The Art of Falling in Love Page 5

  Thankfully, he’s not laughing at me. He might actually be serious. I narrow my eyes but smile, still unsure if he's making fun of me or not. He picks up the shell and hands it to me, his hands careful and steady. I place it back in the hole, and we scoop sand over it in turns. After we’re done, I lean back on my elbows and groan. I should say something else about the turtle. Or thank Foster for not teasing me about caring so much, at least. Instead I deflect.

  “I don’t even like swimming but getting in the water is all I can think about right now.” I let my shovel slip from my fingers and fall to my feet. I shrug off my tank top, unbutton my shorts, shimmy them down to my toes, and then kick them aside. I’m wearing a stretched out black tankini I’ve had for too many summers, a fact that now embarrasses me for the first time.

  He arches an eyebrow and then pulls his shirt off, too. As usual, he’s already wearing swim trunks in lieu of real shorts, so he runs full speed into the water, his body sloshing through the waves. He's completely in his element. I was too hot to care earlier, but now I'm overwhelmed by a flash of self-consciousness. I tuck my arms lamely by my sides, my toes burrowed into the sand like I've decided to glue myself to the spot.

  “Come on. We deserve a break.” He mistakes my hesitance for work ethic. Sure, I’ll take that. Pretending it has nothing to do with my dislike of swimming in the ocean is fine by me.

  “I’m coming,” I yell back. I inhale and charge into the ocean after him while doing my best to channel some sort of graceful water creature. A dolphin, maybe. If dolphins are afraid of drowning and other creatures biting their toes. Once I’m fully submerged in the water, my skin prickles against the lukewarm waves and my nerves dissipate with the cooling sensation. I dunk my head backward to wet my hair and hopefully wash away some of the greasy sweat near my neck. Foster does Olympic-worthy backstroke moves while I splash around, hoping no one notices the stark difference.

  “Hey. Remind me to take you surfing sometime.” Foster’s only a few feet away from me—close enough to see my lip curl at his suggestion.

  “No thanks. Don't you remember the story about my last surfing experience?” Why am I reminding him of humiliating things I’ve said?

  He chuckles. “I remember.”

  I nod once. “So, we agree. No surfing.”

  He shrugs. Foster sucks in a breath, plugs his nose, and dives down under the water. I stay very still in the same spot where I bob, awkwardly waiting. Roughly twenty seconds later, he pops up and shakes his hair, spraying me in the process.

  “Agh, gross.” I swipe my hand against my cheek to wipe away the stray droplets.

  “Sorry. But look what I found.” He offers me a palmful of white shells. I wade toward him and choose an ivory one in the center of his hand. It’s almost completely solid except for a small blob in the middle that looks a little like a heart. When we’re ready to wade back to shore, I slip the shell into the pocket of my shorts while I wait for my swimsuit to dry.

  I stretch out across the sand, cringing as tiny granules cling to my skin, turning me into a sentient piece of sandpaper. But the scratchy pieces dry almost instantly, and I'm able to brush them off with a swipe of my palm. The air's so humid and thick there’s barely a difference in and out of the water. “This air is so sticky I can’t move.” I groan.

  Foster glances sideways at me. “You sound exactly like a tourist right now, you know that, right?”

  He’s right, which is annoying and slightly hilarious. The easiest way to pick out a pack of tourists is to find whoever's bemoaning the humidity. I start to laugh, but a huge drop of water sloshes across my nose, catching me by surprise. In three seconds flat, hundreds more follow and we’re soaked from the pounding rainfall before we can even register what is happening.

  My arms and legs freeze, stunned under the pressure of the rain. Next to me, Foster rolls to his side, bends to scoop up his clothes and supplies, and then darts across the beach. My legs are rubbery as I sweep my things together and follow. I start toward the parking lot, planning to hide in my car until the downpour ends, but Foster doubles back to grab my arm, pointing toward the pier. I follow him because I’m already soaked, so it doesn’t matter if I get wetter. He crouches under a corner of the pier and I stop too, hesitating.

  “Come here." He motions me closer. I squeeze next to him, relieved. Somehow the small corner seems to be the only space on the entire beach that has managed to stay dry. Aside from the occasional stray raindrop, we’re protected from the storm.

  My back presses against Foster’s chest. We’re still in our drenched swimsuits, so everything sticks together. The more I try to smoothly un-squish my suit from his swim trunks, the more Velcroed we seem to be. I finally give in and settle against him again. Not that I necessarily mind the body heat he’s giving off. We watch the rain in silence. Even if we wanted to talk, the water pouring into swimming-pool-sized puddles around us is deafening. My senses are so maxed out I almost don’t notice when Foster slides his arms around my shoulders and pulls me all the way into him, closing the mere inch-wide gap that was there before. I inhale, and my heart pounds so loudly in my ears that I swear it’s threatening to drown out the storm. I look around the pier in hopes of finding something to distract me from the warm buzz under my skin—the one that wasn’t there the last time Foster and I were together—but the only thing under the pier is an army-green backpack and a tightly rolled blanket secured with a fraying rope.

  “Do you think homeless people sleep under here?” I nod in the direction of the gear as my throat catches. It’s hard to distract myself from Foster when, with each breath, every muscle in his arms tighten against mine.

  Foster shrugs his shoulders. His breath burns onto the side of my face when he speaks. “Probably, but they’re mostly harmless.”

  Not according to my parents. They consider homeless people one of the biggest blights on our society. Lazy, unemployed, a burden on the backs of the hardworking people of the world. Especially here at the beach, they’re Dad’s favorite thing to complain about.

  But Foster’s right. I’ve never heard of any of the local homeless men or women hurting anyone. They mostly just hold up their homemade cardboard signs with pleas for money or food scrawled on them. Or, like the man I saw my first night back at the beach house, they sleep on the beaches and under the piers when everyone else is gone for the day, probably just thankful for a soft, quiet place to rest.

  I quickly forget about the homeless population as the rain slows and my senses return. It’s easier to feel like we’re safe from prying eyes wrapped up like this under the pier, hidden away from the world. But the heavy rain is reduced to drips, and the sun is already sliding out from the disappearing dark clouds. The rest of the world slips back into focus, and this doesn’t feel safe or secret anymore—just awkward.

  I duck out into the soft sprinkles and turn to face Foster for the first time in fifteen minutes.

  “Thank goodness that’s over,” I say.

  What a stupid thing to say. Foster frowns and blinks in response before glancing away. If I didn’t know better, I’d think my comment hurt him somehow. Should I pretend I have somewhere important to be and run? But he’s holding half of my stuff, including the tools, so I keep my mouth shut.

  He must think I’m an idiot, because he barely looks at me as we walk from the pier to the parking lot. I speed-walk so fast that I reach my car in record time, though nearly out of breath. Leaning against my car door, I watch as Foster makes his way to me, still wearing a frown.

  A homeless woman passes. She’s got a cardboard sign tucked under her arm as she trudges across the parking lot in faded, ragged leather boots that look like they were made for a very large man. She looks only a few years older than I am. I wonder if the army bag and blanket under the pier belong to her. Hopefully, her gear didn’t get too wet. As she walks by, Foster raises a hand and nods at her.

  When she’s gone, I whisper, “Do you know her?”

  He shak
es his head. “Just trying to be nice.”

  I’ve never even considered waving at a stranger. Once, when I was nine, my family and I went out to dinner for my birthday. I wore a baby-pink T-shirt with the words ‘Birthday Girl’ written across it in rhinestones, and I matched the ensemble with my brand-new baby pink pleather coin purse. After we’d left the restaurant and I’d just barely gotten over the embarrassment of the teenage employees singing to me over my slice of chocolate fudge cake, with the nine glittery pink candles my mom had whipped out of her purse, I’d spotted a homeless woman slumped against the back door. I thought about how I’d just eaten so much food that my stomach was seconds away from rejecting it. Dad must have seen sympathy etched in my wide preteen eyes, because he’d taken me and Livvy by the shoulders and scooted us to the car so fast anyone else would have thought the lady was handing out poison apples.

  And then there are people like Foster, just trying to be friendly. It’s enough to make me think, but not right now. Not when my attention is still mostly focused on the golden-haired boy who’s jut reached me.

  It’s been twenty minutes since the downpour, and the rain has completely cleared. The sun beats down on us again, working overtime to dry everything and making me sweat even though I’m still just in my swimsuit and flip-flops. I turn my face up to the sun and let my skin soak in the intense warmth. Foster’s eyes follow mine, but he doesn’t say anything.

  “Thanks for your help today,” I tell him.

  I wish our closeness under the pier had never happened, because now I’m finding it so hard to say anything to his face. I blush at the image of us huddling so close, hidden away from the torrential rain. I could have sworn I felt something between us a few minutes ago, but now things are complicated.

  Foster nods. “It was fun.”

  His voice is lower and softer than normal. We’re standing side by side with our backs resting on my car door, but he turns to stand right in front of me. He’s almost a foot taller than I am, so I have to crane my neck to meet his eyes. As soon as I look up at him, he bends down toward me. Before I can work out whether or not I want him to kiss me, he ducks his head and steps away, tucking his hands behind his back in tight fists and mumbling some sort of half-hearted goodbye. My doubt washes away as I bite down on my tongue in regret. I can barely breathe, but there’s still enough room for one tiny desperate thought.

  I guess I did feel something after all.

  Eight

  “Has it ever occurred to you I might know something you don’t?”

  Livvy’s taunting voice snaps me out of my daydream. I’m lying on the sofa with my eyes closed. I’m trying to take a nap, but visions of Foster’s arms around me in the rain keep interrupting me. Not that I’m complaining.

  I open my eyes and prop myself up on an elbow. “What are you talking about, Liv?” I try not to encourage her too much, but the fact that she knows anything I don’t has actually never occurred to me, so now I want her to spit it out. She walks around the sofa and plops down into a plush chair across from me. All of our conversations now are arguments, but I can remember a time just last year when we actually liked spending time together. Last summer we built a fort in the living room and watched romantic comedies until 3 A.M., at which point we crashed and slept until noon the next day. Then we used Opa’s cookbooks to make German pancakes and gorged ourselves until our stomachs ached from a combination of too much food and laughter. All that seems so far away now. Before Opa, before Livvy and Evan, before me and Foster. Maybe too much has changed to ever allow us to get back to the way things were before.

  But now she's doing her best to get under my skin. Does Liv know something about Foster? Maybe she was spying on us at the beach and she’s trying to blackmail me by holding it over my head. Opa would never let us fight like this in summers past because he said we needed to be there for each other and we couldn't if we weren't speaking. Maybe that's why Livvy's gotten so distant all of the sudden. Opa isn't here to remind us.

  “I just know things.” She shrugs and twirls her hair around a finger. If I weren’t too far away to reach her, I’d slap the smirk off of her face. I’m almost positive she doesn’t actually know anything. She’s just bored and trying to mess with me. I ignore her and walk into the kitchen for a snack. She follows me and grabs an apple at the same time I do. “Opa’s beach is not as private as you think it is, Claire.” She gives me a pointed look. She's obviously dying for me to explode and beg her to spill her secrets. I bite my tongue and suck in a breath without uttering a word and then storm to my bedroom before she can follow, shutting her out with the slam of a door.

  I sit cross-legged on my bed with the shell I took from the beach today. I turn it over and over in my palm, rubbing it like a charm. Foster's hot—I've known that from day one: the first night after Opa’s funeral, when he’d just appeared and flashed his lazy smile and stared at me with his too-blue eyes. But I’d never imagined us actually together—not until now. I’ve spent the entire morning analyzing everything—him leaning into me, putting his arm around me under the pier, meeting my eyes for a second longer than normal. Do those things mean anything? And then the way he stalked off afterward because I had to act like a total freak. Is it all in my head? A one-sided sort of thing?

  Thumping against my bedroom door shakes me from my own head. I tuck my shell under my pillow where the photo of Opa and me lives now. I don’t know why, but hiding it seems like the right thing to do. I expect to see Livvy, but instead my mom’s face appears in the crack of the almost-closed door. “Hey, Mom.” I sit up and scoot to the side of my bed to make room for her. She tucks her hair behind her ears and watches me from the doorway with the same too-warm smile I’ve seen a thousand times before. The one that says she wants to talk. “What are you looking at?” I touch my hair in case she’s getting ready again to complain about me not consulting her before cutting it.

  She sits next to me on the bed and touches my knee. Her touch is soft and reassuring. No matter how old I get, I think I’ll always need my mom in some way. It’s been so stressful here since Opa died and Livvy went crazy that I’ve almost forgotten what it’s like to sit together and not be upset about something. No yelling, no arguing, just Mom and me. She turns to me and breaks the silence.

  “So, are we going to talk about this guy Liv was trying to tell us about?”

  I groan. It’s like my sister was born with a vendetta against me. I can picture her now, smirking to herself as she eavesdrops on this conversation.

  “Mom,” I keep my voice low in case Livvy really is lurking in the hallway. “It’s nothing. He’s just a guy I met at the beach who's helping me with the sand-sculpting contest.”

  I squirm under my mom’s poorly suppressed grin. We talk about a lot of things, but boys are not one of them. The only boyfriend I’ve ever had was the son of my mom’s best friend. There was nothing to tell her about him because she already knew everything there was to know. I’m not even sure I can count him as a real relationship. Unless we’re counting relationships that are practically arranged.

  She tilts her head up at me in an attempt at gravity, but her dimples give her away. “Do you like him as much as you liked Grant?”

  Her question freezes me. Although what I had with Grant was devoid of privacy because of our moms, it wasn’t fake. I remember the first time we kissed. I made the first move while we were saying goodnight on his parents’ front porch after a night of board games on the couch. He drove me home afterward and I couldn’t look at him the entire drive because I was so afraid of messing up what I later decided was a perfect moment.

  But when Foster and I are together, things are more real. I barely know him, but I feel like myself around him, even though things have definitely gotten awkward. I don’t have to try to be something I’m not. With Grant, the fear of saying something that might get back to my parents overshadowed us, and that hanging paranoia ensured I never told him much about me. Mostly we just kissed. It was nice,
but just thinking about Foster and me under the pier, surrounded by a blanket of rain, makes my body tingly. I don’t realize I’m smiling to myself until my mom opens her mouth in surprise. The high pitch of her words shakes me back down from the cloud I was floating on.

  “Wow! You like him even more, don’t you?” I don’t answer her question because I can already see the wheels turning in her head. She bites her lip and mumbles something to herself while her eyes drift up to the ceiling.

  “Dad and I have a few late nights at the shop this week, but we can do a game night and dessert this weekend.”

  “Mom, no. He’s not coming over.” I shake my head. But, all the humor has gone out of her face, and I know I’m going to lose this argument.

  She holds up a hand to stop me. My mind races with possible excuses, and some of them are pretty legitimate. Like the fact that Foster isn’t my boyfriend, and I’m not even sure he sees me in that way. Even though I might, possibly, maybe have a crush on him, I don’t know anything about him besides our shared interest in art. You can’t just invite someone who’s basically a stranger to play Monopoly with your parents.

  But Mom’s steely eyes tell me that she doesn’t want to hear any of those things. She just wants me to agree with her.

  “I’ll ask him, Mom. But he might be busy.”

  She sighs. “I understand this time around you want more space. That’s normal.” She pauses to think. “We kind of lucked out that you’re our oldest and you’re a rule-follower.” I roll my eyes. I’m not sure if I’m being complimented or ridiculed. It feels like a little of the latter, though. “Your sister—we’re realizing we may not have done all the right things with her.”

  I decline the blatant invitation to agree. I catch the drift of her disjointed thoughts. I’m pretty sure she’s not trying to torture me—at least not on purpose. Mom wants to protect us so badly that sometimes it’s suffocating.

  “It seems like you really like this guy—”