Golden Boys (Golden Boys, #1)(21)

“Need some help?” he asks in a singsongy voice, and I feel my entire body blush, if that’s even possible.

“No, just browsing the shirts. It’s an impressive collection.”

He laughs. “I will say the shirt with the dolphins, uh, doin’ it, is one of our bestsellers. But I’m not sure you fit the type. Vacation?”

“No,” I say as Diana chimes in with, “Yo! I’m still here!”

“Sorry, sorry,” I say, then turn back to the phone. “I’ll call when I’m on my way back.”

She waves her arms. “Wait, I recognize that dude’s voice. Which shop are you at?”

I turn my phone toward the sales guy, who squints to see Diana on the screen.

“It’s, uh, Dan’s Beach Shop,” I say.

“Oh god, you really are close to the house,” Diana says. “Hey, Cole, this is my cousin Heath; he’s staying with me for the summer. All the way from Ohio.” She stretches Ohio to make it sound like a luxurious hot spot, and I almost groan.

“Hey, D. Small world, huh?” Cole says, then he peeks behind the camera to look at me. “Hey, Heath.”

“Mom’s arcade is, like, two shops down, just off the beach,” Diana continues. “I’m going to take my bike down there right now—Cole, keep an eye on him and don’t let my darling country cousin make any bad decisions.”

I drop my voice to a solemn whisper. “So you’re saying I can’t buy the humping dolphins tank?”

Diana responds immediately, “That’s a no.”

I end the call with Diana while Cole takes me to the register to pay for my (not lewd) airbrushed tank. I feel my confidence start to rise as I follow him, because hey, maybe I’m not super close to my cousin, or to this guy, or to this town … but with the hint of sunscreen and salt in the air, there is something magical about this place.

That, or I’m suffering from heatstroke.





CHAPTER TWENTY

GABRIEL

I’m not sure what I expected from a dorm room, but this feels slightly more like a jail cell. The concrete walls are painted white; the desks and beds are bare. I guess I should be grateful that they’ve put us all in singles. I know that’s not going to be the case when I finally get to college. I open one of the dresser drawers, and an old musty smell smacks me in the face. The fluorescent light above starts to flicker.

It’s only three months, I remind myself.

Three months … in this heat.

Boston’s Save the Trees was able to partner with a local university to set us up with these dorm rooms, which is cool in theory, but based on all the marketing materials Suffolk County Junior College shoved into my hands as I arrived, I get the feeling this is going to turn into one of those time-share presentations real quick.

But the college is doing it right: they set us up with towels, sheets that fit the extra-long twin bed in our room, and they’re even hosting a welcome event in the lobby tonight. My hands start to sweat as I think through the logistics of the evening: writing my name on one of those name tags? Awkwardly meeting new people? I flash back to the time I gave that presentation in the auditorium, when all my friends fell silently, seamlessly into other groups as I stood onstage alone.

I should make friends.

Or I could call Sal.

I connect to the shitty Wi-Fi and send a FaceTime request to Sal, who quickly rejects it. My fists clench, but I don’t let myself think too much about why I’m put off by it. I mean, he’s got his own life—right now, he’s probably climbing the Lincoln Memorial or trying to network his way into the White House, or … whatever it is you do in DC.

He sends me a quick text: On the metro. Call later?

The fuzziness in my chest eases, so I double tap the message and give it a thumbs-up. He’s not doing anything wrong; my anxiety is just making me act selfish. Being away from him is going to be harder than I thought.

Though I still don’t know what to do about tonight’s welcome event. I mean, it’s not required. I pretend this is a conversation with my therapist, where I’m discussing the pros and cons of going. Pros: I could meet new people. It probably wouldn’t be awful. Cons: Meeting new people is draining. I’m already tired from my trip here. It might be awful.

I wonder, Would my therapist urge me to go, saying that I need to confront my anxiety head-on? Or would she say that it’s okay to give yourself a break? I have this habit of convincing myself I’m doing something for self-care reasons, but it’s actually me avoiding responsibility. I don’t know if this is what I’m doing now, but I can’t be sure. Which is why I’d usually go to Sal for a second opinion.

Am I scared? Is it normal to be scared? It’s like I don’t know my own brain.

I decide that I really can’t handle this question myself, so I pick up the phone and FaceTime my sister.

“Gabey!” she shouts in this cutesy way that almost makes me hang up on her. “You’re in a dorm room! How does it feel?”

“Honestly? Not great.” I sit on the squeaky bed. “It’s hot. It’s weird.”

“Yeah, I get that. I hated my dorm room, and not just because I had the world’s worst roommate. It’s just uncomfortable. You’re in this box, and you have to take a key with you to go to the restroom; you wear flip-flops in the shower? Nothing is normal—everything is weird.”