Well, this is boring. The bookstore has been quiet for well over an hour now, but Mrs. Baxter assures me that’ll change once the official tourist season kicks off on Memorial Day. Right now, the island’s population is still mostly locals who don’t give a flying fig about beach reads and “I heart Edisto” postcards. So, other than the two orders of live bait I rang up this morning for a few grungy-looking fishermen and the obligatory first-day-of-work-courtesy-visits from Memaw, Gin, and Bo, the time has lagged.
Mrs. Baxter doesn’t even stick around. She retreats to her sweet setup on the lower level, half back-stock and supplies for the shop and half private lounge with a full leather reclining sofa and big screen TV, disappearing down the back stairs with a, “Give me a holler if you need anything. I’ll be watching my soap operas.”
A stack of hardback books sit catty-cornered on the counter’s edge, ready to be shelved. I load them in my arms and carry them over to the metal shelves against the wall, sliding each into its alphabetical home and sending poofs of dust spiraling into my face. I swipe my finger across the metal ledge and pull back a black smudge. Dust much, Mrs. Baxter? Now I know why the white feathers on that duster hanging on the peg beside the cash register are, in fact, still white.
I’m on my way back to the counter to grab it when the chimes on the door sound.
“Welcome to Beachin’ Books where every day is a beachin’ good day. I’ll be right with you,” I call over my shoulder.
“No rush.”
Her voice is immediately recognizable—Rachel, the pink-haired girl from Jett’s racing team. I walk to the register and peek at her around the metal shelf. She saunters to the refrigerator case in the back and bends over to grab a Cherry Coke from the bottom row. In her short shorts and cropped purple tank top, she moves toward me like a panther—stealthy and fluid with just the smallest hint of cunning.
“So, how’s your first day?” She twirls one of her cotton-candy pigtails around her finger while I ring up her purchase.
I hand her the change, and she shoves it in her itty-bitty pockets. “Not bad. A little slow.”
“Any visitors? You know how people like to get all stupid about first days.” She rolls her eyes.
I nod. “Memaw came in, of course, and Gin and Bo? You know them, right?”
“Are those the kids Jett’s known forever?” She pauses and takes a sip. “They’re okay. Not really my crowd.”
Imagining sweet, innocent Gin hanging out with this girl is comical. And I’m sort of confused as to why she and I are even having this conversation. She didn’t seem too interested in getting to know me before.
“So…you and Jett have become friends?”
And there it is—fishing for details. He told me she was with Trévon, but the way she acted the other day was “extra.” Obviously, she wants something more from Jett than friendship. “I wouldn’t say friends. We’ve hung out a little. I barely know him, really.”
“That’s an understatement.”
My lips crimp together. “What do you mean?”
She sighs and slams her drink so hard on the counter, the brown fizz crackles around the bottle’s rim. “Look, Carlie…”
“Cami…I mean, CJ.”
“Sorry…Cami, CJ whatever…I’m going to be honest with you. Jett can draw you in. He’s hot, lots of natural charm. He’s like a freakin’ magnet. But magnets don’t attract just one object at a time. Get what I mean?”
“Not really.” I shake my head, grab the duster from the peg, and head toward the shelves.
She follows behind. “Look, I saw how you puppy-dog-eyed him the other day.” I whip my head toward her, starting to protest, but she waves me off. “You aren’t the first girl to get that look, and Lord knows you won’t be the last. Girls flock to him. You should see him work the rooms at our promo events. Smiling, flirting, hugging for selfies with all the chicks in line drooling, pawing, and showing him their boobs.”
The words and the images running through my imagination sucker-punch me in the gut. I blow out a deep breath and attack the book dusting with a vengeance, spewing minute particles into a frenzied haze around us. This. This is the reason I wanted no part of this romance shit this summer. This summer of relaxation is turning into a hellacious stress-pit already.
Rachel winces as the dust storm attacks her face, stepping back a minute to sneeze a couple times before reigniting her argument. “I don’t mean to be crude. It’s just…” She grabs my shoulder, spilling icy-cold droplets across my skin as I jerk away from her touch. “Anyone can see you’re an old-fashioned sort of girl, and, well, Jett appreciates the fast and wild. He’s a racer, first and foremost. Girls are just a diversion, and that’s something he doesn’t need right now.”
“Girls?” I repeat. Plural. Like multiple girls. My chest wrenches in a vice grip.
She shrugs. “How else do you explain his disappearing acts every time we go on our promo trips?”
“Disappearing acts?” I repeat again over my shoulder as I walk back to the register. Having a counter between us is ideal. Too bad it isn’t a brick wall with razor-wire across the top.
She leans across it on her elbows, lowering her voice to barely a whisper. “He denies it, but every time we’re gone, the girls will line up and fawn all over him. Then two hours later, he’s gone. MIA. He’ll finally show up again around midnight or later. You connect the dots.” She raises her eyebrows higher on her forehead and reaches out to touch my hand. Seeing it coming, I jerk it from the counter and shove it in my pocket. Rachel smirks at the slight and continues, “I’m not trying to ruin anything for you. I mean, you are only here for the summer, so if a fast and crazy months-long fling is what you’re looking for, you’re probably in luck. But, honestly, you picked the wrong summer for that. He doesn’t have time this year for playing around. He’ll be training or on the road because we have a hectic schedule this summer before his big race in August.”
“Big race?” I cringe, wanting to punch myself in the face. I’m like her ventriloquist dummy stuck on repeat.
“He didn’t tell you? Weird. He hasn’t shut up about it to everyone else.” She pauses and waits for my reaction, searching my face, eyes wide. I don’t give her the satisfaction; my stone façade won’t crack. I’m mad enough at myself for the emotions raging inside right now. No way I’m giving Rachel a reason to enjoy it at my expense. She sighs. “It’ll be the race that makes or breaks his career. If he wins, he’s going to the big time, and he’s taking us with him. The sponsorship dollars will really roll in then.” She rubs her first two fingers against her thumb, making the “cash” sign. “Maybe then—and only then—he’ll slow down enough to have an actual girlfriend. I know that’s what Dani’s waiting on.”
“Dani?”
She slaps her hand over her mouth, giggling through her fingers. “She’s part of the racing promotional team we’ve worked with on and off again for the past three years. They hit it off when they first met. You know, so much in common with the racing and all. We’ll be working with her all summer on promotions.”
Maybe this Dani girl will get her wish. Maybe she’ll work with Jett, so freaking close she can fulfill her every fantasy. Fine with me.
Only that’s a lie.
It isn’t anywhere close to being fine with me, and I can’t believe how stupid I was to believe for even a moment there was something between us. But even as I’m thinking it, even as my resolve says to forget him completely, my heart rages in protest. There was something there. A spark.
Wasn’t there?
My bullshit-o-meter is pretty astute. At least, it always was before.
Maybe the wreck took that away from me too.
The door chimes again as Jett strolls in, smile stretched wide. I drop my head and inspect the ragged cuticles on my nails. He walks forward and raps on the counter, and when I glance up, he points to his ear.
“What?” I fold my arms across my chest, careful to keep the stone-face intact.
“A true Beachin’ Books cashier needs to give me the traditional welcome. I’m waiting.”
“Welcome to Beachin’ Books where every day is a beachin’ good day.” My voice lacks any inflection, almost robotic in measured beats.
Jett studies my face, while I strangle the gnawing desire to simultaneously hug him and ring his neck. He swallows hard and cuts his eyes back and forth between me and Rachel.
“What are you doing here, Rach?”
She smiles and pushes her soda in Jett’s face. “Getting a drink.”
Silence envelopes us. Not one of those peaceful lulls, but a negatively-charged cloud. Everyone begins fidgeting. Jett pops his knuckles while I tap-tap-tap a red pen against the side of the register.
His green eyes burn through me, the same way they have every time we’ve been together. But now I’m more confused than ever. I’d mistakenly taken it as his interest in me—who I was—but if Rachel’s right, he’s only interested in a conquest, some no-strings summertime fling that’ll die way too soon, like everything else in my life. It’s not like I expect us to fall in love or anything, but I am not someone to be used.
“Is there anything you’re needing to check out, or can I be excused to go wash these filthy windows?” I reach beneath the counter to grab a bottle of glass cleaner and shove a roll of paper towels under my arm.
“I came by to chat if—”
“Sorry. I’m on the clock,” I say, pointing to the digital display on the wall.
Jett pulls his shoulders back as if I’ve taken a swing at him. “Seriously?”
“I take everything seriously. I don’t have time for playing around or players.” I walk around the counter, smooshing between the two of them and a shelving unit on my way to the plate-glass windows. “Oh, and have a beachin’ good day!” I holler over my shoulder without looking back.
Without another word, Jett and Rachel leave, the electronic chimes followed by the door slam and their staccato steps on the staircase. I stand, nose nearly touching the glass, and watch the sailboats, their happy fabric sails like Skittles thrown out against the blue sky. Something catches my eye from the dock. Jett stands there, looking up at me with his shoulders shrugged and palms in the air.
Ask Rachel.
I concentrate my energy into the thought as if somehow it’ll reach him through telepathy. But he still stands there, pretending he’s Mr. Innocent.
I raise the bottle of cleaner and pull the trigger. Blue liquid sprays across the glass and runs down in streaks, warping and puddling his image. I wad a few paper towels and swipe the glass in circles, never meeting his eyes. After a minute, he drops his hands and walks away, disappearing into the back door of The Shrimp Shack.
I pull my phone from my pocket and tap out a quick text message to Memaw.
<Me> Might be a little late for supper.