Page 74 of Yes No Maybe

I’m uneasy, too. Distracted. About Jack. About his kiss. I can’t seem to get my head out from under that boardwalk.

Within twenty minutes of parking, we sit at a cafeteria-style table, waiting for Sara’s dad. Other visitors talk quietly at their tables with orange-clad inmates while guards watch nearby. The cinderblock walls, sterile lighting, and seating resemble school. It’s strangely calm and normal despite the bars, guards, and neon orange.

“Think he’ll be mad?” Her sudden question comes out with a nervous tremor.

“No, of course not. Why?”

“That I’mhereto see this.”

“Your dad loves you. He’ll be happy to see you and know you’re okay.”

A breath putters from her as she nods.

A clanking door announces a new arrival to the visiting space. Eddie Sweet is tall and lean with a leathery tan, surely thanks to his lawn care business. His salt-and-pepper crew cut matches his clean-shaven face and brightens into a wide, toothy grin at the sight of Sara. He has friendly eyes, especially when his laugh lines tighten. His warm embrace surely eradicates her fears.

“Eddie Sweet.” He shakes my hand.

“Rowan Mackey, nice to meet you. Sara’s a wonderful girl.”

She gives me a surprised glance.

“Thanks for bringing her to see me,” Eddie says as they sit down.

“Of course, anytime.” I motion to the windowed waiting room where we checked in. “I’ll just be over there while you two catch up.”

It was a last-minute choice—leaving them alone—but it felt intrusive not to. They’re father and daughter and should be allowed to talk without me hovering. I return to the waiting room, where I retrieve my phone and stand near the window.

They talk for nearly an hour. I try not to watch, focusing instead on my group chat with Mira and Mom, which has been ridiculously active since last night when desperate for advice, I opened the discussion with:Jack kissed me, and I kissed him back. *mind-blown emoji, anguished emoji, broken-heart emoji. ??? WTF *face-palm emoji*

Mom FaceTimed right away. The entire story gushed out in a frustrated purge, ping-ponging between Jack and Dean like a tennis match. Only there’s no competition here—at last check, Dean wants to marry me, and I made a promise.

Then, there’s Jack. He’s motivated by what? Lust? Curiosity? Sympathy? Book ideas? I don’t understand why he did it—not sure Iwantto because there’s no good reason for someone like him to play with my feelings like that. I’m with Dean, but even if I weren’t, Jack would never bewithme, and I’m no charity case to add to his sex rotation.

“Rowan, being with you isn’t charity!” Mom said, aghast. “You’ve been together all summer. He cares about you. He said so. Why is that so hard for you to believe?”

“Because it’s not true. You don’t know him or his revolving door of perfect women. If your advice is to dump Dean for a shot at Jack—”

“No. My advice is not to settle for anything less than what you deserve. You deserve a man who is there for you, someone who excites you and makes you a priority, a man who loves youwholeheartedly… Does that sound like Dean?”

It didn’t, but I couldn’t answer. The two were split on whether I should tell Dean about the kiss. Mom thinks I should be honest, while Mira worries it’ll be another thing he holds over my head.

I couldn’t argue with either.

I lean against the waiting room wall as last night’s Mom-lecture replays in my head. She doesn’t get it. Dean wants me as a partner, or he did. Jack wants me for a toy. There’s no comparison.

My phone chimes.

Has Dean texted you back yet?Mom’s text lights the phone as I scan our past messages.

No. Not yet.

This morning, I texted Dean.We need to talk. Not a quick call between takes but a real conversation, face-to-face. I want you home sooner than the day before school starts. Give me the entire weekend. I’ve been patient and understanding all summer. Now, I expect you to show me the same courtesy.

I wonder if I sound too demanding. He read it hours ago. A disconcerted ache grows in my chest the longer it sits there, unanswered.

Then, like bad karma is playing a wicked game, my phone pings again—Jack’s third text since the beach.

Just tell me you’re okay.His latest text expands the ache in my chest.

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