By morning, I’m too tired to even eat some breakfast. I stare at the floor, my face a picture of exhaustion, and I slowly attempt to finish off the toast Ella’s made for me.
“Are you okay?” Dad asks. He tucks in his shirt and adjusts his hideous tie.
“Yeah,” I say. Every few hours I kept waking up because I swore I could hear more knocking. “Just tired.”
I receive a single nod. “Any plans for this week?”
“Nope.”
Dad has always been a terrible conversationalist, asking dumb questions and making stupid remarks just to fill silences. Half the time, I pray he doesn’t talk to me at all. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll be home late tonight.”
I don’t bother to reply. I just lower my head and get to my feet, heading over to the dishwasher and slipping my plate inside as he shuffles out into the hall. Week two of eight, and already I’m struggling to survive in this place. Dad sucks. This merged family sucks. Summer sucks.
“Morning,” a voice says as I slam the dishwasher shut.
I spin around, and the second I lay eyes on Tyler approaching, I pull a face in disgust. “Ugh,” I spit.
“You’re supposed to say good morning back,” he tells me, and bumps me to the side with his shoulder as he passes. He’s wearing black shorts and a multicolored loose tank top, and I can’t help but stare at his arms and the way they bulge when he throws open the refrigerator.
My eyes narrow. “You kept me up all night.”
He glances over his shoulder, his eyebrows furrowed. “Huh?”
“The knocking.”
For a long moment he just stares at me, his eyes shifting through several different moods, and then he laughs. “I wasn’t knocking. Didn’t your dad tell you the house is haunted? Demons everywhere.”
“Oh, shut up,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Couldn’t you get to sleep or something?”
He turns around with a bottle of water in his hand, kicking the refrigerator door shut behind him. “Not exactly.” He smirks as he folds his arms across his chest. I notice his tattoo again. “I was hoping you’d wake up and knock back.”
“Sorry,” I say. “I wasn’t in the mood for communicating with you through the wall at 4AM.” There’s an emboldened vein running down his left arm, but I try not to pay attention to it. Amelia and I have always gushed over guys with veiny arms and veiny hands and veiny necks. Veins are attractive, somehow.
“Ouch.” Slowly, he bites his lip, his eyes gently meeting my gaze. I know we’re only playing around, but he looks serious all of a sudden. “What about tonight?”
“What?”
“Tonight,” he says. “Will you knock back?”
I tear my eyes away from his chest and throw my hands up in surrender, giving up on the odd game we’re playing. “No, Tyler, I don’t want to knock back and forth. It’s just weird.”
“Damn,” he mutters. He shrugs his broad shoulders and diverts his attention to his watch instead.
I’m just about to escape to my room when the sound of the front door swinging open causes me to pause. Perhaps Dad forgot something, or perhaps Ella is heading out to buy some groceries.
But it’s neither one of our parents. It’s just Dean. I can tell by his gentle voice as I hear him stick his head into the living room, saying, “Morning, Mrs. Munro,” before entering the kitchen.
He, too, is dressed super casual and has his car keys in one hand and his phone in the other. Giving me a nod, he turns to Tyler. “Ready?”
“Dude, you’re twenty minutes late,” Tyler complains, which I find surprising. He doesn’t particularly look like he’d care much about punctuality, but apparently he does.
“My bad,” Dean says. “I had to stop for gas.”
Tyler’s eyes fall to me disapprovingly. He snorts. “You left me to hang with this fucking loser. Let’s just bail already.” There’s a long silence. Both Dean and I narrow our eyes at him, and under the pressure he quickly backpedals. “Chill, guys. Just a little sibling rivalry, right, Eden?”
I blink. “We’re not siblings.”
“And thank God for that.”
I choose to ignore his stupid remarks and head over to the patio doors, pushing them open and allowing a warm breeze into the house. Behind me, Tyler and Dean call that they’re off to the gym. It doesn’t surprise me. It’s evident that they work out a lot. I contemplate asking Tyler later which gym he uses, because I’m considering signing up to one for the remaining six weeks that I’m here, but I decide to stick with my morning runs instead. Quite frankly, I don’t think Tyler would appreciate his so-called sibling rival tagging along with him.
* * *
By the time Wednesday rolls around, everyone is back in town. Rachael is back from a weekend with her grandparents that she claims was so traumatizingly boring that she was on the verge of setting their house on fire; Tiffani is home again after staying at her dad’s place, which she stated was the equivalent to living with Shrek; and Meghan feels great again after throwing up for three days in a row.
Instead of meeting up to gossip at the beach or over coffee or even at the promenade, we end up catching up over manicures.
“Honestly, my grandpa made me play bingo with him,” Rachael continues to moan. She’s been venting to us about her awful weekend for the past fifteen minutes. “Every single night. ‘Rachael, time for bingo!’ Here’s a thought, Gramps: Hell no.”
“My dad started pulling out the old albums from, like, 1801,” Tiffani says, cringing. She’s perched on a chair with her hands pressed onto the table, with a nail technician huddled over them.
Rachael and I were up first to have our nails brought back to life, and now it’s Tiffani and Meghan’s turn. I can’t help but constantly glance down at my hands, admiring how glossy my nails are, and then get comfy in my reserved spot on a chair in the corner of the salon. I should do this more often. It’s really not that bad.
We’ve traveled into Venice for these beauty treatments, because Tiffani claims this is the best nail bar around. I don’t mind traveling out of Santa Monica to come here, because Venice Beach looks amazing—at least from the four minutes that I got to see it.
Rachael paces back and forth across the room, checking her nails every few seconds. I can’t blame her. “I’ll take historic photo albums any day over bingo.”
“I’ll take either over throwing up,” Meghan comments from Tiffani’s side. Thankfully, she’s a little shyer than Rachael and Tiffani, so I’m not the only one barely offering input to the conversation. “My insides feel like acid.”
“At least you’re feeling better in time for your birthday,” Tiffani says. Side by side, she and Meghan have their technicians filing away at their nails. Tiffani throws a glance at Meghan. “Are you throwing a party?”
A frown grows on Meg’s lips, and she shrugs. “You know how strict my parents are.”
“Oh my God, Meghan!” Rachael explodes, halting mid-pace and throwing her hands up into the air ecstatically. “I have a free house on Saturday night; you can have a party at my place!”
“Another party?” I murmur, but luckily none of them hear me. I’ve been here for just over a week and already I’ve been to two of these trashy parties where unlimited booze, drugs and sex seem to be a general theme. I’m just not that into them.
“Are you sure?” Meghan looks at her from over her shoulder. She looks doubtful and a little guilty, and I can understand why. Rachael’s risking her house getting trashed.
Rachael rolls her eyes. “Obviously, Meg. It’s no problem. Let’s do it.”
“I’ll get Tyler to spread the word,” Tiffani offers, and when she mentions his name something flutters in my stomach. I wonder what he’s doing right now.
“Tell him not to invite Declan’s crowd,” Rachael says, and she shoots Tiffani a firm look. “I don’t want anything illegal in my house, because if anything’s left behind my dad will kill me.”
“I’ll make sure he knows.”
I vaguely remember Declan being the person who threw that horrendous stoner party at the weekend. Thank God Rachael has the common sense not to invite the potheads.
“You guys can all come over on Saturday morning and help me get the house ready,” she says, and then squeals in excitement. The nail technicians flinch. “This is gonna be so good!”
It doesn’t sound that good. I’ll hate every second of it. I’ll hate the alcohol, I’ll hate the drunk strangers, I’ll hate the noise, I’ll hate Tyler. He gets even more irritating when he’s been drinking, and I’ll be the one who has to drag him home across the street at the end of the night.
“Meg, you should invite the cute guy from the beach,” Tiffani teases, but it’s almost sincere. “And Rach, I already know you’re going to invite Trevor.” Rachael’s cheeks flush with color and she quickly turns to face the windows. As Tiffani giggles, she rests her eyes on me. “And I’ll have Tyler, so there’s just you, Eden. We’ll need to find someone for you.”
For a second I feel guilty for not being a good friend by telling her that Tyler’s just not that into her, but my lips have a mind of their own and soon I’m blurting, “I’ll just hang out with Jake.”
And then there’s a simultaneous “What?” from all three of them.
Tiffani even draws her hands away from the table so that she can spin around to stare at me, and I can feel all of their eyes on me at once. “Jake? Our Jake?”
“Oh my God, what have we missed?” Rachael demands, her eyes wide and eager, her bottom lip drawn into her mouth. “You don’t just say you’re going to hang out with someone at a party, okay? There’s always a reason behind it. Are you crushing on him?”
“We hung out on Saturday night,” I admit, and my cheeks are now tinted rose as my eyes drop to the floor. I wish I hadn’t said anything. “And I, um, stayed at his place.”
“Jesus,” Meghan breathes. She blinks at me before exchanging glances with both Tiffani and Rachael. “It only took him a week to get the new girl?”
“Meg,” Rach hisses, but quickly locks her eyes on me again. “How far did the two of you get?”
“What?”
“You know . . .” She glances unsurely over to Tiffani, and Tiff decides to finish for her by obnoxiously asking, “Did you suck his dick?”
I splutter, almost choke, and fail to compose myself. I manage a quick, “No,” and then shake my head. “We watched The Lion King.”
Rachael tilts her head. “Is that a code word or . . .?”
“No. We literally watched The Lion King.”
“Oh,” she says, and then bursts into laughter.
“Rachael, just stop talking,” Tiffani says. She turns back around and places her hands down on the table again and allows the nail technician—who is understandably a little lost—to continue.
“But didn’t anyone tell her about the Maxwell Base?” Meghan says, and by this point I just wish I could run out of the salon and go straight back to Santa Monica. I feel mortified and way out of my comfort zone.
“The Maxwell Base?” I force myself to repeat.
“Instead of third base, it’s known as the Maxwell Base,” Meghan informs me. “Because our good friend Jake Maxwell just so happens to get head a lot. It’s traditional, and it looks like you’re up next.” She and Tiffani laugh.
“You guys are so gross,” Rachael says. “Eden, don’t listen to them. You don’t have to do anything.”
“We’re gross?” Tiffani gasps, pressing a hand to her chest in mock disbelief. With a shake of her head, she locks her gaze back on me. “Eden, here’s the honest truth: Meghan’s specialty is jerking guys off and Rachael’s is blowjobs.” I can see the two nail technicians rolling their eyes and shooting each other a look. I bet they can’t wait for us to leave. “You’ll find them in the spare bedrooms at any party with any guy. Usually with Rach, it’s Trevor. I’m the classy one.”
“Hey!” Rachael and Meghan both protest, but they don’t exactly object. Rachael does, however, quip, “I didn’t know hooking up in the American Apparel fitting rooms was now considered classy.”
“That doesn’t count,” Tiffani argues, biting her lip as the nail technician finishes off her right hand. “At least I’m in a relationship with the person.”
The entire conversation is completely awkward, but I find myself glancing up from beneath my eyelashes to see if Rachael or Meghan will muster up a reply. The two of them just exchange a quick glance, their lips forming two perfect frowns, but they say nothing.
I catch Rachael’s eye and raise my eyebrows at her, questioning their sudden silence, but she only offers me a minute shake of her head, as though to tell me that now isn’t the time.
And then she clears her throat and decides to put the conversation in reverse, saying, “So Saturday should be fun, right?”
