Page 84 of The Breakup Artists

I kick my flip-flops off at the edge of the warm sand, noticing I already have tan lines from their straps—one of those comforting standards of summer that make me feel like I own a piece of the sun. I straighten my bikini under my cotton dress and stride confidently onto the beach, aware that I couldn’t have picked a more public place on a Sunday afternoon.

I zigzag around blankets and families with coolers, heading just left of the lifeguard stand, where three surfboards are leaning. Most of my classmates are here, dozing in the sun or diving into waves, and as some of them say lazy hellos from under their sunglasses, I have a quick flash of worry about Bentley reverting to his showy persona—that maybe he’ll act like I’m some nut who’s following him around and brush me off in front of his friends.

I spot him getting out of the ocean, board tucked under his arm, six-pack gleaming, and I steel myself, heading straight for him, my stomach doing small flips.

“Hey there,” I say, approaching the wet sand near the edge of the water.

Charlie sees me first. “Yo, Valentine, long time no party.”

Bentley looks confused. “Valentine? What are you doing here?”

“She’s looking for you, dumbass,” Charlie offers.

I feel my cheeks warm.

“Look, she’s even blushing,” Charlie says and chuckles. “What’s that I smell? Is it love? Is love in the air?”

“Shut up, dude,” Bentley says without taking his eyes off me, and I’m grateful. I don’t need Charlie Atkins to make me feel any dumber than I already do.

“Just look at that eye contact. I mean, talk about smolder,” Charlie continues, wagging his eyebrows at us.

“Dude, seriously, piss off,” Bentley says, shoving his friend, who thankfully leaves but continues to laugh and make kissing noises as he walks away. And once again I wonder why I ever thought it was a good idea to try to reconcile on the town beach.

Bentley props his surfboard in the sand, and I smell the coconut wax on it. But he doesn’t say anything. And unfortunately, after all the noise Charlie made, half the beach is watching us.

“Can we, uh, go somewhere?” I ask.

“I’m surfing,” he says, his voice distanced.

I dig my toes into the sand, purposefully looking anywhere but at all the prying eyes, two of which belong to Cassie, his ex-girlfriend, who is both a popular mean girl and a prolific gossip.

“Right,” I say, feeling conflicted. There’s part of me that doesn’t want to admit I like him more than I thought, and most certainly not in front of our entire school.

Bentley waits for me to find my nerve, but when I don’t start speaking, he reaches for his board.

“Wait,” I say.

“For what?”

“I came here to apologize,” I start.

He just looks at me.

“I know I’ve been, well, not the easiest.” I’m aware that doesn’t cover the half of it. It’s like I caught a case of the August Mariani Awkward Silence Syndrome.

“You mean you’ve been embarrassed to hang out with me,” he corrects me.

I wince. Because he’s right. Because I never thought I’d like a football-playing surfer who brags about how many crunches he can do and coasts with a C+ average. He’s basically the antithesis of my type. “I’m not—”

“At least don’t lie about it,” he says, and I curse that pact we made. Honesty blows. Whoever decided it was a virtue must have been a hermit.

“Look, okay, you’re right that I didn’t want August to find out,” I admit. “But it’s complicated.”

“It’s not just August,” he says. “I saw your face when you realized everyone was watching us.” He nods toward our classmates in the sand.

I stare at Bentley—who’s obviously way more perceptive than I gave him credit for. “It’s a personal conversation.”Wow, I’m lame.

“Saying you’re sorry becauseyou haven’t been the easiestclassifies as a personal conversation?” he asks, repeating back my lackluster apology.