Page 50 of The Summer of Everything

“Wesley?”

Wes jumps. In the small square at the bottom corner of the screen, his eyes are cartoonishly big and his mouth is wide enough to drive a SUV through.

“You okay?”

No. Wes’s been so zoned out, he’s walked for five minutes in the wrong direction.Shit. His stomach growls like a starved tiger.

“Do you want to come over?” Nico asks again. He’s shifted to somewhere quieter. Wes can just make out the navy and white stripes on Nico’s pillowcase and the nose of the skateboard deck from their infamous bloody-eyebrow incident. He recognizes the colorful calavera design.

Wes really wants to be there inside the Alvarez’s beach house, but he knows he can’t. Not tonight. His head’s in a messed-up dark hole. He can’t risk ruining all his plans to tell Nico about his nuclear-sized crush on him because of a dinner invitation. BuzzFeed’sCrushes 101quiz doesn’t exist for him to scrap his list over gorditas and orange soda.

“Rain check?” Wes requests. “Totally forgot to do laundry today.”

“No clean underoos?”

Wes pulls his phone back enough for the lens to capture him flipping Nico off.

“You’ll disappoint your fans.”

“I’ll make it up to them,” Wes promises.

“And me?”

Wes is almost certain it’s wishful thinking that makes him hear the hope in Nico’s voice. It’s not there. He sucks in a breath, then says, “Of course.”

Nico mumbles something quietly in Spanish, then their video feed fuzzes out. Wes has just enough willpower to pocket his phone and not call Nico back. This isn’t the Big Moment.

“Tomorrow,” Wes says to the sky.

“Tomorrow’s not promised,” a dark-skinned Black girl with pink and purple braids sings as she passes him.

And Wes is about to reply with a very Ella-worthy sarcastic barb, but he turns the wrong way and face-plants into the sand, as one does.

Chapter Twelve

“What about this one?”

In the full-length mirror, Leeann turns and turns. Her bare feet sink into the cream-colored shaggy rug. The bridal salon’s dressing area is separated from the main floor by French doors. A long white sofa sits against one of the powder blue walls opposite the mirror. It’s currently occupied by two girls on their phones, typing away and occasionally snapping photos of Leeann as she shows off another dress.

This current selection, a ball gown with a sweetheart neckline, beaded bodice, and flowing white skirt, is number four. The other three hang ignominiously on hooks near the closed doors.

Wes slouches deeper into one of the comfy armchairs a few feet away. Head tilted, he examines Leeann as she spins; the skirt flutters like a cloud. Before he can respond, Tiffany says, “It’s… cute.”

“Cute?” Leeann’s mouth droops.

“Very cute,” Tiffany amends in the least convincing voice Wes’s heard all morning.

Tiffany is Leeann’s former college roommate. She has voluminous, soft-looking curls and wide, engaging, brown eyes. Wes supposes, as a bridesmaid, Tiffany’s obligated to be sensitive of Leeann’s dress choices as she hasn’t uttered a single “I hate it” since they started browsing for potential gowns two hours ago.

“It’s kind of boring. Very TLC-friendly.” Grace Chen, Leeann’s older sister, has zero problems voicing her opinions. Her auburn-tinted dark hair is swooped into a clean ponytail, amplifying the sharpness of her cheeks and the arch of her thin eyebrow. She’s taller than Leeann and, even seated, she’s all legs and arms and neck.

“That’s not a bad thing,” says Leeann, still frowning in the mirror.

“Maybe we can do less cute and more HBO After Dark,” Grace suggests. “It’s your wedding, baby sister. Be glamorous and bold.”

“Thanks for your honesty,” Leeann mutters.

“That’s what I’m here for,” says Grace, eyes glued to her phone again.

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