Page 53 of The Beach Trap

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

BLAKE

This is the first time in fifteen years I’ve slept under the same roof as Kat Steiner, and it’s... strange. When she asked if she could stay through the Fourth, I was irritated—she’s the one who was so averse to being around me that she found me a job working as a literal servant—but I also felt like I couldn’t say no. I realize this beach house has more emotional meaning to her than to me. I’m guessing she spent many Independence Days here with her family, and since this is her first summer without her father, I feel bad for her.

I’m going to try to not let that become a habit.

We’ve mostly stayed out of each other’s way. I’m working through my long list of renovation projects, and she’s taking selfies like it’s her job. Which I guess it is. But who would want that job? Exposing yourself to the world isn’t my idea of a worthwhile occupation.

Right now, she’s outside on the deck, filming “a tutorial about patriotic holiday makeup looks,” as she told me this morningwhile I tried to keep a straight face. She’s got a whole palette of blue eye shadows and a dozen shades of red lipstick. I’m inside, using a crowbar to pull off the hideous kitchen backsplash while the dog watches with rapt attention. My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pause to pull it out.

It’s a text from Noah:Who’s the best breakfast cereal mascot?

And just like that, even though I’m tired and it’s been a long day, a smile blossoms on my face. I haven’t seen him since the night we made out like horny teenagers on my long-lost grandparents’ ancient mattress, but he’s been texting me multiple times a day with these random questions that make me laugh. He still hasn’t told me where he’s gone or why, so I’m not sure what the constant texting means. But I like it.

Blake:Most people would say Tony the Tiger, but his overconfidence has always rubbed me wrong

Noah:So true. Is Frosted Flakes really GRRRRRRREAT or do we just think that because he’s brainwashed us?

Blake:I’m gonna go with Captain Crunch. Gotta respect that he has an actual military rank.

Noah:Fun fact, it’s an honorary title. Cap’n not Captain. He’s not even in the Navy.

Blake:What?? I feel so deceived.

Noah:I know. So many lies. Btw, Honey Smacks has the best mascot.

I have to google Honey Smacks, and when I see its mascot, I shake my head in disappointment.

Blake:The weird green frog?

Noah:Don’t be mean. His name is the Dig’em Frog and he’s a little frog with a big voice.

I chuckle as I type a response.

Blake:Okay, I have a question for you. Ready?

Noah:Born ready

Blake:How many five-year-olds could you defeat in hand-to-hand combat? No weapons of any kind.

His three dots are present for a while; hopefully this means he’s taking the question seriously. I’ll be disappointed if he says something boring like “I would never fight children” or “Do you need a psychiatrist?”

Noah:I’m long-limbed, which would be to my advantage. I could kick several in the face before they got within six feet of me, then I could grab a couple others and toss them into the rest. However, if there was a veritable horde some could sneak up on me from behind. So I’d say I could take 11 of them easily. 12-17 would be a challenge and I’d end up bruised and battered. More than 18 and I’d be a goner.

I’m cracking up, and Kat looks through the open deck door. “What?” she asks. I can’t tell if she’s genuinely curious or if she thinks I’m laughing at her blue eyeshadow and red lipstick—which does look a little over-the-top.

“Nothing,” I say, and try to make it look like I’m concentrating on my task.

Kat shrugs and goes back to posing. I stop and watch her for a minute; I have to admit, it’s interesting to see the process and not just the final product she posts on Instagram, all cropped and filtered.

She’s got a whole setup out there, a tripod, a ring light, and a remote she uses to take the photos—it’s complicated. Right now, she’s struggling to keep everything together because there’s a breeze. The lipstick tubes keep rolling, and the American flag she’s holding in one hand keeps blowing away.

My conscience pricks:You should offer to help. I don’t want to. My to-do list is endless, but she did help me with the cabinet doors yesterday.

Almost against my will, I call out, “Want some help?”

She looks up, her glossy red lips forming a surprised O. Have I really been that much of a bitch to her that she’s shocked by my offer? I feel a little bad.

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