Seconds later, I excuse myself from the family dinner, apologizing to Ella for not having time to help her clean up, and then dart up to my room to adjust my hair, brush my teeth, drown myself in perfume, pull on a sweater…all the kind of necessary actions that a girl must take before heading out to an amusement park on a pier with her stepbrother.
When the ten minutes are up, I make my way back downstairs and outside to the white-and-black car parked out on the road because there simply isn’t enough room for three cars on the driveway.
Tyler rolls down the window as I approach the passenger door, and he leans across the center console to glance up at me from beneath his shades. “I’d open the door for you, but I think your dad would have something to say about it.”
I glance over my shoulder. Dad is standing by the living room window, trying to hide himself behind the angled blinds but failing miserably. I raise my hand and wave across the lawn to him, and his body quickly disappears. “Yeah,” I say as I open the door and slide inside. “I think he’d wonder where your new manners suddenly came from.”
“Hey!” he protests, throwing his hands up defensively as I put the window back up. When I pull my seat belt on and turn to face him, I notice how he’s pulled a red flannel shirt on top of the white T-shirt. I take a second to gulp. “I’ll have you know I’m a true gentleman.”
“Really?” I say skeptically.
“Really,” he confirms. Switching on the engine, he plays around with the AC and then shuts his sun visor. He glances sideways at me. “Alright, I’m not. I’ve just heard that that’s what you’re supposed to do. Always get out of the car and open the door. Right?”
I smile. “Something like that.”
Shaking his head and shrugging, he puts his foot down on the gas and we recklessly jolt off down the neighborhood. It doesn’t surprise me; I’m used to his terrible driving skills by now.
It’s when we’re nearing the oceanfront that I finally decide to ask, “Why did you lie to your mom? Why didn’t you just say we’re going to the pier?”
I catch him roll his eyes as he snorts, “C’mon, Eden, keep up. We don’t want them to get suspicious.”
“What about Tiffani?” However much I want to push her to the back of my mind, I simply can’t. I feel so guilty every time I’m around Tyler. As if the whole stepsibling dilemma isn’t problematic enough already, I’m also sneaking around with my friend’s boyfriend.
“I’ve got it covered. She thinks I’m hanging out with the guys.” He says this so casually that again I wonder if he even cares about her at all.
The pier is extremely busy when we get there, with cars packed into the lot and families strolling around and groups of friends and couples holding hands while walking along the boardwalk. It makes me feel a little envious, and it’s tempting to just stretch forward and interlink my fingers with Tyler’s. But I’m not brave enough to do so, and especially not in public.
“Alright,” Tyler says, clearing his throat with a sharp cough before nodding his head toward the bustling amusement park to our left. “So this is Pacific Park. And I am going to show you Pacific Park, because I used to love this place when I was a kid and I want to be the one to introduce you to it.” He speaks so earnestly that I can’t help but stare back at him with a smile on my lips and warmth in my cheeks.
We casually saunter down the boardwalk, listening to the soft sound of the ocean and feeling the heat of the evening sun on our faces. All the while, we enjoy each other’s presence and talk about simple things around us. We try to figure out why the roller coaster is yellow; we comment on the food trucks; we talk about the position of the benches. Why is that one facing the water and why is the other facing the city?
“This guy right here used to scare the shit out of me,” he admits when we reach the entrance to the park. Above the huge Pacific Park sign, there is an enormous purple octopus. Awkwardly, he shoves his hands into his pockets and quickly shuffles through the gates. “It still kind of does,” he says.
“Ahhh.” I nod my head as I catch up to him, playfully widening my eyes. “Not so badass anymore, are you?”
“Well,” he says, his voice rising an octave, “would a badass tell you that he’s in love with cotton candy?” Removing his hands from his pockets, he gestures toward a food cart. It serves a wide range of traditional favorites, from hot popcorn to ice cream to pretzels and, of course, cotton candy. Tyler’s face is one big smile as he buys us some.
When he hands me the stick, I take note of his gentle smile when he turns back around to collect his own. “Are you sure you used to love this place?” I ask with a knowing edge to my voice.
His eyebrows quickly shoot up. Pursing his lips, he pulls off a chunk of his cotton candy and draws it into his mouth. “We need to go on the coaster,” he mumbles as the sugar dissolves on his tongue. He doesn’t quite answer my question. My smile grows into a grin.