Page 81 of The Beach Trap

“Of course not,” Blake says. She reaches her hand toward me, but I pull my arm away. If she touches me I’ll fall apart, and I want to be angry. It’s easier to be angry.

“I had a crush on him forten years,” I tell Blake, already so embarrassed I don’t even care that Junior’s listening. “Why do you have to try and take everything I have left? Everything and everyone I love.”

People are staring; Dad would be disappointed in me for making a scene—but it’s his damn fault that we’re in this mess. His fault, and Blake’s.

“I didn’t know,” Blake says, her voice calm and at a reasonable volume. She’s the kind of daughter my dad always wanted me to be. I choke back a sob because I know if I start crying, I won’t be able to stop.

“Even if you did know,” I say, trying to stop my voice from shaking, “you would’ve done the same thing because that’s what you do. You get people to trust you, then you hurt them.”

“I’m sorry.” Blake’s voice cracks with emotion, but I don’t believe it. I don’t believe her. There’s a reason people say “fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me.” And I am done letting Blake O’Neill make me look like a fool.

Junior rests a hand on Blake’s shoulder and I just can’t. I don’t give a shit about him, but I thought I cared about Blake. I thought we were getting to a place where we could be like sisters.

Maybe that does make me a fool. But it also makes her a manipulative jerk.

“Save your sad act for someone else,” I tell her. “I see through it all. I see the real you, just like my dad did. You’re pathetic. No wonder he didn’t come back for you.”

Blake’s face crumples, and I instantly feel sick to my stomach. I just said the worst possible thing to her. But before I can take it back, she runs down the wooden stairs toward the harbor.

Junior looks at me, his blue eyes fiery with anger. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he says, then runs off after her.

I shut my eyes and try to calm the storm raging in my head. I don’t know whether to scream or cry; I just know I have to get the hell out of here. People are staring and whispering, and I hope like hell that none of them recognize me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

BLAKE

My eyes are so full of tears I can hardly see, and I nearly run into a group of people on the boardwalk in front of Boshamps. Dodging them, I keep moving, desperate to be away from the crush of bodies, the smell of fried food wafting from the restaurant. My chest feels like it’s been wrapped in barbed wire. I can’t breathe; I need space.

Noah is somewhere behind me, calling my name, but I don’t stop or turn around. I need to get away from them—both Noah and Kat—so I can process what just happened.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out: a call from Noah. I don’t think I’m capable of speech right now—my throat is so thick and swollen it hurts to swallow. I silence my phone and brush tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand. A sweet elderly gentleman asks me if I’m all right, and I nod even though it’s obvious that isn’t true.

I head past rows of gigantic deep-sea-fishing boats to a less crowded spot, where I find a place to sit down. My phone vibrates again—another call from Noah. Just thinking about him makes my eyes tear up again, so I don’t answer. I’m about to turnoff my phone when a text comes in from him:At least tell me that you’re okay.

That, I know, is the right thing to do. I reply,I just need some time alone. I’m okay. If you could keep an eye on the dog for a few hours I would appreciate it.Then I turn my phone off.

The message was partially true: I do need time alone, but I don’t know if I’m okay. My emotions are so tangled up I can hardly sort them out—embarrassment and anger and a deep, aching sadness. Kat’s words are still ringing in my ears, and all I can see when I close my eyes is the disgust on her face. Just when we were finally, finally forging a connection, everything has been blown to bits. I wrap my arms around myself, rest my forehead on my knees, and try to focus on the sound of the water, the feel of the breeze, the squawk of seagulls in the harbor.

I had no idea Kat still had feelings for Noah. We were twelve the last time I heard her talk about him, and every girl in our cabin had a crush on some ridiculous boy; we’d giggle about them at night after lights-out. Mine was Timothy Bottsweiler, a boy with adorable dimples and hair like a young Zac Efron, who slow danced with me to James Blunt’s “You’re Beautiful” at the sixth-grade promotion party. All summer, I practiced writingBlake Bottsweiler,Blake O. Bottsweiler,Blake O’Neill-Bottsweiler, in the margins of my camp journal. But now? I probably wouldn’t recognize him if he stood up in my soup. Definitely wouldn’t give two shits if Kat started dating him now.

However. From what Kat said in the bar, her feelings for Noah are more than just a middle school crush.

My stomach drops. Was Kat the girl Noah lost his virginity to? The one he snuck in through his bedroom window, the girl who tore her shorts on the windowsill? He said it was a girl whose family had a beach house in the area. It makes me sick toconsider it, but it makes a horrid kind of sense. If I’d known that, I never would’ve gotten involved with him.

What is he even doing with me? Noah’s a decent human being—that I know—so I can’t believe he’s been intentionally playing me this summer. But it’s obvious I’m not the kind of woman he’ll end up with long term. He comes from a vastly different background than mine. A world like Kat’s, full of wealth and privilege that I frankly don’t want to be part of.

This summer has just been a nice break for Noah, a chance to slum it for a few months while he figures out the next move in his real life. But my feelings for himarereal. And they’re stronger than I’ve allowed myself to admit—the sharp ache in my chest makes that clear.

Tears burn my eyes and I blink them away. I’ve fallen hard for Noah over the past few weeks; he’s sweet and funny and sexy and I never stood a chance against those ridiculous nicknames he makes up for the dog. But how he feels about me isn’t so clear. He enjoys being with me; I make him laugh; we have a great time together. But deep down, I suspect that he thinks of me as a fun summer fling. A break from his real life.

Just like my mother and I were for my father.

And that cuts to the heart of it. I curl my knees into my chest and put my forehead on my them, letting myself cry silently, my shoulders shaking in stiff, jerking sobs. For the first time in years, I don’t try to stop them, don’t try to stuff them back down and bury them under a shell of indifference. I let it all roll through me: the day of my mother’s funeral, when I searched the face of every man walking through the door of the church, believing my father would be one of them. The long, lonely weeks after I moved in with my grandparents, when I woke up every morning believing today would be the day he’d pull in the driveway and take me to live with him. The crisp summer morning at campwhen he came to get Kat; when he recognized me, said my name, and for one shining moment I believed that he would run to me, put his arms around me, tell me that he’d been searching for me all these years and that he would never, ever let me go.

But instead, he turned and walked away.

Those moments are scraped into my soul, like initials carved into a tree, marking me forever. I’m easy to walk away from, easy to leave, easy to forget. Not worth fighting for. How else could my own father have abandoned me? And if he would do that, how can I expect anyone else to stay?

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