Page 5 of Faking Forever 1
Just be mindful. It overheats. When you’re stuck on the road, you might not always have help.” he insists.
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FAKING FOREVER
He then grabs the keys from his work table and holds them up. I stare at him, slowly reaching for them.
“I swear, I’ll pay attention.” I vocalize, desperately wanting the silver trinket to be in my hands.
“Paisley.” he articulates, “Be. Careful. If anything happens, you call me, or you call Rich. You hear me?” he adds, hesitating to hand me the keys finally.
“I promise. Scouts honor.” I smile, kissing his cheek before running to the driver’s side of the vehicle.
Whatever problems the car was having, I already didn’t mind. It was all mine and free. What’s even crazier is the thought of him hanging onto such a possession until I came home.
* * *
The drive to Stillman’s was even hotter than the one from the airport. I don’t think it’s ever been as hot as this summer was feeling. It was a different kind of heat, too. Not comparable to the previous summers I’d lived here. Nonetheless, it beats living somewhere that rains nonstop and never looks sunny. I don’t miss being there if you couldn’t tell. Being back home makes me want to go back a lot less if I’m being honest.
I parked the car at a reasonable distance before marching my way down to the store. I saw Josh’s jeep parked a few spaces down from me, letting me know he was indeed working. The moment was starting to feel more exciting than before when it was just a thought. I could see his tall stature through the open bamboo windows, working on something. He stood, hovering over the work table, adjusting his hair underneath his ball cap.
To my advantage, he was facing the opposite way of the 18
SEASIDE
entrance, perfect for a surprise. I entered the store, hearing the old, annoying jingle that plays upon entry. Everything looked just as it did the day I left. The surfboards were hanging on the wall, with the work table right in the middle of the shack.
The fishing equipment was in its cornered shell, and lastly, the boating information table was still piled with papers. All were still there.
The sound of me barging in had failed to get his attention.
His face was stuck in what looked to be a boat’s engine instead.
His hair was cut a lot shorter than it had previously been.
Groomed, if you will. Still, it was messily placed underneath his hat. Messy as it be, he stood self-assured and poised, pushing the sleeves of his flannel up his newly toned arms and fresh, vibrantly black ink. New to me, at least.
Walking to the wall of surfboards, I clear my throat, fix my hair, and hope for a result this time.
“Oh, my bad—welcome to Stillman’s. Can I get you something?” he asks in a smoky voice.
It’s deeper than before. His accent is more prominent, too.
“Um—yeah, I wanna get that hot pink board up there.
Nothing crazy. I love that color.” I chirp.
“Hot pink board.” He gives a gruff, shortened laugh. Those remind me of someoneextraordinary,” he adds, abandoning his project to walk over to my vicinity.
Someoneextraordinary. He’s so sappy.
“Someone special. What’s their name?” I query him, trying to contain my excitement.
Finally, he looks my way, freezing in place.
“Paisley..?” he stretches his neck out to view my face, now more curious. I simply turn his way, helping him out.
“Hi.” I wiggle my fingers with a wave, complimented by a 19
