Page 49 of The Beach Trap

“They do! They’re so inconvenient!” My eyes fill with tears, and I wipe them away with one hand.

He laughs, not unkindly, and knocks his shoulder into mine. “You’re doing a good job with the house, you know. I’m impressed.”

That makes me smile. “Thanks. The dude at the store shook my confidence a little.”

“Don’t let the Kavins of the world rattle you, Blake O’Neill,” he says, nodding sagely.

“His hair looked like ramen noodles. You know, like 1990s Justin Timberlake?”

“It may shock you to hear that I haven’t tracked Justin Timberlake’s hairstyles over the past several decades.” He stands and takes my hands, then hauls me to my feet. “What can I help you with tonight?”

I think about the giant pile of broken wall debris in the kitchen. “You want to help me clean up the mess I made?”

“Sure.”

I hesitate. Now that we have that awkward conversation out of the way, I don’t want him to leave. “And maybe after that youcould hang out for a little while. Guess what I found in the master bedroom closet.”

He strokes the stubble on his chin, thinking. “A box of old toupees?”

“Ew. No.”

“A dildo from the 1970s?”

“Gross, Noah. They were mygrandparents.” It’s the first time I’ve called them that out loud. The word feels stiff, like putting on a pair of jeans for the first time. But it fits. It feels right. “No, there are hundreds of old VHS tapes in there. It’s like a treasure trove. Want to watch a movie after we clean up? I have popcorn and four different kinds of Haribo gummies.” I tick them off on my fingers: “Frogs, Happy Cola, Gold Bears, and Peaches.”

“Dibs on the Peaches,” he says immediately.

My chest warms. “Deal.”

•••

It takes twohours to clean up the demolition mess, then I pop a frozen pizza in the oven while I take a quick shower and change into a T-shirt and my clean pair of cutoffs. We eat the pizza standing up in the kitchen, then make popcorn. It’s then I realize my mistake: the only TV that’s hooked to a VCR is in the master bedroom, so the only place for us to sit is on the bed. I grab extra pillows from my bedroom so we can each prop ourselves up, plus two throw blankets.

We’re just two friends who kissed once, sitting on a fifty-year-old mattress that squeaks every time one of us moves, sharing a bowl of popcorn and various gummies while watching a movie. No big deal.

We decided on the originalJurassic Parkbecause neither of us has seen it since we were kids. The movie holds up surprisinglywell and within a few minutes I’m wrapped up in the story. Jeff Goldblum is sexy and quirky, Laura Dern is a badass who knows a lot about ancient plants, and Sam Neill is a freaking icon as he saves the two kids from being eaten by the T. rex.

Still, I’m hyperaware of the fact that Noah is sitting next to me on a bed. In the dark. Only inches away. I can hear him breathing, can hear his soft chuckles when I flinch at the scary parts. Somehow, I manage to stay relatively chill until the scene in the kitchen at the end, when the velociraptors are tracking the kids. My muscles are so tense I’m shaking, hugging my knees to my chest.

Then the raptor lunges and we both let out identical shrieks of terror. In a flash, Noah pulls me against him.

“This scene is fuckingscary,” Noah says, gasping.

I’m laughing so hard there are tears in my eyes. “I think my heart stopped beating for a second.”

His arm is still around me, and I realize that I have no desire to move. I relax against his chest and we finish the movie like that, the dog curled at our feet.

By the time the helicopter lifts off the island to the stirring strains of John Williams’s score, I reluctantly start to pull away.

Noah’s arm tightens around me. “You’re fine where you are,” he says in a low voice. I feel it against my skin like a vibration.

I tilt my head to look up at him. His blue eyes glint in the darkness. He is most definitely giving me the lip look.

Oh, what the hell.It’s not going to hurt anything if I allow myself to have a little fun. Why do I have to decide between getting my to-do list checked off and enjoying myself? Why does it have to be either/or? Why can’t it beand?

With that thought, I roll over until I’m pressed flush against his side, my top leg looped over his. Still making eye contact, I say, “How about this?”

His breathing goes shallow, his eyes dark and focused. “That’s good. But this would be better.”

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