“You made your choice,” Jude says. “You just didn’t choose me.” He turns away from me and starts getting ready for his next show. Like I’m already gone.
Real life endings suck.
SIX
ROSANNA
“WOULD YOU CARE FOR ANOTHER fresh watermelon juice, miss?”
I look up from my book at the pool waiter. Are they even called pool waiters? This hotel is so fancy I don’t even have the right vocabulary.
When I came out to the rooftop pool earlier, I practically had the whole place to myself. A couple in lounge chairs were the only other hotel guests out here. I worried that they weren’t wearing enough sunblock. They were an astonishing shade of pale. I looked around for towels to put on my lounge chair and the lounge chair next to me so it would be all ready for Donovan. But The Hotel of South Beach doesn’t work that way.
The Hotel ensures that your stay is so relaxing you don’t even have to lift a pool towel. They have staff to make up your chair for you.
“Um . . . excuse me?” I asked a guy in a white polo shirt, white pants, and black sneakers. “Where are the towels?”
“Would you like a chair set up, miss?”
“Oh. Yes, that . . . thank you. May I have two towels? My boyfriend’s coming out soon.” There was a moment of internal freakout after calling D my boyfriend. That was the first time I called him my boyfriend out loud.
“Of course,” the pool attendant said. He quickly gathered the four fluffiest, largest, whitest towels I’d ever seen. “Right this way.” I followed him over to a row of lounge chairs facing the ocean. As we walked by the shimmering pool, I was mesmerized by the ribbons of sunlight dancing in the water. The water looked so clear I wanted to jump right in. But first I wanted to be decadent with my fluffy towels.
The pool attendant placed the stack of towels on one of the oversize lounge chairs. Then he spread out two towels on two of the chairs, covering each chair completely and tucking in the top and bottom of the towels. Every move he made was crisp efficiency and expert precision. The two other towels were rolled and placed near the top of each chair. Because of course neck pillows were included.
As if the lounge chair preparation wasn’t impressive enough, now the pool waiter is asking me if I want another fresh watermelon juice. Um, that would be a yes please. My first sip was so delicious I almost cried. Is it possible to become addicted to watermelon juice after your first sip? How could I have lived eighteen years without tasting watermelon juice?
When the waiter brings my second glass, I take a minute to admire it. Slices of pineapple and kiwi are wedged on the rim of the glass. A paper cocktail umbrella sticks out of a chunk of watermelon in the juice. The color palette of the pink juice, yellow and green fruit, and orange umbrella is so pretty and summery. Even the glass is festive. It’s one of those grown-up cocktail glasses with a stem. My instinct is to take a picture before I start drinking. I really need to get a cell phone. I had a camera, but it broke last year and I couldn’t afford to buy a new one. Taking a mental snapshot will have to be good enough. Once I read that experiences we have alone end up being the ones we remember most clearly. I will remember this watermelon juice in vivid detail. I lift the glass and sniff the juice. It smells like sunshine and summer.
Even though D told me to order whatever I wanted, I was planning to just have water. I already feel bad enough that D is paying for the entire trip. But he keeps saying that it’s his pleasure. He wants to make me happy. He said I deserve a fun vacation. He said I deserve to be treated right.
I cannot believe this is my life right now.
Here I am, chilling on the softest lounge chair in the world with a perfect view of the ocean sparkling in the sunshine. Watching palm trees sway in the warm Florida breeze. No longer regretting taking two days off from camp. Reading a good book and sipping fresh watermelon juice. Time slips away as I savor every second of it.
“Look at you, lounging it up by the pool,” D says from behind me. He slides onto the lounge chair I was saving for him. Good thing I did. I’ve been out here for a few hours (slathered in SPF 80, of course) and there are only a few free lounge chairs left.
“How was parasailing?” I ask.
“Unreal. I wish you’d tried it with me.”
“Maybe tomorrow.”
“Really?”
“Maybe.”
“You’d love it.”
Floating 600 feet above the ocean while a motorboat pulls me along is not something I think I’d love. That’s 38 stories above the ground. Thirty-eight stories that I do not want to fall to my tragic, premature death. But D could not wait to go. He’s gone parasailing twice before. The first time was on a family vacation to Maui when he was fourteen. The second was a few years ago at the New Jersey shore. He told me all about what a rush it was to fly through the air, nothing but blue sky around him, with the sickest view.
I’m all set on my fluffy towel, thanks.
D takes his shirt off. I try not to stare. He is one boy who is almost impossible not to stare at. Everywhere you look are features that add up to gorgeous: hazel almond-shaped eyes, sandy blond hair with a bit of a wave, cleft chin, sun-kissed skin. He’s even tall, which is perfect for a tall girl like me. D has the kind of confidence that makes people notice. He has this calm stillness while he waits for someone at a café or on the corner, something I will strive to master my whole life and never achieve. I am always uncomfortable waiting for someone. I feel like I have to be checking a screen (that I don’t have) or rummaging through my bag (for something I don’t need) or adjusting my sandals/dress straps/hair (which are fine except for the hair). But D has a peaceful tranquility wherever he is, whatever he’s doing. I really admire that about him.
“Can you do my back?” he asks. He holds up a tube of sunblock, turning his back to me.
I flip the top open and squeeze out some lotion. Then I panic that I squeezed out too much. Putting the extra lotion back in the tube would be impossible. I’ll just have to go with it and hope I don’t soak his back. That would not be sexy. Some lotion drips on the towel as I begin to spread it on his tan skin. He’s been laying out on his roof all summer and it shows. It also shows that I have no idea what I’m doing. This is my first time rubbing sunblock on a boy. Should I be spreading the lotion in circles? Or up and down? Or in various directions to make sure I’m covering his entire back? Does skin safety come first, or is the sensation of how the lotion is rubbed in more important?
Sunblock application shouldn’t make me this nervous.
Last night made me way more nervous. After our flight got in and we checked into our hotel, D took me out for an amazing dinner at Joe’s Stone Crab. Then we walked along Ocean Drive. D told me people stay out there partying all night. Was he hoping I’d want to stay out all night, too? Is that what he’d do if he were here alone? Partying all night is not my thing. I hope D doesn’t think that’s lame.
When we got back to our hotel, we took the elevator up to our floor and paused where the hallway split in two directions. Our rooms were at different ends of the hall. I was nervous all over again. How much would D expect from me? Was he going to come to my room? Would he ask me to go to his? What guy takes a girl on an elaborate vacation and doesn’t expect to sleep with her?
“This is where I leave you,” D said. He knows Jonathan Tropper is one of my favorite authors.
“Thanks for dinner. And for everything else. Tonight was amazing.”
“Like I said. You deserve the best.” D put his arms around me, holding me close. The elevator dinged. A glamorous older couple got off the elevator. They smiled at us as they passed by. You could tell they thought we were cute.
D pulled back just enough to look at me. His hazel eyes were golden in the warm light of the hallway.
“See you tomorrow for breakfast?” he asked.
I nodded.
“News Café at eight?”
I nodded some more.
And then he kissed
me. A perfect good-night kiss at a fabulous hotel in beautiful Miami.
“Sweet dreams,” he said.
I had been nervous for nothing.
Last night was something out of a dream. It was a night other people get to experience. And now I get to be other people. D and I have three more nights here. I will never want to leave.
We lay out together in the soothing sunshine. I savor the rest of my watermelon juice. D says I should order another one, but I’ve already decided that two is my limit. What they’re charging for one watermelon juice is my grocery budget for the week.
The sun is much lower in the sky when we start getting restless.
“Ready to head in?” D asks. “We have that surprise I told you about.”
I nod with excitement. D wouldn’t tell me what we’re doing. Just that I’m going to love it.
Getting into the shower back in my room and working the knobs smoothly, I already feel like a fancy hotel pro. It took me a while to figure out how to work the posh shower fixtures when I took my first shower here. The hot and cold water knobs I was used to seeing were nowhere to be found. Instead there were two polished chrome knobs and a major lack of information about what each knob did. I was scared that I would have to call the front desk to ask how to use the shower and that D would somehow find out. Eventually I determined that the top knob switched the water from overhead rain shower flow to hand faucet flow. The bottom knob controlled the water temperature.
D is waiting for me in the lobby when I come downstairs. He told me to dress casual for the surprise activity. I hope cutoffs, a flowy floral-print tank, and my destroyed old pair of Converse is okay.
“You look pretty,” D says when he sees me.
“Thanks.” You look gorgeous. As always. Why are you even with me?
“Ready to go?”
“I can’t wait.”
The surprise turns out to be bike riding along this little boardwalk that runs between a strip of hotels and the beach. I’m surprised D picked such a low-key, old-school activity. He picked it because he knew I’d love it. I can’t believe he already knows me so well.
We ride single file with me in front of D. I go slowly, taking in the ocean views and letting the heat soak into my skin like a salve. I ding my bell when people up ahead are in the way. Or not even in the way. Ringing the bell is fun.
The seat of my bike is a little too high. When we have to stop at a crossing, I wobble and almost fall over.
“Do you want me to lower your seat?” D asks, straddling his bike next to mine.
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.” D gets off his bike. He leans it against the boardwalk railing. Then he adjusts my seat. The muscles in his arms flex as he works. Everything about him is golden. Not only does he have a heart of gold, but amber sun rays are making him glow all over. The blond highlights in his hair look like they’re sparking. His eyes are all glittery. His skin is more sun-kissed than ever. I resist the urge to reach out and run my hand up his arm, his chest, his shoulder. For a second I almost topple over again, I’m swooning so hard.
“You’re all set.” D holds my bike while I swing my leg over. He glides his hand slowly down my hair. “Your hair is glowing.”
“So is yours.”
“Really?”
“More like sparking.”
“My hair’s on fire?”
“That’s how it looks.”
“Cool. I can’t tell you how long I’ve been going for the hair-on-fire look.”
We smile at each other in the shimmering sunshine. I’m trying to come up with a witty response when D moves closer to me. He holds my bike handle with one hand and puts his other hand on my waist. I forget what I was trying to say.
When he kisses me, I glow even brighter than the sun.
SEVEN
SADIE
PARKER ASKED HOW I WAS feeling when I came back to my internship yesterday. A zap of fear stung me. Did Parker know about Austin? If my supervisor found out that Austin and I were together, we would both get suspended. Office romances are strictly prohibited. But then I remembered that I called out sick Monday and Tuesday. Parker wasn’t suspecting the truth. He just thought I really was sick.
I hate lying. Some people think that a small lie doesn’t count. Of course it counts. Even a small lie is a lie. When I told Parker I was feeling better, I was lying some more. I’m on a lying roll. Just like Austin was.
Before I found out Austin was married, there was always this current of excitement running underneath whatever work I was doing at the office. There was always the possibility of bumping into him. Maybe he’d make up some excuse to come see me. Maybe I would sneak up to his floor just to say hi. Snippets of daydreams infiltrated everything I was supposed to be concentrating on.
And then there was the time we hooked up in the copy room. . . .
We stayed late after everyone else left. We were naughty interns making out in the copy room and it was scary hot. Until someone came back into the office and started talking on the phone. They could have come into the copy room anytime. The possibility of getting caught switched our hookup to less hot and more scary.
Blueprints are spread out on the long glass conference room table. I stare at them blankly without processing any information. My mind is only half on this project. The other half is terrified that Austin might come down to my floor for some reason. Maybe even try to talk to me. I do not want to talk to him ever again. And definitely not here.
Why do we have to have internships at the same office? Why couldn’t we have met in a café or a bookstore or the park or any one of a zillion other places? I used to go to those places with the hope that I would meet my soul mate there. The hope that he might walk through the door any second was fluttering in my heart the whole time. I didn’t know what he would look like, but I would know him when I saw him. Talking with a friend at my regular coffeehouse, I looked up expectantly whenever someone came in. Reading at a bookstore, I glanced down the aisles in anticipation. Going for a walk in the park, I scanned the benches overlooking the river to see if he was sitting there. He could have been anywhere. So of course I found a soul mate in the one place I wasn’t looking. A guy I never want to see again.
Enough.
I snap myself out of my Austin haze. I won’t let him ruin the rest of my internship experience. I hardly ever saw him here anyway, unless we planned to meet up or he came down to flirt. Good thing he works up on the fifth floor and I’m on the third. Plus he has a job placement coming up in August. He won’t even be in the building next month.
My internship is at the Department of City Planning. Right now I’m working on a project for a new green space in Midtown. A vacant lot is being converted into a public area. The concept of starting with a blank slate and having the power to convert that space into anything we want is remarkable. Working on this project makes me want to be an urban designer even more. I can’t wait until college starts. I’m going to major in urban planning and design with a focus on environmental conservation and wellness. My professional life is going to rule. But my love life? Remains unclear.
“Hey, Sadie,” Parker says, coming into the conference room. My heart leaps into my throat before I realize he’s not Austin.
“Hey.”
“What do you think of these?” he asks about the blueprints.
“They’re incredible. I love the use of trees in this section.” I point at a circular area in the center of the space. Trees will be planted in bunches along the border of the circle. Pathways extending out from the center will originate between each bunch of trees. When Parker first explained this project to me and the rest of the group assigned to revise and refine the layout, he talked about the importance of making urban areas functional, attractive, and sustainable. He said that form and function should be the cornerstone of design. This section with the trees is a good example of what he was talking about, both aesthetically pleasing and user-friendly.
Parker le
ans a hand on the table, bending down closer to the blueprints. “Do you think there’s enough lawn space?”
“Totally. I love the idea of creating a peaceful enclave right in the middle of a busy neighborhood. And the benches are placed far enough away from the main lawn so people can choose to have quiet time. The main lawn might attract rowdy groups.”
“We hope not. But yes, that’s the philosophy behind the bench placement. We might even do a wading pond along this edge of the lawn.” Parker slowly traces his finger along a line of the blueprint. He was one of the original architects of this plan.
The green space project is still on my mind when I fall asleep that night. As I drift off, I visualize my future life as one of the most innovative urban designers in New York City. I’m trying to focus on happy thoughts. I heard that if you concentrate on something happy when you’re falling asleep, you will have happy dreams. So it doesn’t make sense that I have another nightmare. I was hoping the nightmares would stop when I moved out. Sometimes the nightmares were so terrifying back home that I woke up yelling. Those dreams were so realistic, like I was right back there on the subway when my mom fell. Two guys were fighting. I knew that one of them was going to shove the other. I reached out to stop him, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t stop him from slamming into my pregnant mom.
I couldn’t stop him from killing my little sister.
Different versions of this nightmare played out almost every night for a few weeks before graduation. I was helpless to change the outcome every time. One time I stood up and got between the men. Even though I was seven when the assault happened, I was eighteen in my nightmare. I was brave enough to wedge myself between the men, but I wasn’t strong enough to stop their fury. Another time I tried to seduce the man who shoved my mom. I wanted to distract him long enough for my mom and me to get to our stop. Then we would run off the train. He seemed interested at first. Then his face contorted in rage when he realized I was tricking him, and he pushed me aside. He shoved me right into my mom. That was the worst version of the nightmare. In that version, I was the one who killed my little sister.