Aliyah turns her head to look at me. “Mase, when are you gonna allow yourself to date? Youdeservelove.”
“I have love,” I argue. “I have you and Maddie and Mom.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
I let out a breath. “Well, Maddie turns eighteen in five years. Maybe I’ll look for a boyfriend then.”
She frowns. “You can’t put your life on hold for that long. That’s not fair to you.”
“Life’s not fair.”
“Ugh, you’re so pessimistic.” She buries her face in my shirt. “Your Mr. Perfect is out there somewhere. I truly believe it. I think he’ll surprise you.”
I seriously doubt it. I know this is just one of Aliyah’s weed-induced ramblings, and I’ve learned not to take those too seriously.
“You need to stop shutting people out,” she continues. “If you want love, you have to be open to it. Like a great philosopher once said:Love is an open door.”
I still in her arms. When her words finally click, I groan with annoyance.
“Did you seriously just quoteFrozenat me?”
Aliyah grins, triumphant. “Of course.”
I laugh so hard I nearly cry.
“You’re a fucking weirdo.”
She hugs me tighter. “Takes one to know one.”
Chapter Eight
When I climb up the lifeguard tower the next day, I find a paper-wrapped bouquet of yellow sunflowers perched on the railing. A handwritten note dangles from one of the stems, tied with a bit of string. It’s addressed to me.
My heart lurches. No one has ever given me flowers before.
I unfold the note, my eyes scanning across it.
Mason,
I’m sorry for being a dick yesterday. I hope we can be friends this summer.
Sincerely,
Hunter
A wave of regret washes over me. Maybe I was too hard on him. My fuse has been exceptionally short lately, and it doesn’t take much to set me off.
I tuck the flowers into my backpack before leaning against the railing. The beach is packed again today, and I’m grateful another lifeguard will be here soon to help me out. Too bad it isn’t Aliyah. Instead, I’m scheduled to work with the other part-time lifeguard, Ryan. He’s kind of an idiot, and he doesn’t take the job seriously. I’ve caught him several times texting in the lifeguard tower.
Seventeen minutes late, Ryan finally shows up. He jogs up to the stand with zero urgency, mumbling something about holiday weekend traffic.
He’s eighteen but looks much younger. He still has that boyish pudge on his cheeks. He has dark brown hair with overgrown fringe that constantly falls in front of his eyes. I often wonder how he manages to do his job with all that hair obstructing his view.
“How’s it going, Mason?” he asks, already sounding bored.
“Fine. You?”
“Good.”
