt says, kissing Margo’s forehead. Their hands find one another immediately, fingers intertwining. “This is my cousin—”
“Malcolm,” Margo says, winking dramatically in my direction. “We met already. At the store. When he was hitting on Sunny.”
“Sunny,” Malcolm repeats, eyes moving over my face. “Fitting name.”
Did I forget to introduce myself? I guess I did.
“Interesting,” Emmitt says, not bothering to hide his amusement.
Margo nods. “Isn’t it though?”
Malcolm leans toward me, hands in his pockets. “They aren’t subtle, are they?”
“Not even a little,” I agree.
I’m not sure when or how it happened. Margo and I started out on one blanket, her sitting on the inside, closest to Emmitt. Malcolm next to him, on the complete opposite side from me. We were as far apart as we could be when the first movie started. But somehow, at some point, Margo and Malcolm switched places.
And I have completely forgotten about the movie.
I was right. Malcolm’s lips were made for talking. I’m completely captivated, staring at the way his mouth forms each word. The sound of his voice and the way he pronounces certain words a little differently than what I’m accustomed to has my skin feeling warm and tingly. My heart hasn’t found it’s normal rhythm yet, continually pounding at a faster rate than normal.