Page 39 of The Beach Trap

“Sure.”

He says goodbye, gives the dog another pat, and saunters off.

It’s only when I turn the sander back on that it hits me: Did Noah Jameson just ask me out on a date?

•••

Several hours later,I’m still stressing about that question. I’ve showered, dried my hair, and put on makeup for the first time in weeks—I followed a tutorial Kat did on her IGTV, adapting my drugstore products to imitate the “natural beachy look” she was demonstrating. It actually looks decent, not that I will ever admit that to her.

But now I’m standing in my bedroom and staring at my limited selection of clothes. When I packed to come to Destin, I only expected to stay for a few days. I have nothing appropriate for a date. Not that I know it’s a date. But if itisa date, I don’t want to wear the same clothes I wear to clean the Rooneys’ house.

It’s six thirty, so I don’t have time to run out and buy anything, and even if I did, I don’t have money to blow. I turnaround, trying not to panic, when my eyes land on the closet. The other day I was rummaging around in there and noticed it was full of garment bags. At the time, I had no use for them. But now, I walk over and open the door, curious.

I pull out several bags and lay them on the bed, unzipping them. Inside are an assortment of vintage dresses; handmade, by the looks of them, probably by Kat’s grandma. Several from the eighties and early nineties, with poufy sleeves and lace, but a few look like they date back to the seventies. Old enough to look cool and vintage, and in great shape although they’re a little musty. One in particular catches my eye: a halter dress in a yellow floral print. Hesitating, I hold it against my body. Kat would have a fit if she knew I was considering wearing one of these dresses. Which makes me want to do it even more.

The dress goes on easily, and I tie the halter straps behind my neck, then turn to look at myself in the floor-length mirror next to the closet.

Stunned, I blink at my reflection. The dress looks like it was made for me. The empire waist and neckline give me the illusion of curves, and the skirt hits a few inches above the knee, making my legs look slim rather than stubby. I get an eerie feeling, almost like déjà vu, and bolt downstairs to the built-in bookshelf in the living room, pushing aside the drop cloth I hung to protect it from dust.

I yank out a photo album and leaf through a few pages until I find it: a picture of Kat’s grandmother wearing this exact dress. She’s a few years older than I am now, and she’s standing on the deck that faces the beach. Her coloring is like Kat’s—dark-haired and dark-eyed—but there’s something familiar about her.

It’s the curve of her smile. The way her chin comes to a slight point. The arch of her brows, the shape of her eyes. It’s not that I’ve seen her before—it’s that she looks like me. I look like her.And it’s more than her face; we have the same straight figure that Jackson Franklin in ninth grade compared to a ruler wearing a wig.

All of a sudden it hits me, like a shovel to the forehead: this ismygrandmother. For some reason it hadn’t sunk in until now. She isn’t just Kat’s grandma; she’s mine, too.

The image of my grandma O’Neill flashes into my mind, the woman who raised me after my mother died, who made me a healthy snack every day after school, who went to my parent-teacher conferences, who helped fill out my applications for college. She was short and soft, with sparkling blue eyes and a big smile. I adored her.

I suddenly have the itch to get this dress off me, like it’s disrespectful to her that I’m wearing it, pretending to have any connection to thisothergrandmother, who may not have even known about me. Her son’s illegitimate child.

There’s a knock on the door behind me, and I jump.

“Hello?” I call out.

“It’s me,” Noah says.

Shit.My existential crisis went on too long and now I don’t have time to change.

“Come in,” I say. “I’ll be ready in two minutes.”

The front door opens as I race upstairs. Behind me, I hear Noah and the dog reuniting with their standard greeting of tail wagging, belly scratches, and silly nicknames.

I pull on a pair of leather sandals and do one more quick check of myself in the mirror. The yellow sundress looks good on me, I realize, and I have every right to wear it. Just like I have every right to be here, in this house, despite what Kat seems to believe.

I belong here.The realization rushes over me like a warm breeze. I’m still angry and hurt—but I also feel somehowtethered. Like a few small threads have anchored me here for the first time.

But I need to go; Noah is waiting for our dinner that might or might not be a date. My stomach flutters as I head downstairs, hoping I’m not overdressed. He’s in the kitchen, his back to me, petting the dog and murmuring in his silly voice. I take a moment to admire the view: he’s definitely upped his clothing game for tonight—nice shorts and a button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up—and I exhale in relief. At least I won’t look out of place.

“Sorry for the wait,” I say, and he stands and turns around.

I gasp.

It takes a moment for my brain to catch up to what I’m seeing: the man standing in front of me is not the scruffy drifter I’ve come to know the past few weeks. The neck beard is gone. He’s not completely clean-shaven, but he’s trimmed the bush down, cleaned up the edges, exposing a sharp jawline and cheekbones.

He’s done something to his hair, too, swooping it off his forehead in lovely chestnut waves, and my stomach bottoms out as I realize what this means: Noah dressed up. He trimmed his beard. I did my hair, put on makeup, and put on a dress.

We’re going on a date.

“You look—different,” I blurt out, then wave in the general direction of his face. “This didn’t have anything to do with my comment, did it?”

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