Superfan (Brooklyn #3)(21)

“Oh, brother.” I flip my notebook shut. Brett seems to fetch me from this place a little earlier every day.

“Delilah!” he barks. “Time to go. What the hell are you drinking? Don’t you learn?”

Across from me, Ralph goes pale.

“Hey!” I snap. “I made this drink myself.”

“With the professional bartender’s help?” He gives Ralph a cutting look. I don’t know what passed between these two in high school, but it couldn’t have been good.

“You think I can’t mix a drink for myself?” I ask, feeling tired. “He’s not my bartender. He’s my surfing instructor.”

“Your—?” He scowls. “Let’s just go. Don’t keep other songwriters waiting.”

“Wouldn’t want to be rude or anything.” I give Ralph a wink. “Bye, Ralph.”

“Don’t forget about your lesson!” he calls after me. “Friday. Three o’clock.”

I stop, shaking off Brett’s hand. “Wait. Where do I meet you?”

“Darlington Beach, beside the lifeguard station.”

I give him a giant smile, because that sounds like so much fun. “I’ll be there.”

Brett makes an ornery sound beside me. But I ignore it.





As it happens, I do wear a bikini on Friday. A little one. A last-minute fling with Ralph is probably a terrible idea, but he’s so wonderful. Almost too good to be true.

And I’m not the most disciplined girl. Sue me.

Friday is another beautiful California beach day. The sky is so blue it hurts my eyes. I bring a towel from Brett’s guesthouse. I feel weird about staying there all summer for free. Maybe he expected us to have a lot of sex in the guest bed.

He still wants to, but he doesn’t seem mad about it. If anything, he just seems more determined. Brett is a puzzle in my life that I can’t solve. It’s clear that he wants me. But he also wants my music.

Which thing does he want more?

I’m sure not here to think about Brett, though. I find the lifeguard station, and I put my towel down just a couple of yards away. And I wait for Ralph. There are a couple of surfers in the water already. From this distance it’s not easy to tell, but I don’t think he’s one of them.

So I turn around and watch the pathway where people emerge from the parking lot. I don’t see a guy carrying a surfboard. Or two surfboards.

Maybe I should have met him in the parking lot, instead?

I stay on my towel and wait. Three o’clock comes and goes. I try not to worry, because if there was a rush of drink orders, he would have to help out.

It’s three thirty suddenly. And then four.

Still, I don’t leave. Ralph isn’t the kind of guy to ask me out all summer and then bail. There must be a problem.

The sun sinks lower and lower in the sky, and my heart sinks, too.

He’s not coming. He forgot all about me, I think. Who does that?

You never gave him your phone number, my conscience reminds me. He can’t call and explain.

But really—how hard could it be to ask a bus boy to run down and tell me he’s not coming? I’m, like, two blocks from the bar right now.

I know I shouldn’t take it hard, but I do anyway. As I sit here on the towel, my insecurities multiply like bunny rabbits. I’m a fool. I came here to focus on music, not men. I’m too distracted. I’m too flighty. I’m too selfish. Maybe that’s why nothing ever pans out for me.

Maybe that’s why Ralph forgot to show.

My phone rings, and I scramble to pull it out of my bag. But it’s Brett calling. “Where are you?” he asks as soon as I pick up. “I’m standing in this bar like an asshole, and you’re not here.”

So prickly, this one. We’re more alike than I care to admit. “Is Ralph there?”

“Why? It’s a woman tending bar today, Delilah. I asked if you’d been in here and she looked at me like I’m crazy for asking. Where are you?”

“On the beach,” I admit.

“Want to go have drinks with a producer I met?”

“I…” My mind is spinning. Ralph isn’t even at work? “I have a headache. I’m in a lousy mood.” I’m not in the mood to try to impress a producer. And drinks would mean putting my phobia on display.

“Let me come and find you,” Brett says, his voice becoming gentle. “Screw the drinks.”

“Screw ’em,” I echo.

“We’ll walk back to my place and just chill,” Brett suggests.

I hesitate. But what difference does it make now? The man I thought was a good one is the guy who stood me up. “Okay,” I say. “Let’s go to your place.”

“Excellent,” he says softly. “I’ll be right there.”

As I get up from my towel and shake out the sand, I take one more look down the beach in both directions.

There’s no guy with kind eyes and a surfboard.

When I leave town three days later with Brett at my side, I’ll wonder if I imagined him.





July





Silas





“Are you nervous?” Georgia asks, giving me the once-over. “You look great.”