Page 3 of The Truth About Love

He sighs. “When have you ever been too chicken to talk to a girl? What happened to the dude who took the cheer captain out on a date last year? You’re better than this. Pull over your damn truck, get her an ice cream to break the ice and talk to her before some other tool bag in our senior class beats you to it.”

“God, I hate you sometimes,” I grumble, but I do as he says anyway and pull into the small lot off the boulevard.

“Nah, you don’t. You just hate that I’m right.”

We climb out the truck and he lights a cigarette. “Tell me you’re not expecting to come talk to her with me,” I say, fussing with my very basic outfit of black jeans and a white t-shirt.

He rolls his eyes. “You’d be lucky to have me as your wingman, but no. I’ll just wait here for you.”

Nodding, I head towards an ice-cream parlour and order two tubs of pistachio ice-cream before crossing over the sand to where Summer-Raine sits, staring out at the rolling waves of the Atlantic Ocean.

“Hey.” She must not have heard me approach because her tiny body jolts at the sound of my voice. “Sorry.” I grin shyly. “I recognised you from my anthropology class and thought I’d come over to say hi. You’re new to the school, right?”

She nods, assessing me with suspicion.

“Can I sit?” She looks at the space I motioned to, thoughts running through her head so plainly she may as well be saying them aloud. “I’m not a creep or weirdo, I swear.”

Finally, she must deem me safe enough because her face relaxes and she nods for me to join her. I hand her one of the tubs of ice-cream and her eyes widen in surprise.

Green. That’s the colour of them. Like emeralds or spring leaves of four-leaf clovers. They’re stunning. There was never any doubt that they would be.

“Pistachio?” Her voice is a breathy whisper laced with both surprise and distrust.

“Yeah.” I shrug. “Remembered from class.”

“Oh, thanks. That’s, um, that’s really nice.”

“No worries.” I make myself comfortable on the sand beside her. “So, you hate the Beatles, huh?”

She releases a surprised laugh, the suspicion that was so prominent in her gaze before finally starting to ebb away. She shakes her head. “No, not really. I quite like them actually. I just said it to get a rise out of him.” She blushes. “I mean, you can’t dispute their influence on pop culture or counterculture. Hell, their music practically redefined British identity.”

Noticing the confusion on my face, she swallows and continues. “I was pissed at Mr Hanson for putting me on the spot like that. As an anthropology teacher, I figured he’d be a big fan of a band that had a fanatic phenomenon named after them. I know it was petty, I just…” She trails off.

I can’t help it, I snort with laughter. “You’re kind of a ballbuster, huh?”

Her face turns a furious shade of red and she tugs self-consciously at the sleeves of her sweater. It occurs to me that she must be boiling in this heat.

“Hey, I didn’t mean anything by it,” I rush to reassure her and she smiles in response. “It’s Summer-Raine, right?” I ask, not because I need the confirmation but because we haven’t been introduced and I need to change the topic of conversation. Besides, I haven’t actually told her my own name yet.

“Just Summer,” she nods. “I hate the Raine part. My parents can be pretentious and obviously fancied themselves poets when they named my sister and me. Winter-Skye, that’s my sister. I’ll leave it up to you to decide which name is worse.”

I ignore her self-deprecation because I actually love her name, but I know now isn’t the time to convince her of the beauty in it or how much I think it suits her.

“I can kind of relate, I guess. My Mama took a poetic route with my name too. I’m Auden.” She blinks at me. “After W.H. Auden, the poet,” I elaborate.

“‘Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone. Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,’” she recites.“I know who he is, Auden Wells, I was just surprised you thought you needed to introduce yourself. I recognised you from class too.”

Oh. She noticed me. Embarrassingly, that has me smiling in a way that definitely isn’t cool for a guy my age.

“Anyone who’s seen Four Weddings and a Funeralenough times can recite the opening lines to Stop All the Clocks.” I wink and she blushes so slightly a less observant man wouldn’t notice the way her cheeks are rosier now than before.

Summer-Raine smiles wryly. “And anyone who has read the poem enough times would know that the actual title is Funeral Blues.”

She’s got me there.

“‘Some say love’s a little boy, and some say it’s a bird.’” She looks up at me through thick lashes, picking up a handful of sand and letting the grains drain slowly through her fingers. I can’t look away. “‘Some say it makes the world go round, and some say that’s absurd.’”

My response is immediate, a reflex, as I pick up where she left off. “‘And when I ask the man next door, who looked as if he knew, his wife got very cross indeed, and said it wouldn’t do.’”

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