Phoebe Berman's Gonna Lose It(58)

If I find something, it’s a sign, I tell myself. A sign that everything will be okay between me and Jonathan. I bury my hands in the sand, digging more frantically now, desperate for any reassurance that things will get better. Jonathan and I haven’t spoken since our fight. When I woke up this morning, his bed was empty again. The status of our friendship remains unclear. Gray. And I don’t do gray anymore. Which is why tonight, when I get home, I’m going to order us a pizza, throw a crossword on the TV, and act like everything’s fine. Maybe if I pretend for long enough, everything will fall back into place.

In the meantime, my search for a piece of broken plastic intensifies. I fling sand behind me as I make headway on another hole, right next to the first one I dug, which yielded nothing. There is sand everywhere. In my hair, my eyebrows, my pockets, coating every inch of my hands and mouth. An entire beach rests on the surface of my tongue. I spit, and I spit, and I spit, but the sand, in all its stubbornness, clings. I run my tongue along the sleeve of my T-shirt, hoping the cotton will act like a sponge and absorb the grains from my tongue.

Spit. Lick. Spit. Lick.

“Phoebe?”

I lift my gaze upward toward the figure blocking the sun.

“Finn.” In a wetsuit. A surfboard under his arm. Wet hair, darkened from the water, curling around his ears ever so slightly. Looking like the type of guy who was put on this earth just so he could go to the beach. He’s completely at ease, loose-limbed and smiling, relaxed in a way that I haven’t seen him in the classroom. Especially today, during Book Buddies, when he had to spend the entire hour in the hall disciplining one of his students for carving obscenities into a desk with a knife stolen from the cafeteria.

“Sorry you had to see that,” I tell him. I can still feel the crunch of sand between my teeth.

“See what?” He smirks, plopping himself down into the sand next to me and my two giant holes. “I didn’t see a thing.”

I smile at that. “I didn’t know you surfed.”

“I’m trying.” He shakes out his hair, a few droplets landing on my cheek. “I’m not that good, though. I’ve never had the chance to give it a real go.”

“So, I take it you didn’t grow up by the ocean?” This is good. Very good. I’ll use this time to get to know him, to find out the answers to Mom’s questions from the rehearsal dinner.

He shakes his head. “Nah. My dad was in the military, so home is somewhere in between Virginia, Texas, and Kentucky. We bounced around a lot. Where did y—”

“And where did you go to college?”

“Colorado. Boulder. Class of 2022.” He pumps his fist ironically.

“2022,” I repeat back to him, slowly. “So that would make you…” I close my eyes, hoping the answer will somehow reveal itself to me.

“I just turned twenty-four.”

“You just turned twenty-four.”

“Yeah.” He chuckles breathily, brushing his hair away from his eyes with a sandy hand. “You seem surprised?”

It’s only now that I realize my mouth is wide open. My jaw has practically unhinged itself. I compose myself quickly before saying, “I guess I thought you were closer to my age.”

“You can’t be that much older than me.” He squints. “How old are you?”

“Finn…” I cast him a sideways glance. “You’re not supposed to ask a lady her age.” He reddens slightly. “Kidding!” I place a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “I’m twenty-nine.”

He looks at me with widened eyes. “Whoa.”

“You seem surprised?” I echo his earlier words.

“I guess I thought you were closer to my age,” he echoes mine. “But what does it matter?” He shrugs. “Age doesn’t mean a thing.”

I don’t have much time to think about the implications of his statement before he stands, wiping the sand off the legs of his wetsuit. “Well, I should get going if I want to beat the traffic.”

“Same,” I tell him, even though it’s only a few blocks to Sandy’s office. “I’ll walk with you.”

We make it only a few steps before Finn lets out a small yelp. “Ouch!” He reaches down, wiping sand off a deep cut on the sole of his foot.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I stepped on a shell or something.” He rifles through the sand, looking for the culprit. He palms a tiny piece of plastic, holding it out between us so that we can both have a good look. It looks to be a piece of a bucket.

That counts.

“It’s just plastic.” He shrugs again, dropping the broken bucket piece back into the sand and limping away. The second he turns his back, I reach down and grab it, pocketing it like it’s a lucky penny.



* * *



—

I have never set out with the intention of lying. It’s never something I want to do. Sometimes it just…happens. Usually when the truth feels too embarrassing, and being honest doesn’t feel like an option.

Sorry I had to cancel my trip, Matthew…work stuff.

I’ll lie to myself when facing reality feels too difficult.

Whatever happened with Matthew, whatever I may have felt for him, no longer exists.

And occasionally, I’ll lie to my friends when I don’t feel like being encouraged.