Cool for the Summer by Dahlia Adler (best novels in english .TXT) 📗

I feel firm in this plan as I go full country girl, tying a sleeveless gingham shirt (thanks, Jasmine) under my boobs and pairing it with cutoff shorts. I’ll have to cover up once the evening hits, but for now, I look cute and summery and up for a good time. I style my curls exactly how they taught me to at Seaside and add only the tiniest touch of makeup since I’ve yet to find an affordable mascara that stays true to the word “waterproof” when faced with parties on the beach.

I’m putting in the gold hoops my mom bought me for my sweet sixteen when my mom walks in. “Oh, Larotchka. You look so cute. Someone you’re trying to impress coming tonight?”

“I hope so,” I say with a smile. “But you’re still in your work clothes! People are gonna start showing up soon.”

“I know, I know.” She drops her bag on the bed and fans herself. “I can’t even think about what I’m wearing until I take a shower. They say New York summers are bad, but this heat is unbearable.”

“Missing your dreamy winters of twenty below zero?” I tease her.

“Ha ha,” she says, pronouncing the h’s with the hard Russian kh. “Clearly you have your father’s sense of humor.”

She always does that, brings him up strictly for the sake of crafting insults. I’ve gotten so used to it that I barely notice. But tonight, my head swimming with confusion about romance and relationships, I have a thousand questions about him and them that I know she’ll never answer.

Then again, he was a he, so how much would it really help?

Before I can ask something coherent, she slips into the bathroom for her much-needed shower, leaving me to collapse on the bed with a self-pitying groan.

We’re only messing around. I know that. I’m eternally obsessed with Chase Harding, and I assume Jasmine is still hooking up with Carter, in those rare instances where I lose her at parties or on the beach. It’s not that I think there’s more happening, it’s just …

Just what?

That’s your problem, Shannon would say. You can’t accept a “just.” You think you can, but you always need to know what’s past that, and sometimes, there’s nothing.

Maybe talking to Shannon is exactly what I need. She may give way too much advice, and sometimes it’s downright bad, but not always. Sometimes it’s exactly what I need to hear, enough that I hear it even when she’s thousands of miles away. I light up my phone to check the time and do a quick calculation to see if it’s too late to call.

It’s about one in the morning in Paris, which is sort of on the border of acceptable, but what would I say? Hey, Shan—I’ve been hooking up with this girl and I’m confused about what it means? How would she know, without knowing Jasmine?

Maybe imaginary Shannon’s advice is right, though. Sometimes “just” is exactly that. Jasmine and I are just having fun. It’s not even like things are happening intentionally; they just happen when we’re doing other things. What could be more “just” than that?

Satisfied, I do one last touch-up of my makeup, take a selfie, and pick up the newest Clementine Walker book. Who needs tough love when you can escape into pure fluff?

Half an hour later, the boil is in full swing, and guests are swarming the gingham-covered tables piled high with jumbo shrimp, crawfish, sausage, crab, and corn. The air smells salty and briny and spicy and sweet, and my mouth is watering, even though I’m secretly scared of the crawfish and their freaky heads.

“Are you coming or what?” Jasmine calls from the table where she’s sitting with Keisha, Brea, Derek, and Owen, glass bottles of colorful wine coolers dotting the cloth in front of them. “Where have you been?”

I’d gotten too wrapped up in my book, which is embarrassing since I’d already read it once this summer. I only looked up from it because Gia FaceTimed me from cheer camp, which she does every week to show me what I’m missing by dropping off the squad, and by the time we hung up, everyone was here and the food was out of the pots and on the table.

“Friend called” is all I offer as I grab a plate and sit my butt in one of the white plastic chairs, my eyes roving hungrily over the selection. Sausage is an easy choice—you don’t grow up the granddaughter of Tolya Bogdan without kolbasa being one of your major food groups. I glance at my mom and see she had the same idea. Declan is sitting next to her and laughing as he gestures to the other food.

“You’re missing some damn good crawfish,” says Keisha, plucking one from the pile and cracking it open so quickly I can’t even see how she’s doing it. “They don’t make ’em like this in DC. Best part of coming here for the summers.”

“And that’s from someone who doesn’t even eat it right,” says Derek, picking up one of the bright red creepers, twisting it, and—oh God, is he sucking something right out of the shell?

“Drinking the juice is so gross.” Brea wrinkles her nose. “Keisha eats it the normal way.”

“The juice is the best part!” Jasmine protests, and it’s dizzying watching them all attack the pile with different methods. There’s twisting and pulling and cracking and drinking and biting and loud savoring, but I can’t follow any of it; I help myself to the clams instead.

Clearly, I’m not very subtle. “Are you not even gonna try them?” Jasmine asks, eyeing my plate as if it’s got nothing but plain white rice on it.

“I’m good,” I say. I’m not about to admit that I don’t know how to eat them.

“Don’t tell me you’re scared of them like your mom.”

“Hey, leave my mom out of this.” I wave a hand dismissively. “The clams and sausage are delicious.”

Brea sighs. “Sugar, you’re from