Chapter Nineteen
Alex
It’s been a shit day, and after practice all I want to do is drive. Wait, scratch that. All I want to do is see Bailey. I want to talk to her and make sure we’re okay, figure out what’s happening, and find out why she’s still planning to ask Caleb Gray to the prom. But I never could find her at school, and now she’s not answering my texts.
There are thoughts going through my mind that I’m not used to having. Thoughts like, “She’s blowing me off.” Usually I want a girl to do that. I can’t wait for them to.
This is different.
I need to refocus and figure out what to do next, so I decide to head to the beach. Being so close to the Gulf is one of the pros of living in this part of Florida. I haven’t been in a while, but it’s always been a good place to think.
By the time I get there, park, and walk out on the sand, I’ve already been thinking too much, and my mind is seriously in a bad place.
That kiss. That damn kiss. Kisses. Plural. I don’t doubt she wanted it, but now I’m afraid she might regret it. I don’t regret it. It was—I don’t even know. It was not like anything I’ve ever felt. It was perfect.
How could she regret it? How could she not feel the same as me?
I pull off my T-shirt and walk toward the calm water. It’s cool and feels good on my screaming muscles, which I beat up today in practice. I was a ball of stress and anger, but I went out of my way to avoid Caleb. I think if I’d had the opportunity, I would have taken him down again.
I swim out as the sun sets over the Gulf —all pink and orange and melon colored. I’ve brought a lot of girls to this stretch of sand. Not Bailey. We’ve never even come as friends. She’s always too busy, always working. She could stand a trip, though. I’m pretty sure she must have Vitamin D issues with that pale skin.
That skin that’s soft and perfect. Those lips, full and wet and, for a second, mine.
I lay on my back, floating, thinking about the kiss. I can’t get it out of my head. I growl loudly and swim back to shore.
When I can, I stand up. The water laps at my knees, and I shake my grown-out hair. I wish she were here. I always wish she was with me, even before the kiss. Since the first time I met her in the express lane and she made me laugh.
I stare at the last sliver of sun as it gets sucked into the horizon. I know she’s still planning on going through this promposal. I know that the writing is pretty much on the wall, but I also know that I’m not giving up. How can I?
Back on the sand, I grab my towel and check my phone. Shit. Still nothing from her, just a text from Dad. Did I get the cookies? He’s really sorry they won’t be here for Senior Night, but they’ll make it up to me. Great. I don’t care.
Bigger fish to fry and all that.
The game itself, for one. Even though the school from Lakeland isn’t that good, you can’t take anything for granted.
Plus, Bailey’s sort of become like a good luck charm to me. We’ve had a good season so far, and I don’t think it’s the long hair or the Sprite and Reese’s or the scratchy beard. I think she’s my luck. I need her.
If she can’t talk because she’s busy, I can go to her. She’s not usually hard to find.
When I go to throw my towel in the back of the Jeep, I see the posters that we made and her cowboy props. The glitter sparkles in the overhead light. I moved them in here so Miriam wouldn’t bitch about the glitter. Funny, when we made them the other night, I didn’t see any of this coming.
Right now, I want to burn all of it with fire. Big fire. What I don’t want to do is to burn us.
I want us. I want to fight for us, whatever we are.
I drive back into town and go straight to the coffee shop. Her car’s parked out back. It’s time to deal with this head on. I’m not sure what I’ll say to her, and I have to admit I’m nervous as hell when I reach for the door handle. I catch sight of my reflection in the glass—I look like shit, hair all matted from salt water, old T-shirt, damp board shorts and flip flops, but I don’t care.
The place is busy, it’s always busy, and they never have enough people working. When I get inside, there’s a dude from school behind the counter and that creepy assistant manager. I can’t remember his name. Bailey is nowhere.
I walk to the side of the baked goods case and lean my head into the back area. They’re both at the machines, making the coffee. They don’t even see me. I clear my throat, and manager creeper snaps his head toward me.
“Can I help you?” This guy is tall but skinny. I can see he’s trying to look tough.
“Yeah. Hi. Do you know if Bailey is around?”
He stabs me with a death glare and crosses his arms. “Do you see her?”
What? “No, but she’s working, right?”
The corner of his lip curls up. This guy is snarling at me. “She’s on a break, and you should go.”
What is with this guy? He walks closer to me, and now we’ve got an audience. The whole store is quiet. He’s a foot away, in my face. I hold up my hands. “Look, it’s okay, I’m her friend. I just need to talk to her.”
“She doesn’t want to talk to you.”
I take a step back, eye the door to the back room. “Excuse me?”
“She doesn’t. Want. To talk. To you.”
I glare at him. “Dude, sorry, but I’ll have to hear that from her.”
He shrugs. “Well, you can’t, can you, because she doesn’t want to talk to you. See how that works?”
I screw up my mouth and meet his beady-ass stare. “What’s your problem?” I didn’t come here to get in a fight with this tool.
“You’re the one with the problem, dude!” He points to the front door. “Now go.”
I put up both arms and give him the finger with both hands as I walk out, which feels good for about a second. When I get back to the car, though, I’m breathing heavy and my blood is pumping hard.
I grip the steering wheel and try to process what happened in there. Bailey can’t stand that guy, so why should I believe what he said? I whip out my phone and send her a text.
I wait a minute. Two. Five minutes later, she texts back.
Fine? I look back to the red brick building.
One more minute. Two. Ten. Seriously?
Fine, I get it, but this is stupid. We kissed. We need to figure out what happens next, and I hope what happens next isn’t going to be that goddamn promposal Friday night.
I hurriedly type a response.
I want to straight up murder my autocorrect. At least she’ll get a laugh out of it.
No laughing. And “of course?” Okay. She wants to talk, but she’s busy. Bailey is busy, not blowing you off. No big deal.