Thirty Sunsets (8 page)

Now he’s completely underwater, except for the thumb jauntily hoisted in midair.

“Too deep! Too deep!” I cry, now sobbing uncontrollably.

But he can’t even hear me. He’s drowning but still giving me a thumbs-up.

And there’s nothing I can do to help him.

I awake with a start, audibly gasping and feeling my heart pound against my chest.

God. What is it with these nightmares? If I keep this up, I’ll fling myself off the top bunk before long.

Then I hear the steady rhythm of Olivia’s breath as she sleeps in the bunk below. Moonlight seeps through the blinds, hazily illuminating the clock on the wall: 3:45 a.m. I hear waves sloshing lazily on the beach outside. My hands clench into fists as I realize that even though I’m wide awake now, I’m still stuck with the nightmare. Brian’s life really
is
ruined. I really
can’t
save him.

Too deep, Brian. Too deep …

“How ya doing this morning, Evergreen?” Dad asks when I walk into the kitchen the next morning.

“Not pregnant.”

Mom, Dad, and Brian cast furtive glances, their coffee mugs and orange juice glasses half empty on the kitchen table.

I pull up a chair and join them.

“So were you planning on telling me anytime within, say, the next nine months?”

Mom clears her throat. “We just found out ourselves,” she says.

“
Two weeks ago
,” I correct her. “God knows you’ve had time to nag me endlessly in the past two weeks. You couldn’t have thrown in a quick ‘Oh, by the way, Olivia is pregnant’?”

Brian shushes me and glances anxiously toward the family room.

“She’s still fast asleep,” I assure him. “Spending the whole night hurling tends to have that effect. And thanks for that, by the way. Another reason I’m nominating her for Roomie of the Year.”

Brian’s face darkens. “And you wonder why we didn’t tell you.”

I sigh. “I was kidding.”

“No, you weren’t,” he mutters, tapping his fork against his plate.

“Guys,” Dad says wearily. “We’ve got enough to deal with without the two of you going at it.”

Tears suddenly spring into my eyes. “I can’t do anything right with you anymore,” I tell Brian.

Anger flashes in his eyes. “Be nice to the girl I love. That’s it. That’s all I ask.”

I lean closer toward him. “She’s changing your whole life!”

He nods smartly. “Yeah. And considering I think that’s a good thing, isn’t it about time that you butt out?”

I rub my eyes roughly with the heels of my hand. This is crazy. The last time I cried to Brian, he practically did back flips to cheer me up. I’d submitted an essay for a newspaper contest, and when I didn’t win, my English teacher confided that one of the judges told him he thought it was “good …
too
good, if you know what I mean,” meaning I guess he thought it was plagiarized, which my English teacher assured him was total shit. But whatever, I still didn’t win the contest, and when I cried like a baby that evening at the dinner table, Brian put an arm around me, pressing me against his side and fuming with indignation about the injustice of it all.

And now he’s just glaring at me.

“Guys!” Dad beseeches. “We’re a family. We pull
together
at times like these.”

Brian shakes his head and laughs wryly. “‘Times like these,’” he repeats, a bitter edge in his voice. “Exactly what kind of a
time
is it, Dad, other than the best time of my life?”

Mom squeezes her eyes together and slaps the table. “Will everyone
please eat their breakfast
!”

I glare at Brian. “Not hungry.”

I get up and walk back to my bedroom. Olivia’s still in bed, squeezing the sleep out of her eyes.

“Hi,” I say. “Hey, Olivia, can I ask you a favor?”

She props up on her elbows. “Sure.”

“Think I can borrow one of your bikinis today?”

twelve

I toss my book aside and look at Olivia, the waves just beginning to nip at our beach chairs as the tide comes in.

“Wanna walk?” I ask.

She smiles apologetically. “Maybe later? I’m still kinda queasy.”

“No problem.”

She adjusts her sunglasses and lays her magazine on her tanned stomach. “You look smokin’ hot in my bikini, by the way,” she tells me, and I blush.

“Thanks.” I get up and head toward the surf.

How stupid was I to think Scott would just magically materialize by my beach chair this morning? He doesn’t even know which house is mine, and come to think of it, I don’t know which one is his. Maybe he’d walked two miles before our paths crossed. Maybe I’ll never see him again.

And maybe it’s just as well. He
was
pretty pushy, after all; he obviously knows his way around girls. But is that a bad thing? I mean,
I’m
the freak who sits at home on Saturday nights reading Faulkner. Besides, he was pushy in kind of an adorable way. I like how he wouldn’t take no for an answer, that even though I was in my cutoffs and T-shirt, he was digging on me. Me! Of all the girls on the beach.

Why didn’t I show him which house was mine? I had the chance and I blew it. Was I expecting him to consult his crystal ball to find me?
Stupid, stupid, stupid!

Well, one thing’s for sure: the longer I sit in my beach chair, the slimmer the odds of our sharing Sunset Number Two. Or three … or four …

I tug at my bikini bottom (who can be comfortable in something the size of a washcloth?) and walk down the beach, trying to look nonchalant. I actually
do
get a couple of second glances—more than a couple, really—and I think maybe I can get the hang of being a goddess.

I scan the beach every so often, then check out the swimmers, looking for that mop of sandy-blond hair. Shelley would never believe this: me actually pursuing a guy.

But I’m not really pursuing him, right?
He’s
the one who penciled me in for the next twenty-nine sunsets. And besides, all I’m doing is taking a walk on the beach, which is probably what I’d be doing if I’d never met him, and geez, it’s a free country, isn’t it, and …

Oh god. There he is. He’s playing Frisbee with three other guys just a few yards up the beach. He’s even cuter than I remembered, tanned and shirtless with khaki shorts that ride low and loose on his hips. I mean, not
ridiculously
low and loose, not like he’s about to star in a Flo Rida video or anything, just like he never really considers throwing on anything other than his comfiest clothes, and they just happen to fit him low and loose, but snug enough to stay put when he lunges for a Frisbee, like he’s doing now, and …

My heart is about to beat through my chest (you can’t tell that by looking, right, even if you’re wearing a bikini?) but a play-it-cool mantra is doing a forced march through my brain. I’m so insanely happy to see him that I almost trot right over (wouldn’t it be cool and adorable if I swooped in just in time to catch the Frisbee he’s lunging for?), but I don’t want to make an ass of myself, so I just keep walking, peering mysteriously into the distance.

As I get closer, I wait for him to call out my name (
Hey, Forrest-like-the-trees!
), but he’s pretty preoccupied with his game. The guys are all laughing and whooping, high-fiving and diving into the sand. Yeah … this is better: he hasn’t even noticed me yet, and I’m too intrigued by whatever I’m peering at in the distance to notice him, so it won’t be until just after I pass him that my turquoise bikini catches his eye. Then he’ll think,
Wow, what a smokin’ hot girl
, and then he’ll do a double-take and realize,
OMG, that’s Forrest!
and he’ll trot up and grab my arm, and I’ll register just a hint of faux-confusion in my eyes before I look closer and realize,
OMG, that’s Scott!
and we’ll laugh and plan to spend our second sunset together, with maybe dinner thrown in this time for good measure.

So I just keep walking, head jauntily high and shoulders straight, my arms swinging lazily.

But I’ve walked past him now, and … nothing. He and his friends are still laughing and whooping, consumed with their game, oblivious to me.

Chill, Forrest, chill.

Right. So what. I’m just taking a walk on the beach, right? Really, it’s pretty clear by my mysterious expression that I actually
prefer
to be left alone, to keep myself company with my own profound thoughts. Uh-oh—is that the intimidation factor Olivia was talking about? I’m not sure; in the past, I really
haven’t
given a crap. No play-it-cool pep talks needed. Has my mantra made me more intimidating than ever, too intimidating to approach?

I don’t think so. From the sound of their horseplay, they really do seem clueless.

Scott just didn’t notice me, that’s all. My pulse quickens. I can’t make the same mistake I made last night, counting on fate to throw us back together. I’ve got to put myself out there. I’ve got to get in the game.

I turn around, face the guys, put my pinkies in the sides of my mouth, and whistle.

Two of the guys look at me, but not Scott. The third guy follows the gaze of the first two, so now three of them are looking at me. But still not Scott. So I wave my arms over my head.

“Hey, stranger!”

Yes. I really say that. I’m whistling, waving my arms over my head, and yelling lame things.
Why not just erect a billboard, Forrest?

But it’s okay, right? I mean, it’s cute. Guys are flattered by attention, especially when their friends are around. So, yes, I’m about as subtle as an air traffic controller, but that’s better than being intimidating.

But Scott
still
isn’t looking at me. One of his friends jostles him and points in my direction. Scott looks at me, registers a hint of something I can’t quite put my finger on (annoyance?), then immediately looks away again. He claps his hands a couple of times to signal the others to resume the game.

What the hell … ?

I’m still standing there, frozen in my spot. He must not recognize me. Understandable, right? I mean, last night I was wearing a baggy T-shirt.

“It’s me,” I call. “Forrest.”

Scott glances at me again for a nanosecond, tosses the slightest of waves, and lunges for the Frisbee.

Oh. He
does
recognize me. He recognized me all along, including when I was making a total fool of myself by making like a windmill. He might have even noticed me earlier, as I was approaching him. The upshot is clear: he knows who I am. He just doesn’t care.

But how can that be? He’s the one who friggin’ hit on me! When I was wearing a baggy T-shirt, for crying out loud! I put on a bikini for this jerk!

My cheeks are so hot, my heartbeat so ferocious, that I wonder if I’ll hyperventilate right there on the beach, and wouldn’t
that
be the cherry on top of my goddess sundae. Maybe I should go vomit on his feet. I could write a book at this point about how to repel a guy.

Move, Forrest, move.

Right. Standing in this spot like a statue is really not working for me. Time to move on. But do I turn around and head back for my beach chair?

Of course not! That’ll make it obvious that the only point of my beach walk was to stalk Scott. I’ve got to keep pushing forward.

So I do. I trudge along the surf, white-hot heat emanating from my cheeks, wondering how on earth I could have deluded myself
again
into thinking I was something I’m clearly not.

I walk a long, long way, fueled by the adrenaline rush of humiliation and determined not to cross Scott’s path again. After an hour or so, I feel my nose and shoulders tingle from sunburn. Good. Maybe I’ll spontaneously combust. Brian hates me, Scott hates me, and god knows I hate myself in this stupid what-the-hell-were-you-thinking turquoise bikini.

What a self-deluded fraud I am. What a loser.

I guess it’s time to turn around. I’ve got to head back sometime.

But first, I fall into the surf and splash my face with water.

Now nobody will notice my tears.

thirteen

It’s 3:40 a.m.

I do a quick calculation on my fingers, then tell Olivia as she tiptoes back to bed in the dark, “Five hours.”

“What?”

“You’ve gone five hours tonight between barfing. That’s the best you’ve done all week.”

She giggles lightly, the springs in her bottom bunk squeaking as she settles in. “Sorry,” she says. “I didn’t know I’ve been waking you up.”