15
Brynn
I peek out the window and see Spencer outside my kitchen door, ready for our date to the observatory, wearing a freshly pressed pair of khakis and a soft linen dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up his arms, and I have to grip the kitchen countertop as my heart beats so damn hard that for a moment I think I’m actually going to swoon—that is, until I notice the bicycle behind him.
I assumed when he said “Pick you up at seven” earlier that he meant in his car. Now, as I stare out the window, I notice that Spencer is holding his bike, and my swooning shifts to panicking because I do not bike.
Or at least I haven’t since I was in middle school, and even then, my skills were questionable.
My brain immediately seeks out an excuse. Injury? Weather? Strong belief that it’s next to impossible to look cute while riding?
But by the time I get outside, Spencer is already inside Sloan’s shed, pulling out her mint-green cruiser.
“It’s such a beautiful night.” He wheels the bike toward me. “I thought we’d go for a spin. I know how much you like to ride.”
I stare down at my sundress. Today it’s a two-piece matching set made of pale-pink fabric with yellow flowers. It has a smocked-waist top and a full skirt that falls to the knee. No one in their right mind would look at it and think it’s cycling attire.
Except for Sloan.
That was her thing.
Zipping around town in her cute dresses, hair flowing in the breeze.
And now her thing is my thing. So I smile my best Sloan Edwards smile and grab the handlebars.
“Sounds like fun.”
Fun is maybe a bit too ambitious of a word.
I almost crash three times before we even get to the end of Sloan’s street.
Then I do crash.
While I’m making a sharp left, my sandal slips off the pedal, and my fall is broken by an overgrown hydrangea bush.
When Spencer comes to pull me out, I blame a nonexistent pothole.
Post-bush, things do take a slight upturn.
By the time we’re out of the main area of town, I’m starting to get the hang of things. I’m even thinking dangerous thoughts like Maybe they weren’t so wrong when they coined the phrase “It’s like riding a bike.”
Then we hit the hill.
Here’s the thing about observatories. They work best with an unobstructed view of the sky. Which means the tops of hills are prime real estate. Which means two-point-five miles straight up on yet another questionably maintained road.
“Stupid forking pothole,” I swear as I narrowly avoid another hydrangea incident.
Spencer cruises up beside me and flashes an easy smile. He’s not sweating or swearing or struggling for oxygen. “What did you say?”
“Just admiring the view,” I gasp out between labored breaths, nodding at a field of horses.
There are two brown mares grazing in the grass next to the fence.
“Are you feeling okay?” He leans forward to get a better view of my face. “You’re kind of turning purple.”
I’m also starting to see little black specks at the edge of my vision. I was not cut out for this much cardio.
“Just peachy.” I wheeze in a deep breath of much-needed oxygen.
“Great.” He pops up off his seat, picking up speed. “I’ll race you the rest of the way, then.”
He takes off before I can tell him that’s easily the worst idea I’ve ever heard. A few moments later, I hear a loud “Wahoo” from up ahead and silently pray it’s him claiming victory.
By the time I reach the top, he’s already parked his bike and is pulling his backpack off.
I stop at the edge of the parking lot. It’s mainly because I’m out of breath and need to catch it before I attempt conversation again, but it’s also to take in the scenery.
The observatory is on a stretch of flat rock surrounded by grass and low-lying shrubbery. There’s an unobstructed view of the whole island and ocean as far as the eye can see. The observatory itself is a large cylinder made of gray stone, with dark ivy running up the side and a big white globe protruding from the roof.
It was the setting for one of the most iconic and swoony episodes of Carson’s Cove—ever. That episode contained the kind of moment that makes you wish you could self-inflict some sort of temporary, targeted amnesia so that you can live it for the first time over and over and over again.
Funnily enough, this heart-clenching moment wasn’t even between Spencer and Sloan; it was between Fletch and Maya Colletti.
For most of the third season, Fletch had a bit of a drug problem. He ran track at Carson’s Cove High and hoped to get a scholarship—until he failed his biology midterm. He started buying Adderall to study. Over the course of the season, he became more and more addicted to it. The climax came when he punched a wall at Poppy Bensen’s after-prom party and tried to cover it up with Mr. Bensen’s painting of The Last Supper. No one spoke to him for weeks.
Enter the new girl: Maya Colletti. Very beautiful. Very opinionated. A little bit pregnant. Her soon-to-be-teen-mom status made her an instant outcast, so she and Fletch became fast friends. She helped him get clean through tough love and an epic monologue in the middle of a thunderstorm. So when her parents found out about the soon-to-be baby and tried to ship her off to a home for unwed mothers, Fletch proposed.
He wasn’t the father. But he took Maya to the observatory, filled it with candles, got down on one knee, and promised that if she took a chance on a screw-up like him, he’d take care of her and her baby forever.
America swooned and fell in love.
Maya said no.
Her refusal left Fletch moody and devastated for most of season three, while Maya left the show (possibly because the actress who played her got a role in an action movie franchise).
As much as I know that it’s completely unrealistic to expect candlelight and soul-baring declarations of eternal love, I have high expectations for my date with Spencer.
What I get is the same blue blanket from last night spread out on the floor and a playlist of John Mayer hits played from Spencer’s iPhone.
“I packed us a picnic.” Spencer pulls several containers from his backpack. Unlike last night’s picnic of Luce’s homemade bougie cheeses and bread, this feast includes a few brown glass bottles, some tiny jars, and a box of something that appears to be carbohydrate in nature.
“Here, let me help you.” I sit down beside him, chastising myself for being silly. He’s obviously put a lot of thought into the evening. I should learn to manage my expectations.
“What’s this?” I open a plastic container and take a sniff. The stench makes me gag, which I cover with a cough, snapping the lid and tossing the container off the blanket. “I think that may have gone bad.”
Spencer retrieves it with a laugh. “It’s called kefir. Everyone in LA eats it. It’s great for digestion.”
I digest just fine on my own. And I stand by my earlier assessment that something has gone seriously wrong inside that container, but I ignore it and instead turn my attention to the silver flask Spencer is handing to me.
“Here. Try this. I brought an entire case of it with me when I came back from LA. It’s impossible to get outside of California. I think you’re really going to enjoy it.”
I take a swig. I think there’s a part of me that was fooled by the flask and expected booze. So when the taste of rotten apples hits the back of my mouth, it’s twice as bad.
“What do you think of the kombucha?” he asks.
It tastes like sadness.
I don’t tell him this, of course. Mostly because my mouth is still full and both unable and unwilling to swallow.
Instead, I draw a deep breath through my nose, telling myself that on the count of three, I’ll force it down.
One…
Two…
I’m too late.
My gag reflex overpowers my sheer will. Instead of swallowing, I spray. Like a Saturday-morning cartoon. All over the picnic blanket.
“I’m so sorry!” I pound my chest with my fist. “That must have gone down the wrong way.”
Spencer reaches up and tucks a kombucha-soaked strand of hair behind my ear. “It takes a little while to truly enjoy kombucha, but don’t worry, I’ve got lots of other stuff for you to try.”
I watch as he unloads several more containers from his backpack, each with a painstakingly long explanation of how hip/healthy/hard to find the item is. The entire time, all I can think about is how slimy and wet my hair is behind my ear and how desperately I want to untuck it. I honestly think this date cannot get any worse.
Then it gets worse.
“Try this.” Spencer holds up one of the containers, then watches with genuine enthusiasm as I try his homemade kale chips, followed by these brown disks that he claims are crackers but are more like patties of birdseed that stick so badly to the inside of my throat that I almost, almost consider taking another swig of kombucha just to get them down.
“Are you enjoying the picnic?” Spencer asks as I force down the final bite of birdseed.
“Mmmmm hmmm” is all I can think to answer, because even though I’ve wanted Spencer and Sloan to finally go on a date for years, I cannot deal with this food. I just can’t.
I’m searching for my next excuse. I’m full. Allergic. Feeling the onset of a stomachache. But before I can come up with something plausible, Spencer reaches into his backpack and pulls out yet another container. This one is a brown paper bag with the logo for the Carson’s Cove general store on the side.
“I got you something.” He holds out the bag.
I hesitate, terrified that there’s more food inside. But Spencer continues to hold it out until I relent and take it from his hands.
“Earlier, when I saw you at the store, you said you were there to buy batteries for your flashlights, but then you forgot to buy them,” he explains. “I figured I’d pick a couple up. I know how much you used to hate the dark.”
Sure enough, when I peer into the bag, there’s no food inside. Only two small flashlights. They’re plain and silver, and yet they make my insides gooey. This is the Spencer that I have been waiting for. The guy who knows his best friend down to her core. Who remembers that the night Sloan’s parents died, the power was out, and she had an irrational fear of the dark for years.
“Spencer, this is really so sweet. I’m touched. Thank you.”
Spencer dips his head to hide the faint blush on his cheeks. He reaches over and pulls one of the lights from the bag, flicks it on to prove that it works, and then places it back inside. “I know it doesn’t bother you as much as it used to, but I figured I’d have these handy just in case. Be right back.”
He gets to his feet and disappears behind a door, and a moment later, there’s a loud machinelike whirring. All of a sudden, the roof opens up, and the sky above is filled with a million twinkling lights. It’s spectacular. He settles onto the blanket beside me. Neither of us says a word. We just stare. Exist. Bask in the reminder of how insignificant we are. As I gaze up at the soft shimmer of the Milky Way, I feel it. That catch in my chest. That assurance that somehow Spencer knew me and how much I’d love this moment. That knowledge that all of this is somehow meant to be.
When I finally tear my eyes away, I find him staring at me with an unreadable look on his face.
“Thank you for this.” My eyes drift back toward the sky. “It’s really beautiful, and I love it.”
Spencer shifts his weight, moving him another inch closer so that our hands are almost touching.
“I need to ask you something.” His voice is so deep that I can practically feel it in my core.
“Anything.”
“Are you and Fletch…” He leaves it there. It takes a full breath before I realize that he’s asking if Fletch and I are together.
“No. Absolutely not.”
He lets out a relieved breath. “Good. I thought I noticed something between you last night, and when I saw you two together today…well, I wanted to make sure.”
“We’re just…” Friends? Roommates? Co-victims in Sheldon’s deranged plot? “We’re not like that.”
His eyes soften at my answer. “Well, I’m relieved to hear that.” He drops his head, and a lock of blond hair falls across his forehead. I reach out, on instinct, to brush it away. He looks up, catching my hand in his.
He tugs me toward him. And somehow, I know exactly what’s about to happen. I’ve seen that look in his eyes before. Watched it on repeat when my own life was falling apart. “That’s very good. Because if you were, I couldn’t do this.”
I brace for stars. Firecrackers. The feeling that I’m falling. That I’m coming home.
His lips press hard into mine, clanking our teeth together.
His tongue parts my lips.
It’s wet. And swirling. And tastes like kombucha.
And still swirling.
My stomach doesn’t bottom out. My head doesn’t swoon. If anything, I’m acutely aware of the rough texture of his sandpaper tongue.
And then it’s done.
He pulls away. “Wow, Sloan. That was…”
Bad.
Really, really bad.
I want to tell him that it must have been a fluke. That we weren’t yet properly calibrated. We were too long apart. We weren’t quite back in the Sloan-and-Spencer groove.
He reaches out and grabs my hand. “That was incredible.”
I stare back at him, dumbfounded, searching his face for something to explain why the kiss I just experienced and the kiss he just described do not match. But his eyes are all big and blue and absolutely sincere.
“I hate to say this, but we should probably head back.” He holds out his hand to help me to my feet. “It’s getting really late.”
I help him pack up the picnic, dissecting the kiss in my head.
Is he lying?
Or is he too polite to admit the kiss was terrible?
Because it was terrible.
It definitely wasn’t the epic culmination of five long seasons of sexual tension.
So what was the problem?
Was it him? It can’t be him. He’s Spencer Woods.
It must be me and the fact that I am not Sloan.
Or worse, that underneath it all, I’m no longer capable of a toe-curling kiss.
I’ve suspected, long before arriving in Carson’s Cove, that my relationship with my ex broke me more than I thought. That maybe there’s something wrong with me. That all of my failed dates were my doing and this bitter taste in my mouth that I can never seem to swallow is because I am no longer capable of feeling that spark. That I had my shot at love and I blew it and this is just how I exist now, stuck in that sad place where I know what love feels like, but it’s on top of a big hill, and my pedaling legs no longer have the stamina to reach it.
I’m so lost in my own thoughts on the ride back into town that I actually ride my bike with zero issues down the terrifyingly dark hill. I’m so in my own head, figuring out where exactly I went wrong tonight, that I have to swerve when Spencer stops unexpectedly at the edge of town.
“What is going on there?”
He points at the Bronze, which is all lit up. People are milling outside the door, and from what I can see, there are more inside as well.
Spencer rolls his bike up closer. I can hear the sound of classic rock every time someone opens the door.
“I thought that place was essentially shut down. I wonder what happened?” he asks, meeting my eyes for the first time since the kissing incident.
A funny feeling settles in my stomach.
I have a very good idea.