Page 15 of Beach Reads
Not me. I’m bouncy and bushy-tailed, too excited about tonight.
“Do I want to know why you’re beaming like you’re in a toothpaste commercial?”
Franklin drops the bulky gray backpack he brings to the set everyday into the sand by my feet. He grabs a trash bag, then starts stuffing it with used cups and abandoned bottles from the actors’ rest area.
He’s the director. He doesn’t need to lift a finger to help with the clean up if he doesn’t want to, but that’s not Franklin’s style.
Our dishwasher at home, now, that’s another story. But hey, nobody’s perfect.
“I have a date tonight.”
My uncle grimaces, his mustache shifting. “Ugh. No details, please.”
As if. The big baby. And he makes it sound like I talk his ear off with these things, but the truth is, I hardly ever date. I’ve never evenkissedsomeone before. Not an adult kiss. Nothing beyond awkward middle school pecks during the school dance.
I refuse to count Jesse’s scripted kiss of life. It’s too tragic, and besides: those damn thumbs.
“Do I know the guy? Or gal?” Franklin adds, hedging his bets.
Hmm. To tell or not to tell?
It’s no use. The gossip on a TV show set is worse than in a small town church.
“You do.” I watch my uncle out of the corner of my eye. Will he give me a hard time over this? “It’s Jesse.”
Franklin stills. He stares at the trash bag in his hands for what feels like an age. Then slowly, so slowly, he starts grabbing paper cups again, stuffing them into the crinkly recesses of his bag.
“You’re surprised.”
Franklin grunts, and I bury the pinch of hurt. There’s no point coddling myself: if Jesse and I ever date properly, lots of people will be surprised to see a guy like him pick a girl like me. And they’ll have plenty of loud, ugly opinions about it too.
“Well, he likes me.” So there.
My uncle’s mouth twists. He grabs an empty bottle of soda and shoves it in the bag. “That’s not the surprise, Darla. I just didn’t think… didn’t think Jesse would be your type.”
Um. Why not? What’s not to love?
His sweetness? His sly humor? Thosemuscles?
“Jesse’s a great guy.” I say it a bit too loud, my voice echoing across the sand, and a group of nearby actors glance over. The girl who plays Jesse’s sister on the show, Haley, looks like she sucked on a lemon.
I clear my throat, looking away.
“I know. I know that.” Then why is heruiningthis? Popping my good mood like a helium balloon? “But you’re going places, Darla. And Jesse…”
What?
No. No, I won’t have this show thrown in his face. “Youdirect this show, Franklin.”
“And I love it.” My uncle tugs at the brim of his baseball cap, dragging it an inch lower over his eyes. We’re still cleaning up, still shoving trash into our bags, but we’re doing it kind of aggressively, despite our lowered voices. The plastic keeps rustling. “But part of what I love aboutRiptideis that it’s cozy. Familiar. I’ve worked on this show for nearly eight years, Darla, and I’ll probably work on it for eight more. And guys like Jesse Hendry—like me, too—we’re big fishes in a small pond. Right? We’re not like you. You’ve got drive.”
It’s so harsh. So unfair. To Jesse and to Franklin.
And who cares if Jesse wants to play Hanson forever? He’s great at it. People love him in this role.
“He’s cooking me dinner.” I throw the statement like a dart.
Franklin sighs. “Jesse’s a good guy.”
