Page 6 of The Sweet Spot

“I don’t know.” Shrugging, I finish eating and chuck my napkin into a nearby trash can. “Pretty for sure, though.”

“Hey, if you’re not interested, I might just go back,” Matt says, making like he’s about to turn around.

Laughing, I hook my arm around his neck and keep him moving forward—away from the “Sweet Spot” and toward the Giant Dipper. “Never said I wasn’t interested.”

“Nah, asshole,” he half-yells, earning a look of horror from a trio of elderly ladies passing by. “You know the rules. No lockin’ it down if you’re not gonna make the play.”

“He’s holding out for Brooke,” Logan says dryly, cutting me a look.

“Brooke? Not that prissy bitch from Kappa Kappa whatever?” Matt squirms from my grip as he frowns at me.

I sigh, giving him the side-eye. “Watch your mouth, Matty.”

“Watch your own mouth. Something about her feels shady.” He shrugs. “She was at that pool party last week, all over some guy—”

That sucks, but I interrupt him anyway. “We’re not together—she can do whatever she wants.”

“Nah, bro, I’m telling you—she’s a player.” Matt sniffs. “She acted like she didn’t even see me when I know she did.”

My phone vibrates with a notification. I yank it out, but it’s just my little brother Daniel, asking about the Xbox in my old room. Sighing, I text back that he can take it.

“Can’t play a player,” I continue, folding my arms as I lean against the wall.

“Player, huh? She know that?” Logan asks, arching an eyebrow as he slurps away at his soda.

“You focus on Olivia,” I shoot back. That’s the longtime girlfriend with whom he’s been fighting nonstop, hence all the herb he smoked this morning. I poke Matt, too, not about to let him off the hook. “And you. You need to go ahead and get laid.”

Matt perks up, a sly look glittering in his pale, blue eyes. “By who, Sweet Spot?”

“Her name’s Wren,” I say, shoving him ahead. “And no, not by her.”

“Listen to you, being all possessive and shit!” he crows. “I knew you were feeling her!”

“Shut up, Matty.”

But he’s right. I am feeling her.

Wren

The sun’s still pretty high in the sky when I clock out. Waving goodbye to Sean and Rodrigo, I slip out the back door and thread leisurely through the crowd. I’ve been working after school and summer jobs at Santa Cruz boardwalk since I was fifteen, but this moment—trading employee status for that of a tourist—always feels like heaven. I love this place.

Sliding my backpack on, I hoof it over to the main parking lot. It’s packed as always, people coming and going. I find my little, green Civic hatchback, and getting in, text my mother.

Wren: Do you need anything from the store?

She rarely has her phone on her, so I probably have a few minutes before she replies. Choosing my latest favorite playlist, I get my daily parking ticket validated and head out onto Beach Street. Sure enough, I’m halfway to the apartment by the time Mom replies.

Mom: I’ve got everything I need, little bird. Thx.

Santa Cruz isn’t just where I live, it’s in my blood. My mother grew up here, and Gramma Kate still lives in the same Boulder Creek house she raised Mom in.

My father’s the only outlier, I guess.

According to Mom, after years of unsatisfactory relationships dating losers and idiots, she drove down to Los Angeles on a whim and got artificially inseminated. She wouldn’t call it a whim, by the way, but I suspect it was. She’d just turned thirty. It’s not like she was getting old and running out of time, even if she felt that way.

“I didn’t need some guy, Wren. I just wanted you,” she said, when I asked once why she didn’t just wait until she found The One. I don’t know why I bothered. She’s never found men particularly necessary. “Besides, ‘The One’ doesn’t exist, and even if he did, I probably wouldn’t have found him until my ovaries were shriveled.”

When I was little, Mom and I lived in a tiny studio apartment within walking distance of the beach. I remember some things about it, like the tiny swing set out front and walking to the grocery store. Mom and I spent her days off at the beach, having picnics and looking for shells. Gramma Kate was still teaching over at UCSC in those days.

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