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I once watched him score free tickets to a private beach concert for him and Jackson in under five minutes and all he had to do was sweep his gaze over the girl in charge of the event. He probably got me lemonade to distract me with his charm, so he didn’t have to spend too much time talking to his best friend’s little sister without any buffer.
Made just the way you like it, my helpful inner logic Tate reminds me.
Shut up, bitch. It doesn’t mean anything.
Of course he knows how I like my sweet drinks cut with water after growing up with him half-living here with front row seats to my arguments with Jackson about why it tastes better diluted.
My theory is proven when he twists around to shoot me a cocky wink. The dude’s got game and that’s exactly why he’s the ideal candidate for my project.
“Later.” He puts his empty glass in the sink and nods to me.
At a loss for what to do when he misses my point, I offer a weak wave. Well, crap. Back to the drawing board.
I didn’t even get the chance to do the presentation speech I prepared, the one I worked on for days. Should’ve gone with that instead of a soft broach. We could’ve been up in his room by now and my little problem would be taken care of.
The thought of that unchecked box on my list of goals burns in my brain.
“Damn it.” The glass of lemonade on the counter is the only witness to my mumble as I trail a fingertip through the condensation.
Face prickling with heat and stomach fluttering, I slowly bring my finger to my mouth and trace my lips with the cool wetness. My eyelids droop and I picture Cooper’s mouth brushing mine to chase the taste of lemonade.
Another bout of determination fills me.
This is going to work. This planhasto work.
I won’t give up that easily.
FOUR
COOPER
Tatum’s request to hang out is still stuck in my thoughts a couple of days later. I can’t get it out of my head. It’s lumped right in with the existential dread that picks the best moments to creep up on me, like now at 2am while I’m sitting up with insomnia.
Doesn’t help that she’s always occupying a corner of my mind.
My gaze cuts to the open window. The Danvers house is dark. Tate’s window is catty-corner to mine. The sound of the waves is faint, but easier to hear this late. Our block isn’t far from the coast.
I should’ve agreed to go to the party with Jackson tonight, but I wasn’t feeling it. He rode me about it all day during our shift at the Shack and after, while we sat on our boards waiting for the perfect wave. I haven’t been in the mood to play wingman since Kayla dumped me.
Maybe that makes me a shitty friend to skip out on helping him score, but there’s been a lot on my mind.
Namely the crumpled up piece of paper sitting on my nightstand I’ve read a hundred times. The letter from my advisor came at the end of the spring semester about my academic probation. My freshman year was filled with a bit too much partying and not enough hitting the books to keep up with my classes. It claims I need to find direction and turn my GPA around for my sophomore year of college.
A ragged breath leaves me as I sink back onto the rumpled sheets, scrubbing a hand over my face. I don’t know. Have no fucking clue what direction I want my life to take.
I’m about to turn twenty, how the shit am I supposed to know what I want to do forever?
Sure, I believe some people know their dreams and aspirations long before college. People like Tatum Danvers, who have it together and can see their life plan clear as day.
But I’m not one of those people. My major is undeclared and I’m still not sure what I should decide on. What if the choice I make isn’t the right one? What if I want to change my mind in a year? What if whatever I end up doing is something I wake up five years down the road hating?
Christ, I need to take the edge off before I push myself into a full-blown anxiety attack over this life crap.
All I know is things are easier in the summer, when all I have to worry about is work, surfing, playing ball, and just living day to day instead of looking ahead and planning my future out.
With a groan, I roll out of bed and rustle around in my stash for a joint before heading to lean out the window. I brace my forearms on the windowsill. The first hit has my eyes hooding in relief.
I’m not an idiot. I know I’ll have to figure out something.
