Page 85 of The Breakup Artists

A breeze comes off the water, blowing some of my hair into my face, and I quickly tuck it behind my ear. “You’re not...” But when I realize I’m about to end that sentence withbeing fair, I cut myself off.

His jaw tightens. “If anything, I should be the one trying to hide that you’re embarrassed of me. Not the other way around. I think maybe it’s time for me to get the hint.”

I fidget with the strap of my bikini, twisting and untwisting it, and feeling like a grade-A jerk-off. “So that’s it? You’re just going to stop talking to me?”

“Let’s be real. If you weren’t you and I wasn’t me, would you tell me to keep pursuing a girl who acts like it’s a chore to hang out with me?”

Ouch. Big fat ouch.

This is what he was afraid of when he admitted he was the resident babysitter for his siblings, that I’d judge him and decide he was less than. And of course, I made a big deal about how I wasn’t that kind of person, yet here I am hiding him from August and cringing in front of my classmates.

He reaches for his board once more, and I know that if he walks away now, this won’t be reparable.

“Honesty, right?” I say as he tucks his board under his arm and looks toward the water. “You’re not my type. I don’t want to like you.”

He presses his lips together. “Great, now that we cleared that up—”

“Wait, I’m not done,” I say, but he’s already turning. “Don’t you dare walk off with that surfboard, Bentley Cavendish. This is hard for me, and I don’t want to speed through it afraid you’re going to leave, because I won’t get it right. And I want to. I really want to get it right.”

He lifts an eyebrow, but he faces me again.

“Like I was saying, I don’t want to like you. You complicate my life in every way. But for some unexplainable reason, I can’t stop thinking about you. I scroll through your messages like a thousand times a day. I think you’re thoughtful and caring in a way I never imagined. And when you kissed me. Ugh. I swear, my knees almost gave out.”

For the first time since we started speaking, some of the disappointment leaves his expression. “Yeah?”

“Yes. And the worst part about it is that it’s not just because you’re stupidly good looking”—I gesture at his chest—“but because you’re also a weirdly good person. I keep trying to tell myself that I just want to make out with you and leave it at that, but I’m not sure that’s true. You might claim you’ve liked me for a long time. But even though I’m slow to catch up, I like youa lot. Part of me wants to hide, sure. But not for the reasons you think. Because by admitting I like you, I’m totally and annoyingly vulnerable in a way I’m not used to. And I kind of hate you for it.”

His amusement grows.

“Glad one of us thinks this is funny,” I say.

“One of us doesn’t think this is funny. One of us is very, very happy right now.”

I try to look mad, but it’s impossible when he’s smiling like that. “But I’m warning you, Bentley, if this is a game and you screw with my emotions, I will sucker punch you.”

“Is that your way of telling me I should start kissing you?”

I level him in my gaze. “That’s my way of telling you that I’m a brute who’s not to be toyed with.”

But before I can get another word out, he’s scooping me up over his shoulder and running down the beach, jumping over people’s legs and coolers, yelling, “Victory!”

As much as this type of ridiculousness is exactly what I was afraid of, it’s also what makes Bentley so Bentley. I laugh until my face hurts.

When he finally puts me down, we’re both out of breath. And when he leans forward to kiss me, I lean with him, pressing my body into his sun-warmed skin. There on the sand in front of everyone, we share a stomach-fluttering, pulse-quickening kiss, followed by cheers.

That’s how we spend the rest of the afternoon—laughing, kissing, and swimming. He even gives me a surfing lesson, which winds up being way more fun than I thought, especially the part where he keeps touching my waist to show me how to balance.

We get a lot of curious glances and some gossipy whispers. But he doesn’t care and neither do I. The only person I can’t really ignore is Cassie, who shoots a death glare in my direction every twenty minutes.

“What’s the deal there?” I ask Bentley, nodding at his ex, after yet another eye roll and scowl.

Bentley shakes out his navy-and-white striped blanket and straightens it on the sand. “Cassie? Nothing really.”

“Her face says otherwise,” I say, lifting an eyebrow. I lie down on my back on the blanket, hair salty with ocean water and skin still tingling from the chill of the waves.

He lies next to me on his stomach, propping himself up on his elbows. “We’re just friends. Believe me, you have nothing to worry about.”

“So,” I say, accepting his answer, “what would you think about coming to my house for my dad’s annual party this Sunday?” I don’t need to specify that it’s the one where famous people invade my backyard and eat miniature foods while wearing pristinely white sneakers. Between the magazine and gossip-site coverage the party has gotten in the past few years, there isn’t anyone who doesn’t know, especially not anyone in our town.