It Could Only Be Tyler : A Sweet YA Romance (Beachbreak High Book 2)

by Emily Lowry

  Despite her overall toxic personality, Parker was still a person. And no one — not even Parker — deserved to get dumped in public.

  “I think we should go for a walk,” I said. “Just the two of us.”

  “He’s trying to manipulate you,” Blair blurted.

  My eyes met Parker’s. “Please?”

  Parker smirked, and I could almost see the thoughts running through her mind. She thought I was going to grovel for approval. Beg for her forgiveness. She thought that I was too proud to do it in front of all of her friends.

  She crossed her arms. “Anything you can say to me you can say in front of my friends.”

  At least she called them friends and not minions.

  I sighed and ran my hand through my hair. “I think it would be better if we went for a walk.”

  “And I think it would be better if you understood what your priorities are,” Parker said. She folded her hands across her lap. “And I think it’s time you speak.”

  How many easy outs could you give someone?

  “It’s like this,” I said. “It’s not me, it’s you.”

  It took me a breath before I realized what I’d said. I had meant to say it the other way around — I’d planned to take the responsibility for the breakup to protect Parker’s pride and hopefully avoid being too much of a target. But instead of saying what I wanted to say, I accidentally said what I meant.

  Parker’s face went white. “You’re not seriously breaking up with me, are you?”

  “Said we should go for a walk,” I muttered. I met her eyes. “It’s not working out. We’re too different—”

  Parker shook her head. She pressed her mouth into a thin line, and her pretty blue eyes hardened. “I don’t think you understand how things work, Tyler Walsh. You don’t break up with me. No one breaks up with me. In fact, the reason I brought you here today was to break up with you.”

  “It was?” Blair blurted.

  Parker gave her a glare that could wither a dictator. How long would Blair be paying the interest on that mistake, I wondered.

  “And it’s not me,” Parker said, returning her gaze to me. “It’s you. You’re a laid-back doofus with limited ambition and only slightly above average looks. You call everyone ‘dude’ because you’re not smart enough to remember anyone’s name. And the only thing I asked of you is that you show up on time, and you couldn’t even do that. It’s pathetic. Embarrassing to even be seen with you.”

  “Well, I’d hate to embarrass you further,” I said. I turned to walk away.

  “I don’t recall giving you permission to walk away from me,” Parker said, her voice like ice.

  “Don’t recall asking for your permission, dude,” I said.

  “You’re going to suffer for this,” Parker shouted. Her voice was shrill, piercing. Almost at that pitch where only dogs could hear it. “No one walks away from me without paying the price.”

  I rolled my eyes again. “Yeah? What are you going to do? Dump me twice?”

  “I won’t have to,” Parker said. “But I guarantee you — your next relationship? The next time you find a girl you really like? It’s going to end in disaster. I will burn it down. I will make you understand that there are consequences to your actions. And maybe you’ll finally learn something, like a good little boy.”

  I shook my head and laughed.

  What else could I do?

  3

  Tyler

  There was nothing better than late-season football. The playoff race was taking shape, and we were in the thick of things. Our team, led by Mason as quarterback, was good enough to go to state.

  If we could just get past the pesky Pinetown Patriots and their massive defensive line.

  For the first three quarters of the game, the rain was coming down in sheets. The field was more mud than grass. And the Pinetown Patriots? They played dirty. Late hits, trash talk, scrums after every play. Two players had already been ejected. We were up by a touchdown, but we still had more work to do to put the nail in their coffin.

  I jogged onto the field with the rest of the Beachbreak High offense. Mason called the play in the huddle, and I took my position at the far end of the line of scrimmage. My route was simple: a ten yard out. As long as our line didn’t break down, the ball would arrive in my hands two steps after I made my break, and then I’d be out of bounds.

  I eyed the first down marker. It was right near where our school band was playing. My little sister’s best friend, Nina Martinez, was on trumpet. The band had set up a small canopy to protect their instruments from the rain, but it was difficult to say how well it was working. For her part, Nina didn’t seem to care. She played proudly, cheeks puffed out like a fish, black curls bouncing in time to the beat. That girl was all about school spirit.

  I checked with the ref to make sure I was onside, and waited for Mason to snap the ball. This was one of my favorite parts of the football game — that moment of anticipation before play starts. Your team had a plan, your opposition had a plan, and in a few quick seconds, you would see who would come out on top.

  Mason snapped the ball.

  I charged down the field, the rain pounding my helmet. I reached the ten-yard mark, dug my cleats into the sloppy field, and made my cut. Two steps later, the ball arrived in my hands.

  A perfect throw.

  I slipped out of bounds just after the first down marker, ending the play. Another ten yards, more time off the clock, we were—

  That’s when the safety hit me.

  Already off-balance and not at all prepared for the extra late hit, I was knocked off my feet and sent flying towards the school band. The wind left my lungs, but I could take it.

  I just hoped I didn’t hurt someone.

  I crashed into the band and heard a loud clang as my helmet bounced off someone’s instrument. There were several screams, and then I was falling. I landed hard on top of someone and heard the whoosh of air as they exhaled. They groaned.

  As gently as I could, I rolled off of them.

  My stomach dropped.

  Nina was lying in the mud, her very dented trumpet beside her. Mud clung to her cheek and there was a pained expression on her face as she clutched her ribs.

  I forgot all about the game. “Nina! I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

  Before she answered, someone pulled me away. The team trainer.

  “I’ll take care of her,” he said. “You need to get back on the field.”

  I shook my head. “She’s my friend. I’m not leaving her.”

  “Yes, you are.” The voice wasn’t the trainer’s. It was Nina’s. Somehow, she was back on her feet. My sister, Zoe, had seen the commotion from the bleachers and immediately rushed over to help her up. Nina had her arm around Zoe’s shoulder, and there was a look of determination in her eyes. “Stay in the game. I’ll be fine.”

  “Dude, I just crushed you.”

  Nina winced slightly as she clutched her ribs. She swept a fistful of mud from her cheek. “I’m tougher than you think.”

  “Easy, tiger,” Zoe said. “You might have a concussion. We need to get you to the medical room for evaluation. Come on, let’s go.”

  “Not without my…” Nina’s voice faded.

  I followed her gaze to her trumpet, dented and lying in mud.

  Still holding onto my sister for balance, Nina bent over and picked it up. She rubbed her thumb over the dent and looked like she was about to cry.

  Guilt washed over me. “Give it to Zoe. I’ll get it fixed.”

  Nina said nothing, she just turned away.

  Zoe looked at me and nodded. She would help me take care of the trumpet.

  Feeling a tremendous amount of guilt, I jogged back onto the field.

  4

  Nina

  After she was done poking my ribs with her thumb, the school nurse gave me two Advil and told me to lie on a bed that was stiff as concrete. She suspected my ribs were bruised, and told me it would take two to four weeks for them
to heal. Then she left to call my mom.

  I dreaded to think about how Mom would respond when she found out her baby girl was injured.

  I laid on my side, staring at the single lamp in the corner. My eyes were puffy. I’d been crying — not because of the hit. It hurt, but that was not the reason for my tears. I was thinking about my trumpet. I’d had it for years. I got it for my thirteenth birthday, a present from my dad. He told me he wanted to get it engraved, but he didn’t know if that would affect the sound, so he didn’t. He said he wanted me to make all the beautiful music that was in my head.

  Zoe had taken it from me after getting me set up with the school nurse. I didn’t know where it was now. Or how bad the damage really was — it had been impossible to see with all the mud on it. Maybe it could still be fixed. Hopefully.

  “Knock, knock,” Tyler said. He stood by the open door, smiling. His longish hair was still wet from the shower, a bead of water trickling down his temple. Tyler Walsh was a straight up, grade-A hottie all the girls at school went crazy for — and I could see why. Not only was he tall, tanned, green-eyed, and gorgeous; he was also nice. Genuinely nice.

  Tyler pulled a bouquet from behind his back with a flourish. He handed the flowers to me. “I’m told flowers make people feel better. Don’t know if it’s true, they’ve never done much for me.”

  I smiled weakly and took the flowers. Golden and orange tulips.

  He looked around awkwardly, endearingly, almost like a schoolboy who knew he was in trouble. He reached behind his head to scratch his neck, and when he did, it pulled up the hem of his shirt, revealing a hint of flat, hard abs underneath. He pulled the chair up next to my bed, the chair leg screeching across the linoleum floor. The scent of citrus soap filled the room. He leaned forward, keeping his voice low. “How are you feeling?”

  I sat up, wincing as I did. I hoped that in the darkness he couldn’t see that I’d been crying. “Did you win?”

  “By ten,” Tyler said.

  “Good,” I said simply. “I would hate to have a concussion for nothing.”

  Tyler’s eyes widened. “You have a concussion?”

  I grinned. “Got you.”

  He breathed a sigh of relief. “Not funny.”

  “It was a little funny.”

  “Maybe just a little.” He reached out, took my hand, and squeezed. His hand was warm, strong. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Not your fault,” I said. I wasn’t saying that just to make him feel better — it really wasn’t his fault. Tyler had caught the ball and was already a step out of bounds when he was hit. It was a late hit, a dirty tackle by the Pinetown player. I tried to act nonchalant. “Besides — you don’t get into the school band without knowing that you might get tackled someday. I knew the risks of the job when I took it.”

  Tyler laughed. He didn’t have the type of laugh that filled the room or drew attention to itself. It was more of a warm, confident chuckle.

  “About your trumpet,” he said.

  “It’s fine,” I said quickly.

  He shook his head. “I know what it means to you. I got a hold of it, and I’m going to take it to the music shop on High Street.”

  “Ocean Sounds,” I said.

  “That’s the one,” he replied. “Is it any good? Is there somewhere else I should take it to get repaired?”

  “You don’t need to do that,” I said. “It’s expensive.”

  “Expensive or not, it’s my responsibility.” There was a look of determination on his face. “I want to make this right.”

  Judging from the look in his eyes, this was not an argument I was going to win. As much as Tyler liked to joke, tease, and harass me and Zoe, when it came down to it, he was a good guy. He was one of the few people I knew I could count on to do the right thing when it mattered the most.

  “Ocean Sounds is good,” I said. “It’s also my aunt’s store. I can get a discount.”

  “The only thing you need to worry about is getting better,” Tyler said. He leaned back in the chair. “Besides — people deserve to be paid for their work. Especially if it’s good and will get you smiling again.”

  I smiled. “Thanks, Ty.”

  “No worries,” he said. He patted my hand once more, then stood. “Get better, okay?”

  “Working on it.”

  When he turned to leave, someone else arrived.

  My mom. She pulled past Tyler without so much as a hello and was immediately on her knees at my side. “Nina. Can you hear me? Are you hurt? Any injuries? Permanent? Are you okay?”

  Tyler smirked, gave me a half salute, and left.

  I smiled to myself. It was very sweet of him to stop by — but that was the type of guy he was. Had been since I first met him over a decade ago. Briefly, I wondered how he knew about Ocean Sounds. I’d never known Tyler to be into music.

  Mom shoved her face in mine. “Nina. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Nothing a day of rest and relaxation can’t fix.”

  Mom nodded. “I read you loud and clear.”

  My stomach dropped. “No, I didn’t mean—“

  “I’ll make the plan. You don’t have to worry about anything. Mom’s here now.”

  When mom talked about rest and relaxation, there was one thing that always came to her mind.

  It also was one of my least favorite things to do.

  5

  Nina

  Prim and Polished nail salon was as fancy as its name suggested. Think cotton candy pink walls, endless rows of designer nail polish, top of the line footbaths and white leather massage chairs, and you’ll get the picture. My mom loved it there.

  As for me? Getting my nails done was not my idea of a good time. I hated having to keep my hands still, and I always chipped my polish before it was dry. But, unfortunately, it was my mom’s favorite bonding activity. She was a girly girl, so that meant I was supposed to be a girly girl too. It’s not like I was a tomboy — that was more Callie’s department — but I definitely wasn’t the pretty, prim, and proper girl my mom liked to pretend I was.

  That girl could get a date to the Christmas Eve party.

  My ribs still hurt from the collision with Tyler and being up and about wasn’t helping. I would’ve rather been laying down on my couch, watching Netflix, and icing my sore ribs. Or putting a heat pack on them. I wasn’t sure which you were supposed to do for bruised bones.

  So why, oh why, was I tolerating a manicure this Sunday afternoon? I had an ulterior motive. I hoped that if my mom was very relaxed, I could bring up her Christmas Eve party. Specifically, I wanted to talk to her about Mayhem Under the Mistletoe. I needed to weasel my way out of the skinny arms and hairy moles of Edward Stewart.

  But how to start?

  I passed my selected polish shade — a nice, subtle electric blue — to my manicurist and flopped down in a massage chair. “So. In my delirious state in the school nurse’s office, I started thinking about Edward Stewart.”

  “Oh?” From the chair next to me, Mom raised her eyebrows. She’d chosen a pretty shell pink for her own nails.

  “Yes,” I said. I added a bit of drama to my voice. “As I laid on that stone bed, on the brink of death, I decided that I was probably the type of girl who didn’t need a boyfriend.”

  Especially one as pompous as Edward Stewart.

  My mom exchanged a glance with her manicurist, then rolled her eyes. “Darling — this has nothing to do with you having a boyfriend.”

  Well, now I was confused.

  My mom read my expression and continued. “It’s about putting yourself out there. And having someone to kiss for the photo. It’s just a kiss. You don’t have to think about it too hard. And besides — how romantic would it be if your first kiss was under the mistletoe?”

  A first kiss under the mistletoe was fine.

  However, a first kiss under a mistletoe, with a boy you didn’t like, with all of your family members surrounding you? That was something a lot less than romantic. Something a
lot more like a nightmare. Plus, imagine explaining that to my future children? How did I meet your dad? Oh, I was forced to kiss him for a family photo and then I just stuck with him because I couldn’t do any better. Anyway, happy birthday.

  I shuddered at the thought. Then I shuddered again at the thought of the twisting, black hair emerging from Edward Stewart’s nose mole brushing against my cheek as his chapped lips swooped in towards mine. I could practically smell the Doritos on his breath.

  “Don’t you think it’s a bit archaic to make me kiss some boy for a photo?”

  “Archaic?” Mom asked. “It’s not like I’m presenting you at the debutante ball. It’s just a kiss. And I’m not telling you to use tongue or anything.”

  “Mom. Boundaries.” I shuddered for a third time. The last thing I wanted in my mouth was Edward Stewart’s Dorito-flavored tongue. Clearly, my mom would not give me an easy out. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t wiggle my way free. I just needed the right excuse. “Well, I’m definitely not going to kiss him if I already have a boyfriend.”

  My mom looked to the manicurist, to me, then back to the manicurist.

  They both burst out laughing.

  Which shows about how seriously my love-life was being taken. My cheeks burned. I started to cross my arms, but my manicurist shook her head and grabbed my hand, pulling it back towards her. She tsked under her breath.

  “Sorry,” I muttered.

  Mom and her manicurist were still busy laughing. Mom actually had a tear stream down her cheek.

  “Is it really so impossible to think that I might have a boyfriend?” I asked.

  Mom smiled. “I wouldn’t say impossible.”

  “What would you say?” I asked, not bothering to hide the venom in my voice. It was one thing to have poor luck in love. It was another to have your mom laugh at you for it. Though she would probably say she was laughing with me.