August brooding over a girl is super weird, but August brooding over a girl who’s the subject of the biggest case we’ve ever had makes me nervous. I just don’t know what he thinks is going to happen. He can’t actually be with Ella. She believes he’s a preppy painter named Holden whose mom is currently on a yacht. And there’s no way for him to backstep from that without telling her about our job—which is guaranteed to make her never talk to him again.
And speaking of brooding people, I look at my text chain with Bentley, which is currently barren. I sent him a message during the party last night and got exactly nothing in response. I tap my purple gel pen against my mouth and then shove it in the spiral notebook binding. I slide off my bed, heading for the window, but think better of it and go downstairs instead.
I make my way into the kitchen, where the big picture window provides the perfect view of his house. The twins are swimming and his mom’s watching them, but Bentley’s nowhere in sight. In fact, his truck isn’t in the driveway. And then I remember it’s Sunday.
I startle. “Again? I don’t stare at Bentley’s house.”
“Oh, I see, you’re just doing your part as the friendly neighborhood watch,” she says with a grin. “My mistake.”
I give her a look from under my eyebrows. “You definitely don’t know what you’re talking about.” But she doesn’t stop grinning.
“What doesn’t your mother know?” Dad asks, joining us in the kitchen.
“Nothing,” I say.
He looks from me to Mom and back again. “Ah, the whole neighbor crush issue I’m not supposed to bring up.”
“Prem,” Mom says at the same time I say, “Dad!”
He lifts his hands in the air, like he’s an innocent bystander. “Just trying to access the refrigerator. Iced tea, anyone?”
I throw an accusatory glance at Mom.
She pulls two glasses down from the cupboard and places them on the counter for my dad to fill, giving him a kiss on the cheek. “We’re your parents, sweetie. We do talk about you from time to time.”
Dad grabs the glass pitcher from the refrigerator and goofy-grins at Mom. Gross. What the heck is going on with these two? Hot, cold, hot again.
“But as long as we’re on the subject, I’m not sure that Bentley guy isn’t a bit of a . . . what do you kids call it, a ladies’ man?” Dad says, using the most cringeworthy terminology possible.
“Okay, no. We’re not doing this,” I reply, wondering if the embarrassment from your dad commenting on your love life can actually kill a person. “We can talk about anything else. Literally anything.”
Mom looks amused, but Dad looks like he’s not sure he doesn’t want to continue and thoroughly scar me for life.
“You can invite him to Dad’s party on Sunday,” Mom suggests. “I bet he’d look good all spiffed up.”
For a split second I get excited by the idea, but my next thought goes to August, who I’ve yet to confess to. I missed my chance last night with the blowup.
“Actually, yeah, maybe that’d be nice,” I say.
My parents retreat into the living room with their iced teas, and I run upstairs to change, energized by the idea of using the party as a peace offering. I don’t bother to text Bentley, because on a beautiful day like this, I know exactly where he’ll be.
* * *
I kick my flip-flops off at the edge of the warm sand, noticing I already have tan lines from their straps—one of those comforting standards of summer that make me feel like I own a piece of the sun. I straighten my bikini under my cotton dress and stride confidently onto the beach, aware that I couldn’t have picked a more public place on a Sunday afternoon.
I zigzag around blankets and families with coolers, heading just left of the lifeguard stand, where three surfboards are leaning. Most of my classmates are here, dozing in the sun or diving into waves, and as some of them say lazy hellos from under their sunglasses, I have a quick flash of worry about Bentley reverting to his showy persona—that maybe he’ll act like I’m some nut who’s following him around and brush me off in front of his friends.
I spot him getting out of the ocean, board tucked under his arm, six-pack gleaming, and I steel myself, heading straight for him, my stomach doing small flips.
“Hey there,” I say, approaching the wet sand near the edge of the water.
Charlie sees me first. “Yo, Valentine, long time no party.”
Bentley looks confused. “Valentine? What are you doing here?”
“She’s looking for you, dumbass,” Charlie offers.
I feel my cheeks warm.
“Look, she’s even blushing,” Charlie says and chuckles. “What’s that I smell? Is it love? Is love in the air?”
“Shut up, dude,” Bentley says without taking his eyes off me, and I’m grateful. I don’t need Charlie Atkins to make me feel any dumber than I already do.
“Just look at that eye contact. I mean, talk about smolder,” Charlie continues, wagging his eyebrows at us.
“Dude, seriously, piss off,” Bentley says, shoving his friend, who thankfully leaves but continues to laugh and make kissing noises as he walks away. And once again I wonder why I ever thought it was a good idea to try to reconcile on the town beach.
Bentley props his surfboard in the sand, and I smell the coconut wax on it. But he doesn’t say anything. And unfortunately, after all the noise Charlie made, half the beach is watching us.
“Can we, uh, go somewhere?” I ask.
“I’m surfing,” he says, his voice distanced.
I dig my toes into the sand, purposefully looking anywhere but at all the prying eyes, two of which belong to Cassie, his ex-girlfriend, who is both a popular mean girl and a prolific gossip.
“Right,” I say, feeling conflicted. There’s part of me that doesn’t want to admit I like him more than I thought, and most certainly not in front of our entire school.
Bentley waits for me to find my nerve, but when I don’t start speaking, he reaches for his board.
“Wait,” I say.
“For what?”
“I came here to apologize,” I start.
He just looks at me.
“I know I’ve been, well, not the easiest.” I’m aware that doesn’t cover the half of it. It’s like I caught a case of the August Mariani Awkward Silence Syndrome.
“You mean you’ve been embarrassed to hang out with me,” he corrects me.
I wince. Because he’s right. Because I never thought I’d like a football-playing surfer who brags about how many crunches he can do and coasts with a C+ average. He’s basically the antithesis of my type. “I’m not—”
“At least don’t lie about it,” he says, and I curse that pact we made. Honesty blows. Whoever decided it was a virtue must have been a hermit.
“Look, okay, you’re right that I didn’t want August to find out,” I admit. “But it’s complicated.”
“It’s not just August,” he says. “I saw your face when you realized everyone was watching us.” He nods toward our classmates in the sand.
I stare at Bentley—who’s obviously way more perceptive than I gave him credit for. “It’s a personal conversation.” Wow, I’m lame.
“Saying you’re sorry because you haven’t been the easiest classifies as a personal conversation?” he asks, repeating back my lackluster apology.
A breeze comes off the water, blowing some of my hair into my face, and I quickly tuck it behind my ear. “You’re not . . .” But when I realize I’m about to end that sentence with being fair, I cut myself off.
His jaw tightens. “If anything, I should be the one trying to hide that you’re embarrassed of me. Not the other way around. I think maybe it’s time for me to get the hint.”
I fidget with the strap of my bikini, twisting and untwisting it, and feeling like a grade-A jerk-off. “So that’s it? You’re just going to stop talking to me?”
“Let’s be real. If you weren’t you and I wasn’t me, would you tell me to keep pursuing a girl who acts like it’s a chore to hang out with me?”
Ouch. Big fat ouch.
This is what he was afraid of when he admitted he was the resident babysitter for his siblings, that I’d judge him and decide he was less than. And of course, I made a big deal about how I wasn’t that kind of person, yet here I am hiding him from August and cringing in front of my classmates.
He reaches for his board once more, and I know that if he walks away now, this won’t be reparable.
“Honesty, right?” I say as he tucks his board under his arm and looks toward the water. “You’re not my type. I don’t want to like you.”
He presses his lips together. “Great, now that we cleared that up—”
“Wait, I’m not done,” I say, but he’s already turning. “Don’t you dare walk off with that surfboard, Bentley Cavendish. This is hard for me, and I don’t want to speed through it afraid you’re going to leave, because I won’t get it right. And I want to. I really want to get it right.”
He lifts an eyebrow, but he faces me again.
“Like I was saying, I don’t want to like you. You complicate my life in every way. But for some unexplainable reason, I can’t stop thinking about you. I scroll through your messages like a thousand times a day. I think you’re thoughtful and caring in a way I never imagined. And when you kissed me. Ugh. I swear, my knees almost gave out.”
For the first time since we started speaking, some of the disappointment leaves his expression. “Yeah?”
“Yes. And the worst part about it is that it’s not just because you’re stupidly good looking”—I gesture at his chest—“but because you’re also a weirdly good person. I keep trying to tell myself that I just want to make out with you and leave it at that, but I’m not sure that’s true. You might claim you’ve liked me for a long time. But even though I’m slow to catch up, I like you a lot. Part of me wants to hide, sure. But not for the reasons you think. Because by admitting I like you, I’m totally and annoyingly vulnerable in a way I’m not used to. And I kind of hate you for it.”
His amusement grows.
“Glad one of us thinks this is funny,” I say.
“One of us doesn’t think this is funny. One of us is very, very happy right now.”
I try to look mad, but it’s impossible when he’s smiling like that. “But I’m warning you, Bentley, if this is a game and you screw with my emotions, I will sucker punch you.”
“Is that your way of telling me I should start kissing you?”
I level him in my gaze. “That’s my way of telling you that I’m a brute who’s not to be toyed with.”
But before I can get another word out, he’s scooping me up over his shoulder and running down the beach, jumping over people’s legs and coolers, yelling, “Victory!”
As much as this type of ridiculousness is exactly what I was afraid of, it’s also what makes Bentley so Bentley. I laugh until my face hurts.
When he finally puts me down, we’re both out of breath. And when he leans forward to kiss me, I lean with him, pressing my body into his sun-warmed skin. There on the sand in front of everyone, we share a stomach-fluttering, pulse-quickening kiss, followed by cheers.
That’s how we spend the rest of the afternoon—laughing, kissing, and swimming. He even gives me a surfing lesson, which winds up being way more fun than I thought, especially the part where he keeps touching my waist to show me how to balance.
We get a lot of curious glances and some gossipy whispers. But he doesn’t care and neither do I. The only person I can’t really ignore is Cassie, who shoots a death glare in my direction every twenty minutes.
“What’s the deal there?” I ask Bentley, nodding at his ex, after yet another eye roll and scowl.
Bentley shakes out his navy-and-white striped blanket and straightens it on the sand. “Cassie? Nothing really.”
“Her face says otherwise,” I say, lifting an eyebrow. I lie down on my back on the blanket, hair salty with ocean water and skin still tingling from the chill of the waves.
He lies next to me on his stomach, propping himself up on his elbows. “We’re just friends. Believe me, you have nothing to worry about.”
“So,” I say, accepting his answer, “what would you think about coming to my house for my dad’s annual party this Sunday?” I don’t need to specify that it’s the one where famous people invade my backyard and eat miniature foods while wearing pristinely white sneakers. Between the magazine and gossip-site coverage the party has gotten in the past few years, there isn’t anyone who doesn’t know, especially not anyone in our town.
“Are you asking me to be your date?” he says, the corners of his mouth curving.
“I absolutely am,” I say, surprised by how refreshingly simple this is. I don’t know why, but I thought hanging out with Bentley for more than ten minutes would involve stilted conversation and personality clashes, but there’s been none of that. It’s easy. Nice easy.
“Good, because I’m definitely accepting.”
Charlie laughs raucously a few blankets over, claiming he just shot a jelly bean out of his nose into an open soda can. “But Charlie’s not invited,” I clarify.
“Are you kidding? I don’t even let him come to the twins’ birthday parties. Not mature enough.”
I laugh.
“So your parents are gonna be there,” Bentley says.
“I mean, yeah. Is that a problem?”
“Not a problem. Just a big deal.”
I look at him sideways. “You’re my next-door neighbor; you’ve seen my parents like a thousand times.”
“I know,” he says, and the look on his face is so cutely nervous that I smile. “Just never as your date. It’s different.”
“If I were you, I’d be more worried about August.” I try to make light of it, but he doesn’t laugh.
“Right,” he says. “Because you guys both work for your dad.”
And suddenly I don’t think it’s funny, either. Bentley doesn’t know about Summer Love. No one does. While it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if he found out, I’d be violating August’s trust if I told him. However, if I don’t tell Bentley and he asks my dad about my made-up music internship, Dad will be not only confused but furious I lied. How did I not think of this possible disaster earlier?