Page 8 of Beauty and the Beach

He rolls his eyes. “You need to see a doctor about your knee?—”

“My knee will be fine, not that your little caveman show did any good there?—”

“And I know you’ve been helping your sister?—”

“Maggie is fine too?—”

“And you’re paying for Nana to stay in the senior center,” he finishes. His hands clench into fists, and that little muscle jumps in his jaw again. “So stop being stupid and let me help you.”

“I’m not going to just take your money!” I say, stomping my foot—and regretting it instantly when another twinge of pain ricochets through my knee.

“I never said you’d be taking my money,” he snaps. “It’s a job, idiot. I’m offering you a job.”

The words I was ready to spit out die instead; I narrow my eyes at him, and he crosses his arms, looking expectantly at me.

“A job?” I say.

He gives a little jerk of his head. “A job.” Then, pausing just briefly, he goes on, “Or—I guess—maybe an arrangement.”

That feels ominous, especially since his face has gone oddly blank, devoid of any expressive hints. I shake my head again, swallowing my sudden spike of nervousness.

“No,” I say, and before he can respond, I’m turning around. “Thanks, but no thanks. You mind your business, and I’ll mind mine. Okay?” It’s little more than a wish, because Phoenix has never once minded his own business—not even when we first met, beforewe knew each others’ names, before I learned he was Trev’s roommate. He was invasive even then.

He says something under his breath as I walk away, but I don’t hear what it is.

Nine Years Ago

Holland

“My beautiful blossoming butterfly,”I say, my face pressed up against the closed bathroom door, the white wood probably leaving imprints in my skin. “You’re turning into awoman!”

“Holl,” my baby sister whines. The sound echoes through the little bathroom and then out into the tiny third-floor walk-up I share with two other girls. “Can you please just go get me some pads or tampons or something instead of being all dramatic?”

I roll my eyes, placing my hands on my hips. “Fine. Yes,” I say to the bathroom door. “So sassy. But are you sure there aren’t any under the sink? There used to be a box there, I’m pretty sure?—”

“I already checked!” Maggie says, her voice muffled. I hear the sound of a cupboard door opening and then closing. “The box is empty. How is that possible? Three girls live here.”

“All right, all right.” I bustle over to the front door, slipping my sandals on, and then move back to the bathroom door. “I’m hurrying,” I say. “And when I get back I’ll instructyou in the noble female art of blood removal from clothing?—”

“Holland!” Maggie wails.

I grin, giving the bathroom door a little pat. “I’ll be back ASAP. If anyone tries to break in, kick them in the teeth.”

Maggie’s flat voice returns through the bathroom door. “You have to know that’s not part of my skill set.”

I just laugh.

The campus corner market is one block away, a distance I cover more quickly than I normally would. September in Florida is still warm, but the wind is stronger today, blowing my hair around my face. I don’t stop to wrangle it into submission; I just keep going, tucking it behind my ears as I move.

I don’t remember when I got my first period, but I do know that my mother wasn’t particularly helpful; I’m glad this is happening while Maggie is here visiting me and Trev rather than at home. I’ve been showing her around town, and Trev has been showing her around the university. I wanted her to come to some of my cosmetology classes at the beauty school, but she was decidedly more interested in Trev’s engineering courses. It’s probably for the best; our parents would flip if she, too, decided to eschew a traditional college education in favor ofhair and makeup nonsense that you’ll never earn a living with, Holland, so don’t think for a second we’re going to pay for something like that.

I sigh, shake my head, and pull the heavy glass door open, stepping into the corner mart. Mariah Carey sings a Christmas song three months too early over the tinny speakers as I grab a shopping basket and hurry to the pharmacy and health section. I choose the cheapest packet of pads, the cheapest box of tampons, and then I swerve past the candy aisle for some chocolate—a necessity.

There’s a long enough line when I reach the checkout that my heart sinks, but I queue up anyway and wait the ten minutes it takes for my turn to come. I load everything from my basket onto the conveyor belt as quickly as possible, glancing over my shoulder at the person behind me to make sure they’re not looking too impatient—and holycrap, he’s hot. Tall with black hair and black eyes, dressed in a suit that looks totally out of place in this little corner market—he looks young enough to be a university student, but he should be in a board room somewhere.

I clear my throat, jerking my attention back to my order before the guy notices me staring at him. I swipe my card, my toes tapping anxiously in my thrifted sneakers. I’ve been here too long already. I’m just tucking my card back in my wallet when the card reader lets out a sound—not a cute little blip or a bird-like chirrup, but a loud, angry beep that’s accompanied by a flashing red light. That beep reverberates through my skull, the soundtrack to my sinking heart.

Denied.

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