Turning my back to the Pacific, I start toward the pottery shop. I can’t imagine a better summer job. I don’t have to wear a uniform, and I get to watch people create art, which is almost voyeuristic—a glimpse at the bare soul. Magic, I tell you. Magic.
I lucked into the job, really. On my second day in Verona Cove, I sat on the bench outside the shop hoping to entertain myself for a while once it opened. By the time the owner showed up—an hour after the posted opening time—I’d run my pencil down sketching dresses. The owner, Whitney, has the warmest energy and the best curls I’ve ever seen—thousands of them, tightly wound. I couldn’t stop staring at her hair and thinking that God himself must have created it with a curling iron the size of a number two pencil. Her apologies flurried between explanations—that she got into this groove with her own pottery the night before, that she overslept again.
We sat for the next hour, me painting a bowl for my mom and Whitney organizing the glaze paints into rainbow formation. She kept apologizing, but I told her not to worry about it, that sleep and I are only casual acquaintances. She joked that maybe I should work in the shop some mornings so she could sleep in. Actually, I said. I’ve been meaning to get a job. That’s when she stopped laughing and asked if I was serious, even though she could only pay me minimum wage. And, well, you can probably guess what my answer was because here I am, digging for the shop keys in my bag.
When I turn onto High Street, I see that the bench outside Fired Up is occupied. Sitting there are a little girl with pink sneakers and a guy about my age with dark hair. Even from a distance, I can tell his hair is not a styling choice but the result of a perpetually overdue haircut—kind of rumpled, with the start of curls. It’s really great hair; if I had hair like that, I would never cut it or dye it or change a single thing.
They’re talking as I approach, the little girl swinging her legs. The guy is seventeen or eighteen—too young to be her dad—but he almost looks like he could be someone’s dad. I can see dark circles under his eyes, so maybe that’s it. Or maybe it’s his slouchy khakis and navy T-shirt with a pocket over his heart. This is not a cool outfit or an uncool outfit, just practical. Everything about him says he’s too busy to even realize he’s that cute.
“Good morning!” I say. They both stare like I’m a cartoon character come to life.
“Hey.” The guy stands abruptly, and the little girl follows his lead.
“You here to paint?”
“Yep,” he says. The girl bobs her head.
“Well, come on in.” I motion to them with one hand while still rooting around for the keys with the other, and I give my most charming smile to spur them from their muteness. I’m not much for silence; it simply doesn’t suit me. I’d rather carry on a conversation with myself than crawl the trenches of awkward nothingness. Since I’m not sure what else to say, my mind wrenches back to this morning’s activities and my breakfast companion.
“Are you guys locals or here on vacation?” I hold the door open, and they walk inside.
The guy clears his throat. “Townies.”
“Oh, excellent.” The door shuts behind us, and I plunk my purse down on the counter. “Do you know if the Verona Cove police are strict? I mean, like, on first-time offenders. Who may have created some, ahem, unsanctioned art on the local plant life. Asking for a friend, of course.”
CHAPTER TWO
Jonah
I’m going to murder my alarm clock one of these days. I don’t use my phone as an alarm because there’s a very real chance I’d chuck it out my attic room’s window. Every morning the clock shrieks, and I mentally flambé the whole damn thing. Set it on fire in a huge saucepan. Laugh as it melts. On the rare morning that I feel almost awake, I give the alarm clock a stately Viking funeral in my mind. And there it is again, screeching.
My feet trudge down the stairs. Must. Find. Coffee. Then shower, load of laundry, unload the dishwasher, work. Before I can get to step one, I’m sidelined by a hopping motion in the kitchen.
“Jonah! Today, today, today!” Leah’s feet hit the linoleum on every other syllable. She’s already dressed, right down to her pink sneakers. I was eleven when she was born, and sometimes I still can’t believe she’s old enough to tie her own shoes.
“What’s today?”
Her smile flatlines. “I get to paint pottery. I filled up my chore chart, and you promised.”
Shit. I did promise.