Golden Boys (Golden Boys, #1)(24)

He looks to me as Diana tears into a bag of chips. “She gets hangry really easy. I realized that, early on in our friendship, if I just carried snacks with me twenty-four-seven, she’d be more pleasant.”

Friendship, I repeat in my mind. Noted.

“I would argue, but he’s not wrong,” Diana says through a mouth full of food. “If I’m ever being a bitch, just go get me a corn dog from the boardwalk. Or some doughnuts, specifically maple and strawberry.”

“I hope those are two separate doughnuts,” I say.

“Yeah, but I would totally eat them together. But really, any food. It’s magic.”

We settle into our spots and spend the next few minutes covering one another in sunscreen. I watch as Diana slips her hands down his back, and I feel a little envious of her.

Cole is this mix between adorable and hot. Hotdorable? No, that sounds awful. But he’s got this tan skin, lanky frame, shaggy brown hair, and dark eyes. At first glance, you can’t really tell where the brown of his iris begins and his pupil ends, which gives him a sweet but slightly cartoonish look. Add that to his dimples and the light stubble dotting his jawline, and a part of me wants to lose myself in him.

And then I realize I’m staring. So I stop.

He runs a lotioned hand down his arm, then says, “Jeanie says hi, by the way. I dropped Heath’s luggage off on my way home.”

“Oh, you didn’t have to do that,” I say.

As I abandoned my truck in the lot, I put my suitcase in his trunk because we realized leaving it out in the truck bed was probably not the smartest decision. But I do feel some relief knowing that everything’s waiting for me back at Jeanie’s.

“It’s nothing,” he replies. “I want to make sure you enjoy it here. Daytona gets a bad rap sometimes.”

“For good reason,” Diana says under her breath.

“But it’s home.”

Diana doesn’t respond, but I see her lightly nodding.

“Well, it’s a lot different here. In a good way,” I say.

“Tell me about Ohio,” Cole says. “I’m fascinated about, like, places that are not here. I’ve only left the state once, I think?”

“I guess I’m the same way, with Ohio. My family isn’t big on traveling, though we did take a few road trips to the more northern beaches when I was younger. Let’s see, what’s Ohio like …?”

For a moment, I kind of forget what home is like. It feels so normal that it’s impossible to describe to someone.

“Corn,” I say. Then I realize that’s a horrible way to start a description of an entire state, but I’ve already committed to the corn route, and crap, they’re staring, so I shoot out: “I mean, fields, there are a lot of fields of corn and soy. Farms are everywhere in our village. Our farmhouse is actually on one, though the previous owner sold all the farmland around it. It’s nothing special, I guess. We have this big weather vane in the yard, and a star on our house.”

“A star?” he says.

Diana cuts in. “It’s a country thing; I’ve seen it all through his Instagram stories. All the houses have these big stars on them, and some have flags in their yard. It’s fascinating.”

“Some paint their barns to look like the flag,” I admit.

“Sounds, uh, patriotic,” he says with a chuckle.

I shake my head. “I’m doing an awful job of describing Gracemont. It’s all so small. Our school only has a couple hundred people in it, and everyone’s in everyone else’s business. It’s nice to get away for a bit. But I miss my friends already.”

“You’ll be back before you know it,” Diana says, and maybe I imagined it, but a look of disappointment crosses Cole’s face. I tell myself not to read into it.

My voice drops to a whisper. “I don’t even know what’ll be there when I get back.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

GABRIEL

It’s five after eight, and I can hear music creeping down the hall. I haven’t heard many people leave their rooms, though, so I take a few extra minutes to make sure I’m presentable. There’s a tiny sink and a tiny mirror in this microscopic dorm room, but I look pretty good for someone who hasn’t slept well in days and is currently fighting off a panic attack. I adjust my T-shirt, which was meant to be a gag gift from the boys last Christmas—a silhouette of a tree on a stark white shirt, with the word “hugger” blended into the leaves. But it’s kind of stylish, and I am a tree hugger, so I like it.

And hopefully the others will too. Although I’m not getting my hopes up. I’ll fulfill my promises to my sister: I have a ten-minute timer set, and I will speak to one person. Then I’m going to bed.

I hear a door close out in the hall, and I know at least one person has made their way to the event. I give it a second—a weird fear spiking in me that warns me not to be in the hall with another person, lest we be forced into an awkward conversation.

When the coast is clear, I crack open the door. A breeze blows through me as hot air gets pulled in from my open window and into the hall. I take a breath and try to settle my stomach, the heaviness in my chest. It will be okay. I have to do this.

Stepping out into the hall, I triple check that I have my keys, phone, and wallet, and I let the door click behind me. I feel exposed out here, knowing anyone can open their door at any time, but I think I just need to push through.