Page 58 of Summer People
Tonightisn’ta date. There is no need to dress up or worry about how she’ll think I look. I need to get that through my head.
My eyes drift back to my reflection, and I wince at my stupid hair.
Fuck. It looks ridiculous.
Out of desperation, I pull on my Boston Revs baseball cap.
There. Now I look casual. From the neck up. Sighing, I unbutton my shirt. I yank it off and toss it to the floor, leaving myself in a white T-shirt and jeans, which is exactly how I started a half hour ago. It doesn’t help. The knots in my stomach only tighten. This is exactly why I don’t date.
I shake my head.
We’re just friends. This is not a date. It’s no different from hanging out with Wilder. Or Maggie. Though I don’t kiss Maggie. Or Wilder. Not that I’m gonna kiss Libby either. But fucking hell, I’d like to. And I’m starting to believe maybe she’d like me to as well. Just that idea has my heart rate picking up like I’m a thirteen-year-old.
I scoff.
More like an eighteen-year-old.
Until I left this island, not a single girl had ever looked my way. Here on Monhegan, I was the weird kid. The boy who could help with a satellite dish or a new computer or phone. Not the kid people wanted to hang out with. Especially the girls. Stepping onto the grounds of Harvard was like being transported to a different world entirely. There, girls suddenly noticed me.
Because in Cambridge and Boston, I’m one of many. Here, I stand out too much.
I stomp down the stairs.
My cameras haven’t notified me of Libby’s return home yet, so she clearly isn’t stressing about what she should wear or how she should style her hair.
I’ve got another twenty minutes to kill before I’m supposed to pick her up. Fuck. This afternoon has been the longest of my life. I stand in front of the window, watching her house, wishing I could speed up time. It’s like watching paint dry. There isn’t a light on in the entire place. I catch my reflection in the window and second-guess the hat.
Maybe she hates Boston baseball. The team has beaten the LA Dodgers more than a few times.
I toss my cap onto the counter and pull a water bottle from the fridge.
With a long sip and then three slow, calming breaths, I will myself to calm down. The effort is in vain.
Where is she? My stomach churns again at the idea of seeing her. Of making her smile. Of the possibility of eliciting one of those shivers that overtake her when I brush against her.
If I brushed my lips along her neck, would that shiver intensify? Would her breath catch? I can practically feel her pulse flutter with the same desire that pounds through me.
I blink.
Stop it. This is afriendthing. Imagining anything more will only lead to disappointment. And I’ve had enough disappointment to last a lifetime.
I set the water bottle on the counter and roll my shoulders. With another steady exhale, I run my hands through my hair.
Jesus, now it’s probably sticking up all over the place. I swipe the hat off the counter and toss it on my head again.
Before I have a chance to overthink the hat for a third time, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Whoever it is better not need anything. Tonight the only person getting my attention is Libby. Unless it’s Sutton. I pull the device out, making sure it’s not Mrs. K.
Wilder’s name flashes on the screen, and for one second, I think about ignoring his call. Though a conversation with him might help pass the time. Plus, someone needs to tell him that he’s got to man up and deal with the clingy tourist himself. Because he’s not going to try to hang all over Libby like he did at the lobster bake. Fucker.
I hit the Accept button. “What?”
He chuckles. “Manners, Fisher. Manners.”
Annoyance instantly pulses in my veins. “Are you calling to waste my time?”
“No. I have a little situation here in my front yard.”
