The Way You Make Me Feel(67)
A surge of happiness coursed through me just seeing his face. “Yeah, that’s him! Hamlet.”
She glanced up at me. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Well, he’s cute. What’s the problem? Why did you fight?”
It’s the least special thing about you. The words still hurt days later. “Oh. You know. The stuff people fight about.”
Before she could respond, Kendra and Jeremy were running down the beach waving to us with big, sweeping arm gestures. My mom waved back. “Looks like yoga’s starting,” she said, getting up. She held out her hands to help me up. “Well, don’t be too sad, Clara. High school romances, who needs them, right? There are so many guys out there, and they’d be lucky to date you.”
It was the nice, mom thing to say. But a small part of me wanted her to push me, to challenge my reasons for wanting to end things with Hamlet. But I knew, for my mom, high school romances didn’t work out. And she’d been keeping herself at arm’s reach from those kinds of intense feelings ever since.
I trailed behind her as she ran toward her friends. A reminder of teenage mistakes, of the ephemeral nature of love.
CHAPTER 31
Days passed in a relaxed and pampered haze.
I’d wake up, take a morning yoga class with my mom or Kendra or someone on the beach, have a super-late brunch at the hotel, then spend the afternoon helping my mom take photos of herself at some destination. One day it was ancient ruins (which was rad until someone almost fell off a ledge taking a selfie); another day it was sailing to an island where we had a picnic spread out for us with, like, antique flatware. Evenings were always spent back at the hotel—dinner, drinks, hot tub. Repeat.
And in all that time, I had sent one text to Hamlet: Thanks for checking in. I’m good. I just need time. Talk soon.
He had responded with a thumbs-up emoji, which in Hamlet-speak was a low-key “F-you.”
I had apologized to Rose but I hadn’t heard back yet. It would have worried me more, except it was easy to bury that stuff deep in the back of my brain, prioritized way below the sand in my bathing-suit bottom or the mosquito bites on my ankles.
But one morning I woke up and just didn’t feel like doing yoga. Instead I wondered what Rose, Hamlet, and my dad were doing. Because my dad was respecting my time with M?e, I hadn’t really talked to him, either. How was the KoBra doing? Was Rose still working on it? Did Hamlet win his boxing tournament last weekend? Was it still hot in LA? Did Flo miss me?
So I told my mom I was going to take the day for myself. I borrowed her iPad because I had dropped my phone into the ocean yesterday, and it was on the fritz. I slathered on sunscreen even though the day was overcast, packed my backpack with water and the iPad, then hopped on my bike.
Shuttled off from one activity to the next since the day I arrived, I hadn’t had time to explore on my own. I was pretty tired of all the restaurants and businesses on the main drag, so I decided to explore the small side streets today.
The instant I turned left onto the first random street, the vibe completely changed. Everything was slower, quieter. I saw actual children playing in the road. There were homes and businesses, but spread far apart, and the buildings were older, less finished.
Time passed as I rode leisurely around these little roads and soon the sun came out—beating down on my new straw hat. Sweat trickled down my temple, and I pulled over to have some water. As I guzzled out of my bottle, I noticed a small wooden sign with an arrow pointing down a sandy path shaded by overgrown tropical greenery. Vines and ropey limbs tangled up to create a dense corridor.
Well, why not? I walked my bike down the path, swatting at the occasional mosquito. After a few minutes, the plants gave way, and I was standing on a pristine white beach. But in the middle of it was a tiny hut and plastic tables scattered with chairs. Nothing matched, everything looked like it came from someone’s porch.
I loved it.
“Hola,” a woman greeted me warmly as I walked up to the hut. There was a counter, and I could smell food cooking in the back.
I smiled and waved. “Hola.” Then I glanced around to see if there was a menu.
Catching my searching expression, the woman said, “No menu here. We cook what we have!”
Sniffing the air, I was down to eat whatever they were serving. “Okay, sounds good.” She told me to seat myself, and I sat down at the table closest to the ocean. There were some people in the water. It seemed like you could plop down at the beach here and eat or just hang out.
The setting was perfect and quiet and peaceful. And yet … the antsiness I’d woken up to was still there. I pulled my mom’s iPad out of my backpack, slipping it from its designer leather sleeve. I really wanted to see what was going on with the KoBra.
Opening up the browser, I planned on stalking the Twitter account first, but my mom’s e-mail popped up. I was about to close out of it until I noticed a folder labeled CLARA on the sidebar.
Probably all of our e-mail correspondence archived. Oh boy, there would definitely be some hilarious gems in there—like the epic diary entries I’d sent her in middle school when I hated all my friends. I clicked on it, excited to go down memory lane.
But the e-mails weren’t from me. They were from Pai.
What? Were these, like, child-custody-related e-mails? I knew I shouldn’t, but I clicked on the latest one, which was from a few weeks ago.