A quick but frantic Google search on his phone informs Wes that he’s either just survived a heart attack, acid reflux, or a possible panic attack. Further research on WebMD and a brief YouTube tutorial eliminate the first two ailments.
Deep breath in. Deep breath out.
He’s been reciting this to himself for three minutes, eyes closed. It’s helped, though his brain is still a little fuzzy. And, unfortunately, the bathroom is wearing its favorite perfume—eau de bleach.
Of all the places to hide, Wes isn’t sure why he chose Once Upon a Page’s crib-sized bathroom. He didn’t think he could make it upstairs to the loft. It is the closest room except Mrs. Rossi’s office, and Wes isn’t going in there. What if he found something else? What other ugly, life-altering secrets was she hiding from him?
That underwater sensation returns. Blinking hard, he stares down at his phone.
Find an object to focus on.
The bookstore’s sad bathroom doesn’t have much in the way of decor. There’s a sink, a mirror with a zigzag crack in the bottom right corner, one of those tropical-scent wall plug-ins that hasn’t been changed in a year, flyers for previous store events, and the standard toilet with the lid down where Wes sits. Oh, and a faded blue poster of The Great Gatsby cover: depressing, disembodied eyes staring at Wes. He hates that book. He also hates Chaz, the former employee who pinned it to the mint green wall. Chaz, the clinical kleptomaniac who only stole nude photography books.
Pervy hipster.
Wes focuses on a bottom corner of the poster. It’s beginning to curl like a Fruit Roll-Up. That corner’s a rebel.
His phone directs him to: Go to your happy place.
Yeah, sorry Google, but Wes’s “happy place” is now officially a gateway to hell.
Breathing deeply, Wes tries to locate somewhere else in his clogged brain, another place he’s most himself. Every answer ends in Nico. Anywhere with him, having conversations with their eyes and laughing until it hurts.
Does he have that with Anna?
Wes finds himself on Google again. His hands shake as he searches “ways to know if your crush is not into you.” What is he doing? Suddenly, he’s on BuzzFeed, then Teen Vogue. He’s browsing Reddit Relationship Advice. Wes finally draws the line at Quora, but not before he’s compiled a new list:
Signs Your Crush Isn’t Into You!!!
It’s not his best work. There are only five bullet points, and Wes is already frowning at the first one:
1. If your crush doesn’t laugh at your jokes, RUN!
It doesn’t apply to Wes and Nico, but multiple sources suggest he pay attention to minor things like that.
The bathroom door nudges open. Wes forgot to lock it. And Anna isn’t polite enough to knock, but she doesn’t swing the door wide. She peeks her head in, ensuring Wes isn’t using the toilet for its intended purposes.
Wes sighs, which is obviously an invitation Anna uses to enter, closing the door behind her. She leans against it. Wes pointedly stares at the wall adjacent to her.
“So.”
“Yeah?” Wes sighs again.
“That was quite the exit.”
Wes nods solemnly. He doesn’t feel so bad about storming off, but more about the way he snapped at Nico. It was a definite infraction of the best friend code. Thing is, that’s a direct result of crushing on a friend. The lines get blurred.
He’s a horrible human being.
Correction: he’s a horrible human presently trapped in a tiny bathroom with his crush’s crush.
Wes’s brain, ever ready to take a dive into a pit of fire, zones in on how cute Anna is. She’s a surf goddess, all seashell bracelets and floral wrap dress and hair unbrushed without appearing dirty. Even the bathroom’s substandard lighting fails to wash out the color in her cheeks or the blueness of her eyes.
“Did you read the email?” Wes asks.
Anna nods, her mouth falling.
“Did you already know?”
Anna shakes her head.
Wes figured she didn’t know. It wouldn’t make sense. Why would she train to manage a store that wouldn’t be around at the end of summer?
“If Mrs. Rossi hasn’t mentioned this to any of us, maybe it’s not final?” Anna suggests.
Wes rubs his forehead. It’s conceivable. Mrs. Rossi’s a fighter. “Yeah,” he whispers, trying to believe every one of those four letters.
“Um.” Anna’s fingers twist the ends of her hair, as if she’s nervous.
“What?”
“You were kind of hard on Nico, don’t you think?” she says.
Wes inhales loudly through his nose. He’s attempting not to be impatient with her, but Hello, Nico has a thing for her, not Wes. It’s number two on his new list:
2. If your crush shows signs of being into someone else, ABORT!
“It’s fine,” he says. Those two words are becoming his favorite lie.
“He doesn’t seem okay.”
“We’ve argued before.”
Another fact. Usually, their beefs were over meaningless things. Once, they argued over a photo Wes posted on Instagram. Nico yelled, and Wes shouted and he swore Nico fractured his thumb when he punched his bedroom wall. It was ugly. It was also two months after Nico’s father died. Wes hadn’t recognized that Nico was stumbling through the stages of grief.
He hadn’t realized that the photo, of Wes and Nico and his sisters on the beach, also included Mr. Alvarez in the background, laughing with his tongue out.
Wes whispers, “We’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Aren’t you two,” Wes pauses when he notices he’s eye-level with her breasts. Jerking his head up, he says, idiotically, “Aren’t you two, like… you know?”
Anna arches an eyebrow, confused.
“A thing?”
“Uh, no.” Anna’s shoulders shake as if she’s restraining a laugh. “Nico’s cute in a very book-nerdy way, but I’m not into him.”
“You’re not?”
“No, no.” She pulls fingers through her hair, detangling the ends. “There’s this girl…”
Wes sits up. He doesn’t know what it is that excites him when someone’s anything other than straight. Maybe it’s because people are taught that straight is the default, which makes him an exception. An unnatural exception according to a few too many politicians on television. How do people still think like that? How are people still holding on to immoral values and ignoring the fact that sexuality and gender are fluid?
“Oh, I didn’t know.” Wes plays with his own curls.
“Yes, I’m bisexual. Sorry I didn’t put it on my application.”
Wes blushes. “No, I mean, uh—”
“I’m kidding, dude.” Anna’s laugh is this smoky, raspy noise that takes a few rounds to fall in love with. “Also, Nico’s not into me either.”
Huh. Strike one, BuzzFeed.
“You weren’t worried, were you?” Anna inquires.
“What? No.” In a failed attempt to be nonchalant, Wes hugs his knees, pffting at Anna’s insinuation. “I’m just looking out for my BFF. I screen all applicants that could turn into potential love interests.”
“Uh huh. Sure thing.”
Wes cocks his chin. There’s no way Anna can see through his façade. He’s too smooth. He says, “Yeah, well, good talk,” while Anna stares at him as if he’s full of shit.
It’s okay. She’s not the first person to solve life’s mysteries while he flounders.
When she leaves, Wes’s thumb hovers over the delete option on his new list. “No,” he whispers to himself, locking his phone. Anna and Nico might not be a thing, but that doesn’t mean Wes doesn’t need this list too.
It’s a fail-safe, that’s all.
* * *
At twilight, the scene around the Santa Monica Pier is euphoric. From Wes’s view on a bench, he can see the deep blue-black water stretching toward endlessness. In his peripheral vision, the arcade’s blinking neon lights are fuzzy pinks and blues. The slap-crack from the air hockey table is as loud as the screams from the West Coaster, the pier’s rollercoaster. The lights twinkling off Pacific Park envelop the area in a hypnotic glow.
Wes inhales deeply. Sugary cotton candy, fresh churros, sundrenched wood, briny sea water—everything comes at him at once. He smiles.
Anna’s the one who suggested they come down to the pier. Cooper, Kyra, and Nico agreed to tag along. Zay had a family dinner. Wes doesn’t want to think about where Ella probably is. They haven’t talked since she crushed his reality with that email.
Nearby, a couple leans against the railing that overlooks the beach. They’re attempting to take a selfie while kissing. It’s awkward and adorable. Wes is uncomfortably jealous.
He looks at the famous Route 66: End of the Trail sign everyone poses in front of. A father hoists his daughter onto his shoulders while someone snaps a picture on their phone. Wes wonders if, in ten years, that daughter will remember this moment beyond photographic evidence on social media? How does the brain decide what memories to keep permanently and which ones to copy-and-paste when needed? Which ones do people delete in order to create space for new ones?
Wes stares at his Chucks tapping against the wood beneath. The pier’s a century old. It’s probably in millions of tourists’ photo albums. He ponders whether the architects imagined this incredible structure being nothing more than someone’s phone screen wallpaper. Endless history exists here. It’s a landmark in Santa Monica’s story. On some levels, Wes thinks the same of the bookstore.
Will Once Upon a Page earn a Wikipedia page after it closes?
His brain works in mysterious—also, destructive—ways.
Wes pulls one leg to his chest and rests his foot on the edge of the bench. Down the pier, Nico stands in line at a food cart. Wes hopes he gets funnel cakes. He also hopes he’s doing a stellar job at being covert while staring at how soft Nico looks in his glasses with flat hair and an ash-gray hoodie. He amazes himself at being able to pine while the world is on fire.
“Hey. Aren’t you that guy from the bookstore?”
When Wes lifts his head, he isn’t expecting much. He’s definitely not expecting a guy that’s easily three inches taller than him with tan skin and sharp features. He’s beaming at Wes, one side of his mouth higher than the other.
“Uh.” Wes shrugs. “I guess?”
The guy laughs. He pushes fingers through his dark hair. It’s long on top, as if he could pull it into a topknot. “Oh, right. You don’t know who the hell I am. Sorry.”
Wes’s brain short-circuits, staring into this guy’s charming brown eyes. “I’m not really good with faces,” Wes says. “A lot of people come through the store.” An obvious lie. “Should I know you?”
“Nah. I’ve never been to the bookstore.”
“Oh.” Wes raises an eyebrow. “So…”
“I follow coopsarrow on Insta,” the guy explains. “He posts a lot about the bookstore and you.”
“Uh huh.” Wes exhales.
Note to self: remind Cooper what “digital consent” means.
“Coop’s good friends with my cousin too. He’s big time in their community.”
“Their community?”
“Yup.” But the guy doesn’t clarify, so Wes supposes it’s something he’ll have to ask Cooper about.
“So, I’m famous?” Wes jokes. He can’t wait to tell Leo and his parents he’s ditching college to be a social media influencer.
“Santa Monica Escapades all day.” That laugh returns. Strangely enough, Wes is falling in love with it.
“Manuia.” He extends his hand to Wes. “Everybody calls me Manu, though.”
“Manu,” Wes repeats. He likes Manu’s grip; strong and purposeful. Not at all like a creepy Instagram stalker. “I’m Wes,” he says, then feels like an idiot because, duh, of course Manu already knew that. “Officially. I’m Wes, officially.”
“Officially Wes,” Manu says, beaming.
Wes smiles nervously. He considers complimenting Manu’s wardrobe choice: a tight, vintage Gameboy T-shirt. But just because Wes is a total nerd doesn’t mean he’s advertising it to attractive strangers.
“I’ve been meaning to come by the store,” Manu continues. “My cousin says it’s great.”
“Yeah. It’s sweet.”
“Maybe I could get a tour?”
“From Cooper?”
“Well. I mean, sure. If you’re not, like, around?”
“I usually am,” Wes says. “Actually, I’m always around these days.”
“Good to know.”
Wes considers Manu. His thumbs are hooked in the front pockets of his jeans. He’s almost leaning in Wes’s direction, as if he might sit down, as if he’s possibly waiting for Wes to offer him a place on the bench.
Wait. Is Manu flirting?
“So, yeah,” says Manu. “Maybe I’ll drop by sometime?”
“That’d be dope.”
“Dope,” Manu repeats and, if the lighting was right, Wes could swear Manu’s cheeks were darker. But it’s hard to tell from his position on the bench. Should he be asking Manu for his number? Or Instagram name? Could he slide into Manu’s DMs?
Is Wes cool enough to slide into his own DMs?
“I guess I’ll see you around, Officially Wes.” Manu gives Wes a small wave, then hesitates before spinning on his heels to walk up the pier toward Ocean Avenue.
Perfect. Puberty hit like a tornado at thirteen and, five years later, Wes still hasn’t grown a pair.
“Was that guy just flirting with you?”
Wes is startled when Nico flops down next to him; his throat barely contains a yelp as their shoulders brush.
Get it together.
“Doubtful,” Wes replies, slouching on the bench.
Nico hums, picking off an edge of golden funnel cake that isn’t piled with powdered sugar. “Looked like he was.”
“He wasn’t.”
“Not your type?”
He’s not you. Wes really hates the way his brain works. “We were just talking. He’s a friend of Cooper’s. It’s nothing.”
“Are you sure?” Nico asks, chewing. His mouth pulls a little south, as though he’s concerned or disappointed.
What would he have to be disappointed over? Wes’s inability to go after a semi-sure thing rather than having to create a plan just to ask his best friend out?
“Don’t worry,” Wes says, exhaling. “He won’t be stealing your permanent position as my plus-one to all future formal events.”
“Good.” Nico tears into more funnel cake, chewing with his mouth open.
How is he gross and attractive at the same time?
Defeated, Wes stares down the pier.
A man strums his guitar for passing tourists. His case is open, slowly filling with crinkled dollars and shiny coins. Eventually, a raspy voice accompanies him. It takes Wes a second to realize it’s Anna. He didn’t know she could sing. He didn’t know she’d be so bold, but here she is, singing Adele like some indie pop artist trying to gain cool points.
Wes spots Cooper whooping from the small audience forming around them. Kyra’s next to him, a dreamy expression softening her face.
“Wesley, I—” Nico doesn’t finish. He peers out at the water, nose wrinkled.
“I’m sorry about earlier. About…”
“Losing your shit?”
“Losing my shit,” Wes confirms.
“I get it.”
“You do?” Wes can’t curb the surprise in his voice.
“The bookstore means a lot to all of us, but it means everything to you. It always has. You’ve been in love with that place since day one.”
Wes has. Since the moment Calvin walked him through that glass door, around the cardboard stand advertising his mom’s newest book, to the comics corner. He sat down, cross-legged, with Wes and let him have at it for two hours. He never said a word. Not until he asked Wes which one he would like to take home.
“All of them!” Wes wanted to eat, sleep, and daydream on that gray carpet.
“It’s like a breakup,” Nico says to the ocean.
“Sorry. I don’t know that word,” teases Wes.
“Lauren Walsh,” Nico reminds him. “Angela Barry. Khalia Pressley.”
“Okay. Point made.”
So, Wes had a little bit of an issue with rejection in middle school. He failed to master the art of “no” whenever a girl asked him out. They were all fictious arrangements: holding hands in the halls; kissing on the cheek after class; writing the most dramatic poems via texts. And every girl would break up with him after two weeks.
It never bothered Wes. He didn’t recognize who he really wanted to date until much later.
“Anyway,” Wes says. “It’s worse than a breakup. It’s like a—”
“Death?”
A chill crawls over the back of Wes’s neck, seeping down his spine. He doesn’t want to compare losing Once Upon a Page to death. Not to Nico.
“I get that too,” whispers Nico. “Either way, it’s like someone reaching into your chest and ripping out half your heart. How do you survive with only half a heart?”
Wes doesn’t know.
Nico’s fingers are white from picking at his funnel cake. He raises a chunk. “Want some?”
Hesitation claws at Wes. He leans forward, and Nico pops the greasy, doughy piece into Wes’s open mouth. He chews slowly, grinning. Nico matches his expression. They’re twin white-bearded friends on a bench in the middle of a neon-lit pier while Anna sings Adele’s melancholy “Someone Like You.”
“Hey,” Nico says around another bite. “Peanut butter, orange soda, or High Mountain oolong?”
Wes wants to laugh at these ridiculous choices. First of all, Nico knows Wes isn’t going to choose that artificial abomination this world calls orange soda. Second, he knows Wes has recently developed a love for oolong tea thanks to Kyra and Brews and Views’ ever-changing menu.
But Wes says, “Peanut butter,” because it’s his go-to snack.
“I knew it,” Nico says, like always.
Wes isn’t in the mood to call him on his shit, not after the day he’s had.
“You’re so predictable.” Nico nudges Wes.
Did you predict I’d fall in love with you?
Wes’s brain is a disaster. He can’t take his eyes off the way Nico’s index finger pushes his glasses up his nose, leaving a white streak behind. He’s licking sugar from his thumb. It should be gross—it is gross—but Wes’s heart refuses to use that as motivation to just say what he’s supposed to say.
Stick to the plan.
“Gents, I must say…” Cooper leans over the back of the bench, his face swooping in between their shoulders. “… this is becoming the best summer of my life.”
“All sixteen years, huh,” Kyra says. She’s arm in arm with Anna as they stand behind Cooper.
“There’s no age on souls,” says Cooper, smiling lazily. It’s not hard to deduce he’s stoned.
“It’s a pretty wicked summer.” Nico slings an arm around Wes’s shoulders.
“Did we all miss the part about being jobless and one of this city’s greatest monuments being shut down?” Wes asks, his throat tight.
“Isn’t a monument something people build in memory of a person or place?” Kyra inquires.
“Thank you, Google,” huffs Wes.
Teasingly, Kyra nudges the back of his head. “Shut up.”
“Don’t give up, young son of Queen Savannah,” Cooper says. “It’s not over. We’re in the endgame now.”
“Did you just quote Infinity War to me?” Wes says, offended.
Cooper’s mouth stretches as if it’s made of taffy.
“He’s right,” Anna agrees. “If Mrs. Rossi hasn’t told us, then maybe there’s still a chance.”
Okay, they’re both stoned.
“Can we not talk about this right now?” Cooper requests. Wes couldn’t agree more. Let’s never talk about Once Upon a Page being shut down. Ever. “Junior year is on the horizon. Another one hundred and eighty days of math and science-y stuff. I just want to chill with my friends. My homies. My peeps.”
Wes thinks Cooper’s the kind of kid who never checks his Halloween candy before ingesting.
Before he knows it, words are being tossed around—something about hashtags and selfies—and Wes is squeezed between four people on the bench as Cooper plops into his lap. Phone extended, Cooper shouts, “Say ‘peeps not creeps,’” and then a flash. Another flash.
“Wicked,” Cooper says, dethroning from Wes’s knees.
Wes’s phone buzzes in his pocket. With Nico on one side and Anna on the other, he has to wiggle to reach it.
New notification from coopsarrow.
He’s tagged everyone in the post.
The selfie’s respectable. Pacific Park shines in the background. Cooper must’ve used a photo-editing app to remove the flash’s red-eye effect. Kyra and Anna are smiling goofily. Cooper’s beaming as if he’s physically walking on clouds. Nico’s glasses are crooked; his mouth gapes, white teeth blinding.
And there’s Wes, staring at Nico, mega heart eyes included.
“Hashtag love it,” says Kyra as she double taps her phone.
“Ultimate squad,” Cooper announces. “We’re just missing El’s Bells and Zay.”
Wes can’t take his eyes off how he looks at Nico in the photo. It’s so obvious. How could Nico not see it?
Hashtag Best Friend Crushes are the Worst.