Page 47 of Yearn

I tilted my head and regarded him. “He’s your friend, though. Aren’t you happy for him?”

“Sure, but he always took himself too seriously. Forget it—let’s go break in your new bikini. Can I put lotion on your ass?”

I gave him a half shove, and he took my hand and we headed to the beach.

The Jersey shore was epic to blow off steam and forget. The waves were huge and crashed over the sand, the salty, icy water a perfect balm to the sting of the sun. We sipped Loverboy from red solo cups, played in the surf, and baked in the sun. The guys threw a frisbee and played bucket ball while the girls admired half naked men running over the sand, abs and biceps and tight asses flexing for our entertainment. Taylor Swift’sCruel Summerbelted out from the speaker. Elle went on Coop’s shoulders and lost her bikini top in the waves, and while we went hysterical the men all dove under looking for the tiny string fabric like it was buried treasure. Noah ended up finding it and being the hero while Daisy clapped.

Gabby joined us and took shots of the beach and our crew, posting to her followers. Her gorgeous curly red hair was pinned up, and her black lace bikini was super sexy. She laid out on the towel and snapped a series of pics with such ease, I wondered if I’d ever be that good. I always practiced editing and trying to find the balance between rawness and posed pics because both were important depending on the audience. I felt like I needed something big to push me over the edge and help me break out. A reality show. A big modeling campaign. An important sponsor. But I also knew how hard it was when millions of others wanted the same thing, and everyone was pretty and talented and ambitious.

Was I wrong to believe there was something special that burned inside me? Even when I was young, I would sometimes stare up at the ceiling at night and tremble with the need to bemore than I was. Not exactly to be fawned over and admired, but more appreciated. I craved being seen and giving value, but I was still spinning in circles trying to find my niche of what it was that I needed to lean into. All these years, I figured it was social media and influencing. Or modeling. My face and personality were my brand. But as much as I kept pushing it away, Adam’s words repeated on loop in my brain, blowing things up.

What’s your dream, princess? Do you even have the guts to own one?

He remembered the writing. I rarely discussed it with anyone because it was too private. The stories I’d written through my youth and teen years were bound in endless notebooks and hidden under a floorboard in my old room. I left them behind when I moved into my apartment in a symbolic move to give up my childish dreams. I’d never be a writer. Writers were literary creatures who taught classes, knew big words, and produced stories that’d be reviewed and picked over. I loved to create sexy stories of fantasy romance to have fun and release tension. Sure, I had a ton of readers who loved my stuff on Wattpad, but it wasn’t like I could write a book. I just did a bunch of short stories and let my imagination go free.

But it was embarrassing. People would make fun of me if they knew what I wrote so I hadn’t even shared with Elle. I’d told Max once about Wattpad when I was really drunk, saying a bunch of people liked my story. He’d asked what I wrote and when I said romance, he’d teased me about doing research for my stuff, and it made me feel weird and kind of vulnerable so I laughed it off and said it was no big deal.

God, he’d told Adam? Was Max making fun of me or had it just come up in conversation? Had he laughed about his girlfriend writing sex stories on the Internet and believing she could be a real writer? Had the group brought it up and read it as a joke?

I’d die. Imagining any one I knew judging something that was important to me made me want to squirm with shame.

Do you even have the guts to own one?

Yet, Adam had mentioned my writing like it was important. Like it meant something. Why did that fill something empty inside me?

Why was it so much easier to put my surface self out there? I was confident in my looks; in my body; in my ability to make people like me. But really trying to write for more than a hobby? To create something on paper for the world to read and judge? It terrified me. Much easier to wave my stories off and term it as fun.

I always thought I was brave. A kick ass, take charge woman in control of my own life.

But maybe I’d been lying to myself because it was easier. Maybe, I was truly a coward, and it had taken Adam to call me out.

I watched Max jump to grab the frisbee and do an impressive roll, pressing his tanned golden skin into the sand. He waved at me and strutted, showing off his perfect body and knowing everyone was looking at him. I smiled and shook my head at him, his usual antics of a strutting peacock a bit overdone. But I was used to it. After all, wasn’t I exactly like him in a female version? Everyone said we were perfect together—the ultimate Ken and Barbie—now made famous again from the epic movie. We were cool. We were what everyone wanted to be.

“Hey.”

Drops of water sprinkled over me, making me shiver. Gabby sat beside me on the towel, her long legs crossed in front of her. Her eyes held a glint of concern as she faced me. “I wanted to talk to you.”

I smiled and tried to ignore the pitch in my gut. “Sure, what’s up?”

She nibbled at her bottom lip. Dread reared up. “I know what’s going on with you and Adam. And I’m not okay with it.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Landon

Listen to Love Myself

by Hailee Steinfeld

Iblinked. My heart beat so hard in my chest I figured she’d hear it. “What do you mean? Nothing’s going on with me and Adam.”

“Bullshit.” She shook her head and I watched her curls bounce. “I know you both like to argue, but I could tell he said something shitty. It was all over your face. And Adam looked guilty, so it must’ve been bad.”

Shock held me silent for a bit. Then my brain scrambled to try and keep up. “Oh, we got into a thing about work. He obviously doesn’t respect my choices and I gave him crap about selling out with joining a band.” I kept my shrug casual. “It’s the usual stuff. We just butt heads. I appreciate you checking on me, though. That’s really nice.”

Her gaze probed mine and I did everything to keep my face from showing any weird emotion. “Hmm. I wonder why he’salways picking on you. He never gives me a hard time about influencing or how many pics I take for my social media.”

“We have a history of bad blood. Probably like sibling rivalry—we’re always jabbing at each other.”

---