RiAnne: I can’t believe you actually did it! Broke up with the PROM KING the day after the prom? Who does that?
RiAnne: OMG! Where are you going to sit?
I don’t bother to reply. Shouldn’t they ask if I’m okay? Shouldn’t they care more about me than their spot at a lunch table?
My phone buzzes again.
Cush: You’re single. I’m single. Let’s mingle.
His text makes me laugh. Typical Cush.
Me: Mingle? Is that your classier version of Let’s hook up?
Cush: Trying to class it up for you, baby. Hang tonight?
Me: Have plans, but need your support at school on Monday. The bffs are pissed I broke up with Sander. They didn’t even ask how I am. Just wanted to let me know that they are still gonna sit at our lunch table even if I can’t anymore.
Cush: Deal. But I have a favor.
Me: If you say sexual, I’m gonna scream.
Cush: Oh, the visuals. I would definitely make you scream ;) But that’s not the favor. It’s that time again.
Me: Your dad in town?
Cush has one of those dads whom he both idolizes and hates. Last year, he asked me to go to dinner with them. His dad was newly engaged to a thirty-year-old woman. He’s been engaged twice since, each fiancée younger than the first. I’ve joined them for dinner every month since.
Cush: He broke off the engagement with Juliette. Has a new one for me to meet. This one’s probably still in diapers.
Me: Of course I’ll go.
Cush: Pick you up at 7. Look hot. It’ll distract him.
Me: You’re bad.
Cush: Most girls tell me I’m good. Wanna find out?
I just want you.
9:10am
I walk out onto the deck, grab my board, and head down the beach. Brooklyn’s back is to me, but Mark notices me. He lets out a whistle, but I can tell by his goofy grin that he’s just giving me shit. They treat me like one of the guys, which is probably why I love hanging out with them. They are just so chill about everything.
And high most the time, too, but whatever.
Damian looks up from waxing his board and gives me a wave, then Brooklyn turns around and looks at me. His look is like something out of a movie.
FADE IN: MALIBU BEACH
A FEW PEOPLE ARE SCATTERED ON THE UPSCALE PRIVATE BEACH OF THE MALIBU COLONY. PAN SCENE OF THE GORGEOUS HOMES LINING THE BEACH.
A group of boys are preparing to surf. A blonde girl walks down the beach to join them. She is in a very skimpy bikini. A couple of the boys greet her.
BROOKLYN
(Turns to face Keatyn. His eyes take in her skimpiest bikini. He realizes she’s grown up. She’s not the girl he became friends with. His eyes fill with desire, but he greets her casually.)
Hey, Keats. Surf’s up.
KEATYN
(Walks closer to him. Makes him uncomfortable.)
I see that.
BROOKLYN
Forget surfing. I need to talk to you.
(He drags her up to his bedroom.)
KEATYN
(Pretends to look surprised, but she isn’t. She speaks in a slow, sexy way, plays with her hair, and licks her lips suggestively.)
What did you want to talk about?
BROOKLYN
(Pulls her into his arms.)
I don’t want to talk. I just want you.
(He kisses her and throws her on the bed. They kiss passionately, and then he ravishes her body. She can’t think or speak; she’s so overwhelmed by his touch. He strips off her bikini then they make love.)
(Or maybe they have sex. Whichever one would be hotter.)
(Probably sex.)
(And it wouldn’t hurt. Even though it’s her first time.)
(Because that wouldn’t make it as sexy.)
(And then they would do it again. And like again. Because he can’t control his passion for her. He’s been keeping it locked inside him for far too long.)
(Oh, and be sure to get numerous close up shots of his abs. They really are amazing.)
I picture the scene in my mind as I walk toward him.
It makes me feel sexy.
Desirable.
I walk with a little extra sway in my step, but as usual, Brooklyn refuses to follow a script. The damn boy says, “Hey, Keats. Last one out is a rotten squid.”
So we all run out into the waves like a bunch of fifth graders.
The sun gets hot, the waves die down, and the guys all head out. I strip off my rash guard and catch a few rays, letting the heat dry my bikini.
“Wanna go back out there and play a little while longer?” Brooklyn asks.
“Sure.”
We’re floating on our boards when I decide it’s the perfect time to tell him the news. I’ve been dying to tell him all morning, but I wanted to wait until we were alone.
So he can finally profess his love for me and all.
“So, I’m officially single.”
“Really?”
“You look surprised.”
“I didn’t think you’d do it. You’re a great girl, Keats. You shouldn’t worry so much about what people think. Maybe if you’d let people at school get to know the real you, like I do, you’d have more real friends. You’re cool. Start acting like it.” He gets distracted by a wave rolling in. “I’m gonna go tame that bad boy,” he says, and quickly paddles off.
Guess the professions of love will have to wait until later.
I sit on my board and watch him. I swear, I could watch him all day. He’s such a good surfer. He enters and wins all sorts of local competitions. He just finished college and now dreams about going out on the pro tour. Even though he looks like a slacker surfer, he’s really very smart. He went to a school where he was able to work at his own pace, graduated high school at fifteen, and already has a college degree in Literature. For the last six months, he’s been trying to decide what to do with his life. I just hope whatever he chooses keeps him nice and close to home.
And, well, me.
I wait for another wave, paddle out, and ride it back to the beach.
When I get there, Brooklyn is talking to some guy I’ve never seen before. He looks like he’s in his late twenties, maybe early thirties. He’s quite a bit taller than Brooklyn, has dark, slicked-back hair, and deep mocha-colored eyes. He looks really out of place on the beach, though. Like he got lost on his way to the boardroom. He’s wearing a well-cut navy Armani suit, crisp white shirt, red paisley tie, and shiny black Ferragamo wingtips that have to be totally filled with sand.
I shove my board into the sand and jog over to them. I should be polite and say hi.
When I walk up next to Brooklyn, he grabs my waist and pulls me into his side in a surprisingly affectionate and possessive way.
“And this is Abby Johnston’s daughter, Keatyn,” he says, introducing me. “Keatyn, this is Vincent Sharpe.”