Float, page 15
“—I’ll be the maid of honor and—”
“Lena!”
She stopped mid-rant.
“What?”
“Look,” I said, leaning over the side of the armchair. I glanced at the doorway to the kitchen out of the corner of my eye, checking to make sure that Aunt Rachel was completely out of earshot. “No one else can know, okay? Not my aunt, not Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, and definitely not Alissa.”
Lena nodded. “I won’t tell Jesse either.”
“Oh,” I said, thinking back to last night. “That won’t be an issue.”
“Why not?”
“He already found out. That, you know, I like Blake.”
Lena’s mouth popped open, and for a moment, she just looked shocked. Then her face twisted into a grimace.
“Jesse knew?” she cried indignantly. “You told him before you told me?”
“I never told him anything! He found it out—”
“Found it out?” Lena repeated, then threw herself backward across the couch—her legs swinging up and nearly kicking me in the face before she draped them over the armrest—and grabbed a decorative orange pillow. She buried her face into it, moaning, “I am an idiot!”
Rachel chose that moment to pad back into the living room, a steaming mug of something—coffee, most likely—clasped in her hand.
“Lena, dear, not with my nice pillows,” she scolded, sipping her drink.
“Sorry, Ms. Lyons,” Lena grumbled, sitting up and setting the pillow back in place.
Rachel plopped down in the other armchair.
“Now,” she said, snatching the remote up from the coffee table, “what should we watch?”
I opened my mouth to voice a suggestion but was interrupted by the doorbell.
“Who’s that?” Lena asked.
“Let me consult my crystal ball,” I deadpanned.
Lena shot me a look that could only mean I’m getting real tired of your shit.
“I’ll get it,” Rachel announced but didn’t move right away. Instead, she glanced first at her left hand (the one holding her mug of coffee) and then her right hand (the one clenched around the remote). I could tell that she was having an internal battle about which object to put down on the table so she could answer the door. But Rachel couldn’t decide between her caffeine and her reality TV, so she tucked the remote under her left arm and rose from her chair slowly, her eyes locked on her cup of coffee. She managed to stand up without spilling even a drop. I considered giving her a standing ovation, but she’d probably think I was just being a sarcastic smartass.
“Five bucks says it’s Blake,” Lena whispered as Rachel started toward the door.
My heart did the funniest thing. It lurched, like I was on a roller coaster. Just the idea that Blake Hamilton might be at the front door sent a shot of adrenaline running through me.
“Five bucks says it’s not,” I whispered back, my voice sounding oddly high pitched.
Rachel pulled open the door slowly so she wouldn’t spill her coffee.
Standing in the doorway was Chloe Hamilton, wearing a little yellow sundress and carrying a white designer handbag on her arm.
“Damn it,” Lena swore.
I laughed, half relieved and half disappointed.
“You owe me five bucks.”
Lena groaned and sank farther down on the couch.
“Hi there, Chloe!” Rachel greeted her, the friendly grin on her face wavering a little as she compared her attire—fluffy robe, slippers, and haphazardly constructed bun—with Chloe’s impeccably cute outfit. “Would you like to come inside?”
“Yes, thank you,” Chloe said, stepping into the house. Even in her wedge heels, she was shorter than Rachel by a good four inches.
“What’s up?” Rachel asked, kicking the front door closed.
“I came to see how your niece is doing,” Chloe answered, glancing around the living room for a second before her dark eyes landed on me. Her face twisted into a grimace for a split second before she could compose herself. “Waverly!” she cried. “You look . . . better.”
Lena snorted.
“I feel better,” I replied.
Aside from the throbbing pain in my eye.
“I, ah, have something for you,” Chloe said, reaching a perfectly manicured hand into her white handbag. After a moment of digging around, she pulled out a little blue envelope with my name scribbled on the back of it. “This is from Blake.”
I could practically feel Lena smirking at the back of my head as I shot up from the armchair and hurried across the living room. My cheeks suddenly felt like they were on fire, and I nearly lost my footing and tripped on the edge of the rug under the coffee table.
“Thanks,” I murmured, snatching the letter from Chloe’s tiny hand.
“I made him write it,” Chloe admitted, smiling sheepishly as she tucked a curl of platinum-blond hair behind her ear. “It’s an apology note.”
“Oh,” I said, my cheeks burning even hotter. “He really didn’t need to—”
“He did.” Chloe interrupted me.
I didn’t have the balls to argue with her, so I just smiled awkwardly. Rachel was suddenly staring at me like she expected me to rip open the envelope and read Blake’s note aloud, so I decided I wanted a bit of privacy.
“I’ll go read this,” I said, waving the letter around for emphasis, “in the kitchen.”
I spun on my heels and started walking.
“I’ll come with you!” Lena cried, tumbling over the back of the couch.
The kitchen was bright, partly because it was sunny outside and partly because the walls were painted an incredibly reflective white. I sprinted toward the little kitchen table—which was covered in a menagerie of art magazines, paint swatches, and unopened packets of brand-new paintbrushes—and launched myself into one of the cute little chairs that were made of driftwood and painted vibrant orange, green, and blue. Lena grabbed the chair next to mine and yanked it over so our legs and shoulders were pressed together.
“Open it, open it!” she cried.
“Shush!” I hissed. “Stop acting like a four-year-old! It’s just a letter.”
But I was excited too. So excited I felt like giggling.
“Oh, come on!” Lena said, slapping me on the shoulder. “This is so romantic!”
“It’s a sorry I inadvertently gave you a black eye note, Lena.”
“But—”
“That his stepmom forced him to write.”
“Could you stop being such a downer and open the goddamned letter already?”
I sighed and looked down at the envelope.
My name, Waverly, was scrawled on the envelope in thick blue crayon. I had to laugh at that. Blake must’ve borrowed one of Isabel’s or something. The sudden image of him, plucking his favorite color crayon out of a box, flashed through my mind. It was oddly endearing.
I flipped the envelope over and tore it open.
Inside, I found a piece of standard paper, folded into fourths like the little birthday cards I used to make all my friends in second grade, with a large “I’m sorry” printed across the front—in blue crayon, again—and a sticker of Dora the Explorer with her purple backpack.
“This is the most adorable thing I have ever seen in my life,” Lena cooed. “When you two get married, I expect a Dora the Explorer sticker on my invitation.”
I shot Lena a death glare.
Then I tucked my hair behind my ear and prayed I wasn’t blushing too noticeably.
I opened up the letter.
Dear Waverly,
I am really sorry that I made you come to that party with me, and I am really sorry that I started that fight. I am also sorry that the guy at that party had a hard elbow, and I am sorry that you were standing next to him. I am sorry I made you play Scrabble too. And I am sorry I got you grounded (Chloe told me that) and I am sorry that your aunt is probably making you watch Andy Warhol documentaries with her. Again.
“I’m going to have a fucking heart attack,” Lena said, snatching the letter out of my hands and reaching for the pocket of her shorts, “but first, I’m instagramming this.”
She poised her cell phone about the note.
“No!” I cried, snatching the letter back. Lena made a sound of protest as her cell phone’s camera went off a second too late, leaving her with a blurry picture of the kitchen table. “No one can see this, okay?”
“Waverly!” she moaned. “This is comedic gold! You can’t just—hey, what’s that?”
Her thin eyebrows scrunched together and she leaned forward, narrowing her hazel eyes at the letter.
“What’s what?” I frowned.
“Hold on,” she mumbled, tilting her head to the side, “unfold it.”
“Unfold it?” I repeated.
The note was, as I said, folded into fourths. I grabbed the bottom of the note and pulled it up, completely unfolding the piece of paper. There, in the center of the page, were a few more words. These ones were messier, obviously jotted down in a hurry.
I am also sorry for that thing I tried to do after you won Scrabble. I will not try to do it again, I promise. Just please forgive me. I will see you at the beach on Monday.
“What’s he talking about?” Lena asked me, her voice low and urgent. “What did he try to do after you won Scrabble?”
I tried to open my mouth to answer, but my lips were suddenly dry. There was an odd sort of burning feeling in my throat, like I couldn’t breathe. My eyes scanned the note again, this time lingering on one sentence. The sentence that made me feel nauseated. The sentence that made me remember how frizzy my hair was and how pale my skin was and how awkward and rambling I could be. The sentence that reminded me that I wasn’t from Holden.
The sentence that told me Blake Hamilton couldn’t possibly like me the way I liked him.
I will not try to do it again, I promise.
“It doesn’t matter,” I croaked.
Chapter 13
There are two ways I hate being woken up. The first is with the false promise of food, because there’s nothing worse than getting up for some scrambled eggs and hash browns only to find out that your mom lied and you’re going out to drill ice samples instead. The second is on a Monday morning, because ever since I’ve started working at the bookstore in town, Mondays—my day off—have been totally sacrosanct when it comes to sleeping in until noon.
But apparently Lena Fletcher doesn’t respect my beliefs.
“Rise and shine!” she hollered.
I had just barely opened my eyes when she yanked back the curtains, letting the harsh Florida sunshine beam me right in the face.
“Lena! It burns!” I cried in agony, floundering around in my bed as I tried to grab hold of anything—a pillow, a blanket—to shield myself with.
“Quit being so overdramatic,” Lena scolded.
I couldn’t see her because I had my eyes squeezed shut, but I knew she was smirking.
“You are evil incarnate,” I grumbled, finally grasping the edge of my down pillow.
“Waverly, don’t be such a—”
The last word got muffled as I smashed my pillow down over my head, sealing out the rest of the world. Unfortunately, the world happened to include oxygen, which I sort of needed. When I pushed the pillow up so I could take a gulp of air, I found myself six inches from a pair of dark, unblinking eyes.
I let out an almost inhuman shriek and tumbled off the side of the bed, landing flat on my back, my legs bouncing as they hit the carpeted floor with a resounding thud. From the other side of the bed, I heard Lena gasp, then erupt in laughter.
“You—I—I’m sorry, Waver—ly!”
“Yeah, yeah,” I grumbled, grabbing a fistful of the fitted sheet on my bed and using it as leverage to pull myself to my feet. When I was upright again, I adjusted my pajama shorts and looked back up at Lena.
Her lips quivered as she fought to hold back her laughter.
“Good morning?” she offered innocently.
“Watch your back, Fletcher.”
Then I turned and stalked off to the bathroom, snatching my towel from its designated spot on the floor next to the dirty clothes hamper along the way. The second I kicked the door closed behind me, I heard Lena erupt into laughter again.
“Not funny!” I shouted through the door.
“Wear your bathing suit, Lyons!” Lena shouted back.
I heard her footsteps thump out of the room and down the stairs, so I assumed she was probably headed to the kitchen to raid Rachel’s fridge.
It was a whole forty-five minutes before I finally padded into the living room, dressed in a big white T-shirt and a pair of Rachel’s jean shorts over my blue and white striped bikini, at Lena’s request. I had already guessed that we’d be wading into the ocean—why else would Lena put me in a bikini? It wasn’t like I needed to even out my tan lines—but I figured that if I stayed in the shallow water, I’d be fine. I couldn’t drown in six inches of water. Right?
I found Lena standing in the kitchen, munching on a granola bar as she poured herself a large bowl of frosted flakes. Rachel had left for Marlin Bay earlier that morning, and by the looks of it, she’d overslept and left in a hurry; her coffee mug was sitting on the edge of the kitchen counter and she’d left her favorite strawberry-flavored SPF seventy lipstick on the table with her paint swatches and collection of brushes.
“Feeling better?” Lena asked me through a mouthful of whole grains.
“Slightly.” I nodded. “But you should still watch your back.”
Lena rolled her eyes at my threat, and I couldn’t help but smile.
We both knew she could take me in a fight.
It took Lena less than three minutes to wolf down her bowl of cereal. As she was finishing off her second granola bar, she shot Jesse a text message asking him to drop by the house and pick us up. I was too focused on the butterflies in my stomach to think about anything other than the note that’d been delivered the other night. Blake had said—or rather, written, in crayon—that he wanted to see me at the beach today, which meant that he was sneaking out of his house to tag along with the Fletcher twins, Alissa, and me.
I wasn’t sure whether to be excited or pee my pants.
The past two days on lockdown had given me plenty of time to read, reread, and overanalyze the absolute shit out of Blake’s adorable little note. I had almost committed the whole thing to memory. There was one line, however, that kept popping into my head even though I wished I would forget it.
I will not try to do it again, I promise.
“You all right there?” Lena asked me, peering across the kitchen at me, her eyebrows knit together in concern. “I think you’re about to grind your own teeth off.”
It was only then that I realized I’d been clenching my jaw.
“So, when’s Jesse getting here?” I asked, trying to change the subject. I reached up and ran my fingers through my hair. I hadn’t bothered to blow it dry, much less take a brush to it, so my fingers promptly got stuck in an abnormally large knot.
“He said—” Lena began, but was cut off as a car horn sounded outside.
“I’m guessing that’s him?” I prompted, wincing as I yanked my fingers free from the bird’s nest that was my hair.
Lena nodded and set her empty bowl in the kitchen sink, then wiped her hands off on her light-blue tank top. She snatched her cell phone from the counter and then we both tore through the living room like professional sprinters. Well, Lena was like a sprinter. I was like a three-legged dog galloping along behind her.
The second I stepped through the front door and onto the porch, I realized that there was something off.
It wasn’t boiling.
I mean, it was still pretty warm outside compared to my hometown, which averaged a high of fifty-two degrees during the month of August. But I wasn’t instantly drenched in a sheen of sticky sweat, and I didn’t feel like the humidity had smacked me in the lungs. The only thing that was smacking me was the wind, which was so strong it had blown my soaking wet hair back from my face, tangling it behind me.
Lena didn’t seem to notice; I watched her as she tore across the front lawn, her flip-flops clapping against her feet, and lunged for Jesse’s busted-up Jeep.
“Shotgun!” she hollered.
Jesse leaned over from the driver’s seat and waved at me. I decided to stop standing on the porch like an idiot and just embrace the fact that, for once, I could walk outside in Holden, Florida, without feeling like a giant, pale, melting popsicle.
“Hey, Waverly!” Jesse greeted me when I pulled open the car door. He and Lena were, as usual, matching, today in baby blue that made their beautiful skin gleam. His corkscrew curls bobbed gently in the wind. “Sorry about the mess in the back.”
The Jeep had one long, leather bench in the back—which had been good for when Alissa got drunk at Ethan’s party and was too unconscious to stay upright—with three semidistinct seats. The far seat was completely occupied by a large box of black fabric and two foam boards that looked like larger versions of the kickboard Blake had made me use during our last swim lesson.
“What’s all this?” I asked, taking the seat behind Lena and closing my door behind me. I reached out and ran my fingers over a dark strip of fabric hanging over the edge of the box in the other seat. It was thick and smooth to the touch.
“Those are wet suits,” Jesse explained, watching me prod the material in the rearview mirror, “and those big things are boogie boards.”
“Boogie boards?”
“Yeah. We had to put ’em in the backseat because Lena was worried the wind would blow them out of the trunk. I doubt we’ll use them anyway, though. It’s so windy the waves are probably hitting five foot.”
His words bounced around in my head for a moment, my brain not really sure how to process them.
