wiped a trickle of sweat off her brow, wishing she could say something, anything, to prolong this encounter. She was a whiz at chatting, did it all the time with her customers. Asked them about their jobs, their kids. Helped them figure out their love problems. But she couldn’t summon one reasonably intelligent thing to ask Bill. Yeah, good ol’ helpful Ellie was resourceful when it came to others’ needs, but a tongue-tied, sweat-laden mass of messed-up hormones when it came to her own.
She took a few halting steps across the sand, imagining how she’d introduce herself. “Hey, remember me? That scrawny kid next door who wore pigtails?” No, skip the scrawny part. “The girl next door who…” loved, adored, idolized you. No, forget that. Although Bill had been a few years older than Matt, he’d probably remember her brother. Yeah, she’d bring up Matt. “Hey, remember me? Matt Rockwell’s kid sister?”
She stopped.
Too late.
Bill was talking to several women, one dressed in Benz-worthy clothes, undoubtedly wicked and cool. And flirting unabashedly with Bill. Jeez, her effusive giggle could be heard over the construction workers’ incessant hammering, even over a low-flying airplane towing a bright blue banner with the words Wolfman Pizza 1-800-555-9844 We’re Howling Good!
And I’ve howlingly lost my chance.
She stopped, stared down at her purple-painted toenails, white legs, black shorts, black silk top. Then back up at the giggling babe with the white short-shorts, long bronzed legs and skimpy pink halter top.
They obviously weren’t talking about the Benz or she’d be moving it.
I’m standing here, looking like a black dot in the middle of the sand. The anti-beach babe. The kind of woman he’d ask to move her car, but nothing more.
With a sinking feeling, Ellie turned and started heading back to the beach house. It was for the best. She needed to see how Candy and Matt were doing. Catch the story about Sara and this mystery male. Follow up with Tish, make sure the espresso machine wasn’t getting the better of her. What had she said it sounded like? Keee-keee klunk?
Funny, that’s exactly how Ellie felt at the moment. As though something inside her had jarred loose and was rattling around. And she knew what that something was. A piece of her past named Bill. And here she was, walking away for a second time from him, just as she had that long-ago summer night when she was twelve.
Seventeen years and hundreds of life changes later, walking away today felt every bit as hard.
THREE HOURS, two Bomb Pops and one Candy-Sara-Ellie girl-talk fest later, Ellie stood in the cosmetics aisle at Walgreens with Sara, perusing the hair color section.
“I can’t believe I agreed to be made over into a beach babe,” muttered Ellie, looking at the boxes of color with names like Bombshell Blond, Golden Sunset and Strawberry Vanilla.
Sara, switching their plastic shopping basket from one hand to the other, snorted a laugh. “Gotta look like one if you want to wow them at the audition tomorrow morning. Plus, if—no, when—you get hired, think of all those points Team Java Mammas will get toward the grand prize!”
Team Java Mammas. The team name she, Candy and Sara had given themselves in their quest to win the festival grand prize, a free beach bungalow rental every summer for the next ten years. “Just wish I could wow them with black spiky hair,” Ellie muttered.
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.” Sara scanned the boxes, all decorated with smiling models sporting luxurious, shiny hair in more shades than a color wheel.
For a surreal moment, everything looked too light, too blond, too perfect. Too anti-Ellie. What was she doing here? Not just here at the store, but here at the beach, too! She wasn’t some sixteen-year-old starring in Beach Blanket Babettes—she was a businesswoman turning thirty in a few months! She shouldn’t be here. She should be back at Dark Gothic Roast, getting ready for the big move.
“I don’t know, Sara—” she gestured toward the sea of models’ faces “—I’ll never look like them.”
“Hon, even they don’t look like that. They’ve been airbrushed and streamlined and photo-enhanced down to their very roots.”
It wasn’t the words as much as the lilt in her pal’s voice that shook Ellie out of her funk. She looked at Sara more closely, realizing her telltale lines of stress had all but disappeared. As corny as it sounded, she even had a twinkle in her eye.
And Ellie knew why. She’d just forgotten why’s name.
“What was that surfer hunk’s name?”
“Drew.” The way Sara said his name, it sounded like a piece of delectable candy. “And yours…”
Mine. Oh, man, that was so far from the truth.
“Bill.” Ellie heaved a small sigh. Crazy how just saying his name sent small shivers all over her. And to think she’d just told herself she wasn’t some goofy sixteen-year-old. Truth was, saying his name turned her insides all gooey, like some besotted, crushed-out teenager.
“How long were you two neighbors?”
“Years. I remember first seeing him when I was six, the year my dad left. Bill was twelve, and already a stud-in-the-making.”
“You had a crush on him at six?”
Ellie nodded slowly. “Crazy, huh? I still remember the first time I saw him. He was standing on his porch, staring out at nothing, lost in thought. I thought he looked like a fairy-tale prince. After that, my heart did a sonic boom every time I saw him, right up to the day he moved to New York to go to film school.”
“How old were you when he moved?”
“Twelve.”
“You must have been so sad.”
“Sad? That was the year the movie When Harry Met Sally came out. I saw it at least ten times. I’d sit in the back, drowning my sorrow in popcorn, fantasizing about Bill and how, despite our tumultuous parting, we were destined to be together.” She pointed at the box Sara was holding. “Honey blond, no way.”
“But, El—”
“Too Reese Witherspoon. I need a bad-girl blond color.”
“No, I meant…” Sara hesitated, then set the box back on the shelf. “I was still feeling sad about your childhood heartache.”
Ellie didn’t want to admit some of that sadness had come back today. She couldn’t blame Bill for not recognizing her, but something about his lack of attention had made her feel again like that brokenhearted twelve-year-old.
“So,” said Sara, “what’s a bad-girl blond? The color of Madonna’s hair?”
Ellie felt relieved to be back on topic. “She’s not so bad anymore, is she?”
“Cameron Diaz?”
“Maybe.”
“Jennifer Aniston?”
