Page 36 of The Sweet Spot

She and Saira dissolve into giggles.

“Bet you never thought you’d come all the way up here just to meet someone from Santa Cruz,” continues Saira.

“Do you two even need me for this conversation?” I tease.

Janya hugs me closer. “I’m just saying, he was so cute. You should definitely sample that.”

“Not all of us are big, sampling sluts,” says Saira.

“Contrarily, I’m in a monogamous relationship,” Janya says. “Unlike some people. But whatever…”

Their bickering fades into a soft, lilting ramble—fighting is their love language.

A giddy hoot from the group across the street rekindles my attention. They’re all drunken hugs and flirting and laughter, but then one figure swims into sharp relief against the others. A face that shoves my heart into a rapid staccato.

Luca?

I mentally review all that I know about him, which isn’t much. He’s from around here, from the Bay Area, though he told me Walnut Creek. Still, this is close enough I suppose, and the semester’s over, so maybe he’s backfrom Brazil. I think of the postcards he sent me, tucked safely into my journal alongside the photo strip of our night together.

My stomach quivers as I scan the rest of his crowd, now recognizing Kellan and that other guy, the not-so-nice friend. Luca pauses to talk to one of them, clasping his hands behind his neck, and the move is so familiar that it sends a flutter up my spine.

Memories wash over me: watchingThe Lost Boysunder the stars, talking on the Sky Glider, the way Luca’s dark eyes shone beneath the lights of the boardwalk. His mouth, fitted over mine…his tongue, dancing with mine.

And then a pretty girl with long, blonde hair rushes over and kisses him, thoroughly power washing any lingering memories from my mind. It’s like being smacked by a rogue wave at the beach, and I flinch into Janya’s embrace.

“Aww I love you, too,” she says with a sigh, rubbing my back. “Come on, Justin’s back. Let’s go get some boba.”

* * *

After a teary goodbye with Saira, I leave early in the morning. I grab a coffee from a local coffee place, enjoying how the fog from the bay enshrouds the roads with mist. It looks like I’m driving through a dream.

It doesn’t feel like it, though.

For one thing, Saira finally told me what was going on with her. A couple weeks ago, after a party, a guy she thought was a friend had sex with herwhen she was passed out. She couldn’t bring herself to call it what it was, and I was the only person she’d told. I asked why she hadn’t told Janya, and she said she couldn’t deal with her family just yet. Which says a lot, because they’re tight.

She’s already submitted the paperwork to transfer from Berkeley to UCSC. I’m glad she’s coming home; I just hate that this is why. We talked and cried until we fell asleep, but it was on my mind the second I woke up. My heart has never felt so heavy.

And then there’s Luca. I’ve thought lots over the months about what it would be like to see him again. Usually, in my fantasies, he’s all over me, asking me out, kissing me. Sometimes, we end up rolling nakedly around my bed.

Not once did I imagine it going down the way it did, with someone else’s lips on his. Seeing Luca so unexpectedly and then not being able to make contact hurt. Like, really hurt. I woke up thinking about him, and hours later he’s still on my mind. Not even my favorite true crime podcast is enough to yank me back to reality.

Sighing, I merge onto I-880. God, that girl. Did they spend the night together? Probably. I knew from the first moment I saw him—boys like Luca are never single, and even if they are, they’re never alone. Why’d I have to see him at all last night? Why couldn’t I have just had my fun, flirting with Dallas and goofing around with the girls?

Because really, Luca is firmly in the past. The more I think about it, the harder it is to convince myself that our interludes on the boardwalk were anything more than summer fun. Not even a summer fling—we may’ve exchanged spit, but we never exchanged numbers.

He did send the postcards. So, maybe he tried. It’s not my fault I didn’t getthem until it was too late, but it wasn’t his, either. Still, he could’ve at least given me his phone number or an email address. He didn’t even write his last name.

Fleetwood Mac comes blaring over the Bluetooth. Pausing my podcast, I switch over to my mother’s call.

“Hey Mom.”

“Good morning, little bird,” she says. “Are you on your way back already?”

“Yep. You at the studio?”

“Yes, we had sunrise yoga. Oh!” she cries. “Mizuki went into labor this morning! She’s at the hospital now.”

“Aw, really?” Something warm and good opens up in my chest. Something real. “That’s so exciting! Keep me updated on that—I’ll be back in Santa Cruz in about an hour.”

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