Page 9 of Getting Over You

I whoop.

“But don’t hold your breath,” EJ says as he shuts the door behind him. “And no wallowing!” I hear him call from outside the door.

It’s like my brother doesn’t know me at all.

Chapter five

“Did your father buy you that?” my mother asks, nodding to my dress. She surveys the light blue silk and lace, letting out a dissatisfied hum. “I think you’d look better in something for summer. A yellow, or coral maybe.”

I’m here on a free beach vacation,I tell myself. I battle to collect my thoughts enough to form some sort of reply. Before I can, my mother says, “I’ll swing by a boutique on the boardwalk after work tomorrow and find something for you. Don’t worry, sugar. You’ll look much better in a seasonal color palette.”

Oh, my god. I’ve been here for five minutes. I can’t help but think about the rideshare driver who dropped me off here, wondering if he’s too far away to catch on foot. The walls of this immaculate yellow house at the end of a perfect, cozy cul-de-sac, and its well-manicured garden and neutral decor, are suffocating me. Add the fact that Belinda has a picture of herselffrom the ribbon cutting of The Diner on her wall and you have the perfect recipe for a well-received community woman.

From the outside looking in, Belinda is a perfect person.

Who’s Belinda to say anything about my appearance, anyway? Her bleach-blonde hair is tucked into a high ponytail that resembles a high school cheerleader, and the tank top and shorts she has on wouldn’t pass a high school dress code. Her tank top reads, in a messy scrawl, The Diner.

I take a breath.No, Gigi. Free beach vacation. A reprieve from a broken heart. Focus.“Let’s go eat,” I say. “I’m starving, and that felt like a super long flight.”

“I always fly first class,” my mother says, grabbing her keys and her black clutch from the table in the foyer. “Plenty of snacks and alcohol there. Maybe I’ll gift you a ticket upgrade for the flight back. I can usually find a semi-decent discount on those things.”

My body stiffens, a forced smile plastered on my face. “Thank you.”

She smiles, pleased. I follow her wordlessly to the car. “It’s a shame your father couldn’t be so thoughtful for your venture here.” I slide into the passenger seat of her Jeep. As the engine turns over, Belinda says, “Had I known he was going to decide to neglect you, I would’ve certainly helped.”

Neglect is a stretch. I was pleased, really, with my experience in coach. Any chance to make Dad look like the worst parent is a chance Belinda gladly captures every time she can, though. “It’s fine,” I tell her. “I didn’t mind.”

My mother guffaws as she pulls away from the cul-de-sac. We turn onto the main road, passing the public access beach and a gas station with a packed parking lot.

“What’s with the traffic?” I ask. “And at a gas station.”

“Parties,” Belinda says. “Heaping with fresh graduates, vacationers, and everything in between. You should really gosee what it’s about. Young men pass through the diner all the time on the way there. I’m sure you could use more friends, honeybee.”

I have always hated nicknames. And that hatred started when I was younger, in one of the first summer months I spent with her. I was maybe nine, and she called mesugar.I hated it.

Since then, I’ve winced whenever anyone calls me anything but Gigi. It makes me think that calling someone a nickname is a sad attempt at making yourself feel better, like you can convince yourself you’re close to somebody if you call them the nickname you’ve chosen for them enough.

I’m a good mother, Belinda might say.I called you sugar. And honeybee.

I was a good guy, Geeg,Marcus will say.We had good times.

Neither are true. And a nickname doesn’t make it so.

“I’ve been so busy lately,” my mother says, keeping her eyes fixed on the road ahead. We get to a tiny downtown business district, made up of just her restaurant, a few small shops, and a coffee shop: Beach Brew. At the only stoplight, she hangs a left into a parking lot. “And there are call-ins sometimes, so having to move things around is never fun.” She cuts the engine. “I wonder what chaos I’ll walk into right now. Good god, it’s never ending.”

When Belinda pulls open a back door, I’m greeted by the smell of sautéed onions and bacon. And, just as she said, chaos. Two cooks are moving frantically at flat-top grills in the back of the building. They’re shifting plates into a window leading to the dining room.

“Order!” a dark-haired girl with a tall, thin frame says as I get through the tight corridor separating the kitchen and dining room. Booths clad in ripping red leather line the walls, a few tables situated in between the bar and booths packed with clubs of retirees. The bright yellow paint job really brightens the place,not that it needs it. To me, this feels like Geddington Beach’s small town charm, encased in one place.

Though, that could be because the place is the textbook definition of small—cramped, even.

“Go sit in a corner booth while I check up on things, why don’t you?” Belinda says as she turns to head back down the hall. “I’ll bring you back a soda.”

I situate myself in a corner booth as requested, and I’m scanning the menu, trying to ignore the way the laminated sheet sticks to my fingertips, when a voice says, “I didn’t expect it to be so obvious. There’s no denying you’re her daughter.”

I jump at the sound of the waitress’ voice.

“Shit,” she says. “Sorry.” It’s the waitress from when we arrived. The girl is tall and bony, her clavicles jutting out against sunburned skin underneath her dark blue T-shirt that looks three sizes too big. Her dark eyes glint, extra noticeable with her dark hair pulled into a clip on her head.

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