Audre & Bash Are Just Friends(33)

After a million years, Audre spoke up. “Hey.”

He perked up. “Hey.”

“Question. Did you take any pictures of me freaking out back there?”

“Pictures? Why would I do that?”

“I had to ask. You never know,” she said with a strained smile, trying to lighten the mood. “But can you do me a favor? Please, please, promise to never tell anyone about this.”

“I’d never do that. It’s your private business. You can trust me.”

Shyly, Audre cast her eyes in his direction. “Will you promise? Just say it.”

His eyes met hers. “I promise.”

She let out the tiniest, smallest exhale of relief. An effusive “thank you” was on the tip of her tongue, but just then she got distracted by his phone, lighting up in his palm. Clio’s face flashed on the screen. Again? Was this the fourth time in the past hour? Why wasn’t he answering her? Bash peered down at his phone, shook his head, and then slid it in his pocket.

She had to ask. She had to.

“Did you tell your girlfriend that I hired you to help me? I don’t want her to get the wrong idea.”

“I don’t have a girlfriend.” He put up air quotes around “girlfriend.”

“Convincing. Are you one of those ‘I don’t believe in labels’ guys?”

“No, I know that labels mean things. Which is why I’m telling you, Clio isn’t my girlfriend. She’s an acquaintance. And, yeah, she knows about you. And your Experience Challenge.”

She chewed the inside of her cheek, digesting what he was saying. If Clio was just an acquaintance, then why did Bash tell her about the challenge? Audre felt a nagging sense of doubt. But in that moment, she pushed it away and chose to believe him.

It was easier to believe him.

Audre tried to think of things in a clinical way. It made sense that tensions were high back there on the beach. Bash was beautiful. He’d just rescued her from the actual Atlantic Ocean. He almost pressed his lips against hers. For CPR, not a kiss, but still. The last time she was that close to a guy, she almost vomited in his mouth (shellfish allergy be damned). It made sense that she panicked.

Get it together, Audre told herself. Think of the advice you gave Sparrow. Decenter men and remember you’re the star of your story. Bash Henry is your conduit to great writing. Nothing more.

Bash must’ve sensed that she was in emotional turmoil, so he made a suggestion. “Let’s walk. Are you ready to walk?”

She nodded with a grateful smile. And then, just as the sun was starting to set, they headed down the boardwalk—Audre on legs that were still a bit trembly. After a block or so of silence, Bash asked, “How about an icebreaker?”

“Ha. You’re using my tactics against me?”

“I am.” He grinned. “What are three things that make you happy?”

Audre answered right away. “Making class president. Promoting mental health. And public speaking.”

He chuckled. “Nahh, bro. Those are all resume-type things. Goals and shit.”

“But that is my shit. I set a series of incremental goals and crush them all.”

“Okay, but what makes you happy happy. What gets you excited?”

Audre had never thought about this before. “My brain’s a jumbled mix of nonsense. TV? Shameless. Sex Education. American Horror Story, seasons one through four. Sausage pizza. Civil War trivia. Rare Beauty blush. Crispy winter grass. Old Lil Wayne. New Tyler, the Creator. Watching movies with my mom. I used to love hanging out with her, but we don’t anymore.”

“Why, what happened?”

“My little sister happened. Baby Alice. She’s the new-and-improved me. I’ve been replaced.” She walked another block, thinking. “My mom was my best friend. Is that weird?”

“No, you’re lucky. All I know about mine is that she looks like the Parent Trap mom.”

“Why did you grow up with your dad instead of your mom?”

Bash took a breath. Was he deciding how to answer, or if he was going to answer?

“You owe me a secret,” said Audre. “You just saw me melt down on a public beach.”

Bash smiled down at her. “That’s fair. On one of my first nights in town, my mom took me to dinner. This awkward-ass, get-to-know-you dinner. I said maybe two words. But she talked the whole time. Like she was confessing, almost. She told me about meeting my dad at a track meet, back when he was a Brooklyn high school coach. Her brother was competing. Anyway, they liked each other and got married too fast. Right after I was born, California University recruited my dad to be a coach. So, Milton divorced Jennifer. Gained custody of me. And then moved to California to start a new life.”

“But why didn’t she fight for you?”

Bash shrugged. “You don’t know my dad. He’s, like, not a dude you argue with. And he had big plans, you know? I guess he was waiting for a son that he could mold into a superstar. And he meant that shit. I had sponsorships and national press when I was in sixth grade. I was profiled on ESPN in tenth. If I was still living with him, I’d be in a training camp right now.” He nibbled on his bottom lip, pausing a beat. “My dad wanted total control, so my mom gave me up. The other thing? Maybe she didn’t want me in the first place. I’ll never know.”