She laughs. “Somebody is in a bad mood today.”
“No, actually I’m in a really good mood.” Or was. It’s rapidly changing.
“Why? What happened?” She pauses. “Did you get into art school or something?” She sounds more wary than excited.
“No. It’s not that. I’m still waiting for a reply.” I suck my breath in. Gut instinct tells me I should keep my pending job opportunity to myself. If Mom gets ahold of it, she will destroy it with her negative Mom-hammer and spray me with venom in the process.
“Well?” I can hear her waiting. Thinking. Plotting.
I know I’m an idiot before I even open my mouth. “I got a job, and a place to stay. That artist I was telling you about is going to let me stay in his studio as long as I work at their café. It means I can stay in California and work while I go to school.”
It’s remarkable how little time passes before she starts speaking again. It almost feels like she’s had a response prepared for this very scenario.
“That sounds suspicious to me. I hope you’re using your brain and not living in the clouds. This sounds like something out of your fantasy world.” She doesn’t mean it as a compliment.
I swallow. My chest tightens. “They’re really nice people. I think they care about me.”
“I don’t buy that. I think I’m going to need to talk to these people and find out what they’re after.”
My face gets hot. “You’re not talking to them. This is my life.”
“You’re still seventeen.”
“For, like, two more weeks!”
“You think you’re so grown-up now that you’re going to turn eighteen? Because you’ve been in California for a couple of weeks? Or because some guy takes photos of you? Does that make you feel important?”
The spinning in my brain is making me feel faint. “What are you even talking about?”
“I saw that picture in your room. Does Jamie take photos of you?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“I know what it feels like to have someone take nice photos of you. It feels nice for someone to think you’re pretty. But I don’t want you to feed into the attention—it could turn you into someone very self-absorbed.”
My mouth is open and my eyes are shut tight. I’m trying to concentrate on my breathing over the crashing waves near my feet, but it’s too hard. Mom didn’t use a hammer—she threw a grenade.
“How do you do this?” I ask quietly, tearfully. “How do you make everything ugly?”
“I’m just trying to get you to see things for the way they are.”
“Which is what, exactly? That Jamie is only nice to me because he’s using me? Or that people in general are only nice to me because they’re using me?”
“I don’t want you to be naive. What kind of a mother would I be if I didn’t try to teach my daughter about the world?”
I don’t respond because I’m too busy crying into the darkness, away from the fire and laughter.
She sighs into the phone. “Look, I have to go to bed. I’ve got work in the morning. I love you, okay? Let me know when you’re coming home.”
The phone clicks.
I don’t have time to wipe my tears, or control my breathing, or pull my phone away from my ear.
Jamie’s hand presses against my lower back, and he steps in front of me so I don’t have to face the crowd in the background.
“What happened?”
Shaking my head back and forth, I sputter, “It’s just my mom. It’s nothing new.”
His brow narrows with anger. “I hate that woman.”
My inhales are uneven. “What? Why?”
“Because—” He stops himself. “She doesn’t get to do this to you.”
I’m frowning. I never realized Jamie was so aware of the issues I have with my mother. Maybe he’s just paying attention, or maybe he remembers she was this way even when I was younger.
“No.” He takes my face in his hands. “I won’t let her ruin today for you. I won’t.”
Jamie presses his lips against mine so desperately that I don’t have time to take a breath, and I end up exhaling into his mouth. He pulls away just an inch—just enough for the air to move between us. Our breathing is so fast it sounds like we’ve been running for miles. I close my hands over his wrists, his palms still cupped under my jaw.
He swallows. I can hear it. And he kisses me again, this time softer, but with the same hunger as before.
With our faces pressed closely together, I can smell his skin. It’s so much like the ocean, but warmer, like it’s mixed with toasted sugar. I feel his hands drift away from my face—one finds my hand, and the other closes against my lower back. He pulls our connected fists between our hearts, and it feels like we’re dancing, even though I’m melting too fast to move.
I don’t feel human. I feel like a red firework on the Fourth of July, shrieking into the air and flinging itself in every direction possible.
I close my eyes and let his lips take away my thoughts.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
We stay on our own side of the beach, like we’ve drawn a line in the sand between the party and us. Nobody bothers us—we’re not the only couple kissing beneath the stars, but I’m sure we are the only ones who’ve wanted this for almost a decade.
Jamie pulls my head against his shoulder and kisses my forehead. We’re sitting in front of the water, too far away to feel the waves but close enough that it feels like we’re all that’s left in the world.
“I’m so happy I could cry,” he announces proudly.
I giggle next to him, my hand attached to his leg like I’m afraid to let go. Part of me still worries this is all too good to be true.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that for.” He rests his chin on my head.
“Actually, I think I do,” I admit. “I didn’t keep your Batman key chain because I thought you’d make a good pen pal.”
“Just think of all the time we wasted while you were deciding if you wanted to be just friends or not.” I can feel him shaking his head above mine. “We could have been doing this weeks ago.”
I close my eyes. “It wouldn’t have been right weeks ago.” I wasn’t ready then.
He breaks away from our hug so he has room to kiss me again. He doesn’t stop for a long time.
When we pull our faces apart, the beach is empty and it’s just the two of us.
Jamie runs his finger around the sand, making figure eights and messy zigzags. He’s gone serious.
“What is it?” I’m afraid of what he’s going to say.
When he looks at me, his eyes are so pure and brilliant I think they’re made of glass. “What happened with your uncle?”
I swallow. It isn’t his eyes that are made of glass. It’s my soul, and it feels like it’s been shattered to pieces so many times I don’t know how to fix it anymore.
“I’m sorry. I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I’m thinking the worst. God, if it’s the worst, please tell me, because I will literally kill him.”
I catch my breath and laugh a little. “I would never let you go to jail for me.”