Coast
Page 55
She grasps my forearm and pulls away from my still half-open lips, her eyes opening slowly as if it’s taken all her will to do so. “Let’s go,” she mouths.
I grunt, causing her to laugh silently.
I call for a car and five minutes later, it shows up. Chris set us all up an account with a nationwide car service so we don’t catch cabs. It’s for security, he says, but I think it has more to do with the fact that pictures (which I’m sure a cab driver had taken) of Nico receiving um… pleasure… in the back of a cab once surfaced. Nico thought it was amazing. So did the other guys. I thought it was funny. Nico’s grandmother—a crazy old Puerto Rican lady who always seems to be holding something she can use as a weapon—did not find the amazement or humor in it.
She beat his ass pretty bad—though he’d never admit it—and promised to paddle the boat that would take him back home, all while cursing the entire United States of America.
Poor fucking Nico.
“What’s funny?” Becca says through her phone.
I blink out of my daydream and face her, shaking my head. “Just thinking about something Nico did.”
We arrive at the sports bar & grill. Becca told me earlier that it’s where a lot of the students from her college hang out. She said we were meeting up with a few of her friends. A few is a table of fifteen. “The girl of the hour,” some guy shouts, standing up and moving toward us as soon as we come into view. He hugs her, and she hugs him back, and they seem to do this for a long time. Much longer than I’m comfortable with. Best behavior, Warden. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing someone,” he says, his eyes scanning me from head to toe. I do the same, mentally calculating the outcome should push come to shove. He offers me his hand. “You must be Josh?”
Men are such dicks, and I say that as a man who two seconds ago was ready to throw down over some guy hugging his girl.
He says, “I’m Pete. I’m the editor on the school paper.”
“I’m Josh… but you knew that already.”
He rolls his eyes. “Yeah. Becca’s slightly obsessed with you.”
Becca shoves his shoulder.
And in less than a second he goes from “imminent threat” to “one of the guys.” As I said, men are dicks.
He leads us to the table, introducing me to everyone there, as well as what their roles are on the paper. I’m surprised by how many of them are still here even though it’s summer break. Once I’m seated, they explain that many of them get local summer jobs and/or internships just like Becca has. In the back of my mind, I recount Pete’s statement. The girl of the hour.
Soon enough, meals are ordered, eaten and drinks are flowing and that thought passes. Becca sits, listening to her friends talk, our hands linked under the table. They discuss things I know nothing about, but Becca does, because she laughs with them, and although silent, the impact on my heart is the same. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss it—her voice, and the sound of her laughter and the occasional snort that came with it.
Pete stands, clanking his fork against his beer bottle, gaining my attention. “I want to make a toast to Becca,” he announces, waving the fork in the air. Becca grasps my arm, using it to hide her face. “If only half the population could see the world through your lens.”
The rest of the table applaud and cheer for Becca. I turn to her, pull my arm away and ask, “What’s going on?”
“She didn’t tell you?” Pete asks, and I go back to hating him.
“That’s so Becca,” shouts a girl at the other end of the table.
“It’s not a big deal,” Becca signs.
I shake my head, trying not to let my annoyance take precedence over whatever the hell it is we’re supposed to be celebrating.
“Your girl Becca here…” Pete says, pointing his bottle at her, “wrote an article and attached a photograph with it that now has”—he looks over at the That’s-So-Becca girl—“how many retweets now?”
The girl looks at her phone, a huge grin splitting her face in two. “6,438!” she yells.
“It’s the most in WU history,” Pete tells me, sitting back down. “It’s had so much exposure that it caught the attention of one of the board members from Fine House Awards. He wanted to buy it from her, but she refused to sell it, so instead, he nominated her for debut artist of the year!”
It must’ve happened recently because I have all the newer editions of the paper at home. I just haven’t had a chance to go through them. “That’s amazing,” I tell Becs. Part excited, part angry, part annoyed that they all seem to know more about my girlfriend than I do.
She rolls her eyes and holds her phone between us, using the Notes app to type, I assume so the others don’t hear. It’s just a nomination. I’m not even a finalist.
“Still, Becs. That’s huge. Why didn’t you tell me?”
I was going to, but it happened the same day you told me you moved up a world rank and I don’t know… She shrugs. It just wasn’t as exciting.
I shake my head, my eyes narrowed at her. “I want to see the picture.”
She smiles now, her eyes lighting up with it. She reaches into my pocket and grabs my phone. Her thumbs work to enter my pin, open the Twitter app, find the WU account and follow it. Then she hands it to me.
On the screen is a black and white photograph of Chazarae with a couple, sitting on the grass, a single blanket covering their legs. Chazarae sits in the middle, a man on one side and a woman on the other, both wearing woolen caps pulled low on their brows and layers upon layers of sweaters and jackets. The weariness in their eyes mixed with the slight dirt on their jaws along with the plastic bags piled next to them makes them appear homeless, and knowing Chazarae, they probably are. The picture’s taken from beyond their feet. Chazarae, barefoot, feet angled, heels together and toes apart. On either side of her, the couple wear new, bright white sneakers with the familiar Globe logo on the soles. But it’s none of those things that have my breath catching and my eyes fixed on the image. It’s the fact that Chaz is laughing, carefree and full of life. She’s laughing so hard, her head’s thrown back with the force of it. I hadn’t seen her smile like that in a long time and I wonder for a moment how long ago the picture was taken. But her hair’s short so I know it’s recent, because Sadie had called a few months back and told me she’d found Chaz in the kitchen, eyes blank, cutting off her hair because of the spiders living inside it. She was having a bad day, obviously. A black day. But this image captures the Chaz I know, the Chaz she is. The Chaz she wakes up every day trying to find. The ache builds in my chest caused by pity and relief that she was able to be herself, even for the few minutes it had taken for Becca to capture the moment, capture Chaz in all her perfect glory. Beneath the image is the caption:
Photo Credit: Instagram – ViewsOfEmeralds.
Title: True Angels Fly Without Wings.
I blow out a heavy breath. And then another. And another. All while I blink back my emotions. Push back my tears.
“Do you like it?” she signs, her hands low so I can see them.
I look up at her, my bottom lip between my teeth to stop the trembling. “It’s beautiful, Becs. You captured your grams…” The lump in my throat prevents me from saying anything more, but she knows what I mean, because she nods, her hands cupping my face, thumbs swiping at my closed lids, removing the tears caught in my lashes.
I grunt, causing her to laugh silently.
I call for a car and five minutes later, it shows up. Chris set us all up an account with a nationwide car service so we don’t catch cabs. It’s for security, he says, but I think it has more to do with the fact that pictures (which I’m sure a cab driver had taken) of Nico receiving um… pleasure… in the back of a cab once surfaced. Nico thought it was amazing. So did the other guys. I thought it was funny. Nico’s grandmother—a crazy old Puerto Rican lady who always seems to be holding something she can use as a weapon—did not find the amazement or humor in it.
She beat his ass pretty bad—though he’d never admit it—and promised to paddle the boat that would take him back home, all while cursing the entire United States of America.
Poor fucking Nico.
“What’s funny?” Becca says through her phone.
I blink out of my daydream and face her, shaking my head. “Just thinking about something Nico did.”
We arrive at the sports bar & grill. Becca told me earlier that it’s where a lot of the students from her college hang out. She said we were meeting up with a few of her friends. A few is a table of fifteen. “The girl of the hour,” some guy shouts, standing up and moving toward us as soon as we come into view. He hugs her, and she hugs him back, and they seem to do this for a long time. Much longer than I’m comfortable with. Best behavior, Warden. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing someone,” he says, his eyes scanning me from head to toe. I do the same, mentally calculating the outcome should push come to shove. He offers me his hand. “You must be Josh?”
Men are such dicks, and I say that as a man who two seconds ago was ready to throw down over some guy hugging his girl.
He says, “I’m Pete. I’m the editor on the school paper.”
“I’m Josh… but you knew that already.”
He rolls his eyes. “Yeah. Becca’s slightly obsessed with you.”
Becca shoves his shoulder.
And in less than a second he goes from “imminent threat” to “one of the guys.” As I said, men are dicks.
He leads us to the table, introducing me to everyone there, as well as what their roles are on the paper. I’m surprised by how many of them are still here even though it’s summer break. Once I’m seated, they explain that many of them get local summer jobs and/or internships just like Becca has. In the back of my mind, I recount Pete’s statement. The girl of the hour.
Soon enough, meals are ordered, eaten and drinks are flowing and that thought passes. Becca sits, listening to her friends talk, our hands linked under the table. They discuss things I know nothing about, but Becca does, because she laughs with them, and although silent, the impact on my heart is the same. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss it—her voice, and the sound of her laughter and the occasional snort that came with it.
Pete stands, clanking his fork against his beer bottle, gaining my attention. “I want to make a toast to Becca,” he announces, waving the fork in the air. Becca grasps my arm, using it to hide her face. “If only half the population could see the world through your lens.”
The rest of the table applaud and cheer for Becca. I turn to her, pull my arm away and ask, “What’s going on?”
“She didn’t tell you?” Pete asks, and I go back to hating him.
“That’s so Becca,” shouts a girl at the other end of the table.
“It’s not a big deal,” Becca signs.
I shake my head, trying not to let my annoyance take precedence over whatever the hell it is we’re supposed to be celebrating.
“Your girl Becca here…” Pete says, pointing his bottle at her, “wrote an article and attached a photograph with it that now has”—he looks over at the That’s-So-Becca girl—“how many retweets now?”
The girl looks at her phone, a huge grin splitting her face in two. “6,438!” she yells.
“It’s the most in WU history,” Pete tells me, sitting back down. “It’s had so much exposure that it caught the attention of one of the board members from Fine House Awards. He wanted to buy it from her, but she refused to sell it, so instead, he nominated her for debut artist of the year!”
It must’ve happened recently because I have all the newer editions of the paper at home. I just haven’t had a chance to go through them. “That’s amazing,” I tell Becs. Part excited, part angry, part annoyed that they all seem to know more about my girlfriend than I do.
She rolls her eyes and holds her phone between us, using the Notes app to type, I assume so the others don’t hear. It’s just a nomination. I’m not even a finalist.
“Still, Becs. That’s huge. Why didn’t you tell me?”
I was going to, but it happened the same day you told me you moved up a world rank and I don’t know… She shrugs. It just wasn’t as exciting.
I shake my head, my eyes narrowed at her. “I want to see the picture.”
She smiles now, her eyes lighting up with it. She reaches into my pocket and grabs my phone. Her thumbs work to enter my pin, open the Twitter app, find the WU account and follow it. Then she hands it to me.
On the screen is a black and white photograph of Chazarae with a couple, sitting on the grass, a single blanket covering their legs. Chazarae sits in the middle, a man on one side and a woman on the other, both wearing woolen caps pulled low on their brows and layers upon layers of sweaters and jackets. The weariness in their eyes mixed with the slight dirt on their jaws along with the plastic bags piled next to them makes them appear homeless, and knowing Chazarae, they probably are. The picture’s taken from beyond their feet. Chazarae, barefoot, feet angled, heels together and toes apart. On either side of her, the couple wear new, bright white sneakers with the familiar Globe logo on the soles. But it’s none of those things that have my breath catching and my eyes fixed on the image. It’s the fact that Chaz is laughing, carefree and full of life. She’s laughing so hard, her head’s thrown back with the force of it. I hadn’t seen her smile like that in a long time and I wonder for a moment how long ago the picture was taken. But her hair’s short so I know it’s recent, because Sadie had called a few months back and told me she’d found Chaz in the kitchen, eyes blank, cutting off her hair because of the spiders living inside it. She was having a bad day, obviously. A black day. But this image captures the Chaz I know, the Chaz she is. The Chaz she wakes up every day trying to find. The ache builds in my chest caused by pity and relief that she was able to be herself, even for the few minutes it had taken for Becca to capture the moment, capture Chaz in all her perfect glory. Beneath the image is the caption:
Photo Credit: Instagram – ViewsOfEmeralds.
Title: True Angels Fly Without Wings.
I blow out a heavy breath. And then another. And another. All while I blink back my emotions. Push back my tears.
“Do you like it?” she signs, her hands low so I can see them.
I look up at her, my bottom lip between my teeth to stop the trembling. “It’s beautiful, Becs. You captured your grams…” The lump in my throat prevents me from saying anything more, but she knows what I mean, because she nods, her hands cupping my face, thumbs swiping at my closed lids, removing the tears caught in my lashes.
