The Co-op

Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR

Before

L A RYNN

I am honestly disappointed in myself for how much I’ve wondered about Deacon the last four years. He’s just some boy, admittedly a very cute one, but I hardly spent two weeks with him over Christmas break freshman year. The fact that he’s managed to take up any room in the overcrowded space of my mind is a bit embarrassing and a lot grating, to say the least.

It has to be because of how much of my life has always been transient, I think. I’ve moved every few years since I was nine years old, almost always far enough to have to switch schools and begin all over again. Coming to Santa Cruz over the summer has been the only thing with any regularity for me in my nineteen years. It’s where my best friend lives, too. I tried to maintain other friendships the first few times that we moved, but it never failed that they’d eventually quit replying and would fade away. It’d become easier to stay detached after that. But, since our grands are married, maybe it’s that Deacon still seems connected in a way? I know that he moved here permanently with his mom last year, a little while after his dad passed. Helena is thrilled to have her daughter and grandson nearby, it’s all she can talk about anytime I FaceTime the grands. It’s like now that I’m aware that he’s here and therefore some sort of fixture, he’s also become a frequent fixation in my head.

This, I tell myself, is why Deacon is the first person I notice on the beach today. I had no way of knowing he’d be down here playing volleyball when my parents dropped me off earlier. I’d asked to bring my own car this year, but was promptly denied. I finished out high school with my first and only C, and even though it won’t hinder my acceptance into Sac State, it apparently proves that I cannot be trusted with too much liberty. One last summer, I remind myself. Then I’m free.

Well, not exactly. I’ll be free insomuch as I am free to do exactly what my parents worked so hard and sacrificed so much for me to do. I’ll become a lawyer like my father, I’ll argue professionally for a living—which is the part I’m the most ambivalent about, to be honest. But I don’t know that I have strong feelings about any other profession, anyway, so I may as well stick to the road that I know to be paved, no matter that reading that much text over the next however many years will drown me in my own misery. “People and feelings will come and go, LaRynn,” Dad always says. “Your career. Your successes are the only things you can count on.”

Well, then.

This is the summer I’ll be free, before I’m sucked into the oblivion of college. I’ll try things. I’ll take risks. I’ll… I don’t know, precisely, but I will. Life feels like it’s happening to me and moving on around me, some heavy tide I’m always treading, trying to keep my head above water. I need to ride a wave of it for myself before it carries me out to sea.

After warm greetings and affection from the grands that I’ll never quite get used to, since it predominantly happens here, I dropped off my things in my designated room for the summer and immediately changed into a bikini. The grands had plans to do some damage at their favorite local plant nursery, anyway, so I brought myself here, to the beach. I want to feel the hot sand give way beneath my feet, feel the muscles in my legs shift and flex when I leap. I’m itching to feel powerful and strong, to literally jump-start my summer. And the first person I noticed, doing all of these very things, was Deacon.

He added me on social media the month after we met. I approved, but it’s always felt like some unspoken agreement that we never speak. I’m sure this also played a role in him clinging to the corners of my brain, having that little window into his life the last four years. I saw him in all sorts of baseball photos, and one where he went to senior prom as a sophomore. There were a few of him with his family when his brother got drafted for baseball. I saw him pose with his first car—an old beat-up Bronco. Saw countless pictures with girls over those years, too. There was some other dance when he brought two dates, plus a few months when one very pretty and petite blonde occupied a section of his page, their faces pressed together or their mouths laughing into each other’s. I also saw it when he took those down. Went on to watch him finish out his high school career and collect accolades along the way, from being declared an All American, to homecoming king, to earning a slot on the superlatives page in his yearbook: Biggest Flirt. Then when high school faded into college and the photos of the girls on his lap or buddies with their arms slung over shoulders all held red cups in them. I almost sent him a message when I saw the tribute post to his dad, but it felt cheap to do after not interacting for all that time.

This is also how I know the ways he’s changed in the years since we last met in person. As well-built as the most muscular guys my age (calling them men at nineteen and twenty feels like too much of a stretch, but calling them boys doesn’t feel accurate, either)… he is hot, and he unfortunately knows it. He jumps up for a hard spike that lands uncontested, then celebrates with an obnoxious “WOO!,” a flex of his arms, and a two-handed high five with his blondish counterpart, some other athletic-looking dude.

I reach into the back pocket of my jean shorts when I feel my phone buzz and see that Elyse has responded to my arrival text. YAY! Off in 30! I’ll meet you by the courts!

I smile to myself. Even before phones and despite three to four hours’ driving distance between us throughout the years, Elyse has stayed fastened in my life. We met on this very beach when we were ten, became pen pals for the months I was gone, and always picked up right where we left off the next time I’d return. It didn’t matter that reading and writing letters wasn’t precisely my favorite thing in the world to do, because I had a friend who continually came through for me and replied, as if it were the easiest thing. It doesn’t matter if I never make another friend if I have my grandma and Elyse.

“You looking for a partner?” I hear someone ask. I look up at a pretty blonde who’s not much shorter than me, and appears to be around my age. “Full disclosure, though, I’m looking for someone who can really play,” she adds. “Trying to beat my brother and his annoyingly hot friend.”

It’s also annoying that I immediately suspect who she’s referring to. “I can play,” I say. “I played club for six years.” At a variety of clubs, in fact. I may have had a hard time finding chemistry with my teammates off the court, but it only made me work that much harder on it. I’ve always found that it’s not a struggle to share a goal with someone when you can cooperate in parallel, just that it becomes difficult for me when it comes to bonding outside that goal.

“June,” the honey-haired girl introduces herself with a small, stilted wave. Oh good, she seems socially awkward as well. We’ll get along just fine.

“LaRynn,” I tell her, raising and wiggling my hand the same way.

“They’re on their last match,” June says, nodding toward the guys, who are assuming their stances to receive again. “They won’t go easy on us or anything.”

It’s at this precise moment that Deacon spots me. I know it because he goes from a slightly squatted position, long arms braced for action, to doing a double take in my direction and levering up to stand straight—knees locking and arms going slack at his sides. The ball thuds in the sand four feet away from him a second later. A snicker breaks free from June at my side.

“Good,” I say.

Deacon and Jensen (June tells me his name) beat the opposing pair handily, and we make our way toward the net where the men are fist-bumping and saying “good game.”

“Can we work in?” June asks.

Jensen pushes his sunglasses back on his head and gives me an award-winning smile. Either he and June are very close in age, or they have to be twins. They bear the exact same complexion—California tans, with medium-fair hair and the same teal eyes. They look like they’ve stepped right out of a Billabong ad.

“Oh, good, you found someone,” Jensen says to June, holding out a hand for me to shake at the same time. “Jensen,” he says.

“LaRynn,” I say when I take it. Deacon’s gaze feels like he’s using a magnifying glass to concentrate the sun on me, my skin burning where it faces him.

“Beautiful name,” Jensen replies, still beaming eagerly, percolating happily on the spot. If Jensen were a golden retriever, Deacon would be a Doberman sitting menacingly at his side.

“Deacon.” I nod to him then, readjusting the bands of my bottoms on my hips. He’s wearing some ridiculous Pit Viper–style sunglasses, with orange polarized lenses that give nothing away, but I swear his eyes track the movement.

“Oh, you two know each other?” Jensen asks, sounding even more delighted.

“We do,” says Deacon. “Hi, Larry. Been a minute.” His smile is smarmy and I can’t stop a sound from my sinuses. Ass, I think. I hate that nickname.

“Everyone ready, then?” says June.

“Yep,” Deacon and I both reply, before heading to our respective sides of the court.

We are… infuriatingly evenly matched.

Deacon is the superior hitter, but predictable. He’s always going to go for the kill, almost always hitting it as hard and as far as possible while staying in-bounds. He has very little finesse or strategy apart from that. I’ve blocked him three times to his two, but on the last one he managed to jam my finger pretty good and it’s throbbing angrily now.

“Fuck.” Deacon lets out a low curse when June drops a tip over his block. Jensen dives and comes up short on the dig.

“Yes,” I say, staring Deacon down with the same cocky expression he’s leveled at me multiple times. Tongue sticking out between my teeth, big and bright smile I feel to my ears. I see a muscle ripple up his jaw, watch him kick at the sand before I collect the ball and spin around to celebrate and cheer with June. We’re ahead by one now, and it’s game point. I walk the ball back to the boundary line and realize we’ve drawn a small crowd. Doesn’t matter, can’t let that get in my head. I wipe at the sweat on my brow with the back of a wrist, relish the feel of the salt and sand scraping against my skin.

I serve a floater that Jensen has to dive for but successfully passes. Deacon tries to lob a surprise set to the back corner, and I barely get to it in time. June sends me a perfect set and I make my approach, legs straining as I sail into the air, cock back my arm, and spike it with all my might.

Deacon blocks. June has to dive for the deflection. I jump again and spike it back. We fall into a rhythmic dance, a drawn-out rally that has us each crying out in exertion for every single touch. It feels like it goes on forever. Shit. I mistime an approach and have to pass the ball over the net too gently. I immediately shuffle back, knowing a big return is inevitable. Deacon bumps a perfect pass, Jensen an equally perfect set, and then Deacon flies . Time seems to slow. Every muscle flexes beneath his skin, arms arranging in the air like an archer about to fire. It’s oddly stunning, I think, like Adam’s great reach in the Sistine Chapel. I try to read his body language to predict where the hit will be. Follow the path of his outstretched hand. Watch as everything in him coils tighter, before he throws it all into the kill.

I don’t even register the ball hitting me square in the face, or the tiny crunch of my nose. Not until I see Deacon’s expression, the whites of his eyes, which are suddenly devoid of the sunglasses. His mouth falls open and his lips go pale.

And then the pain explodes.

DEACON

I watch LaRynn’s head snap back and feel immediate, knee-buckling horror. I cannot compare this feeling to anything else I’ve ever experienced, it’s so sudden and violent. I want a rogue wave to reach up and swallow me whole. I throw my glasses somewhere and freeze, the blood evaporating from my body. I see her chin lower again in slow motion and somehow feel more afraid. She looks right into me with those sea-green eyes, into my very soul, and God I wonder if I’d be better off just burying myself alive in the sand. But my legs apparently work independently of my brain, because they are carrying me toward her, running. In my peripheral vision, I spot a shorter blonde woman running, too. I think she might be hurling obscenities and threats at me, but I can’t be too sure.

A small, broken cry escapes LaRynn from where she sits in the sand, her black ponytail askew. The sound punches me right in the gut.

And then her nose starts to bleed . Oh fuck. That wave must be coming after all. A loud rushing sound comes over me.

All I hear before I faint is, “This motherfu—”

And everything goes dark.

“—sonuva bitch! There you are. She’s the one bleeding, not you, asshole!”

I blink to clear my vision and feel a hand tapping against my face. A girl I think I recognize from the coffee shop across the street is slapping me, her short platinum hair a halo around her head. I gasp a deep inhale when it all comes back, sit up, feel the tickle of sand cascade down my back. I turn to my left, where LaRynn is still sitting, her chin in the air, a hand pinching her nose. She still manages a searing side-eye.

I need to speak as soon and as quickly as possible, before I see her bleed again. “LaRynn I’m sorry you were on the other side of the court like point-five seconds before I swear I did not see you move I did not do that on purpose I swear to GOD,” I blurt out.

“Be QUIET! She doesn’t need to make you feel better right now! Do you have a car!?” the blonde screeches at me. “She needs to go to the ER.”

“A car?” I hear myself say.

“Four wheels, goes vroom-vroom,” LaRynn says, nasally. And yet the quiet, monotone way she says it still holds enough threat to make the hair on the back of my neck rise.

“I’ve got a car. I’ll drive.” I gulp.

“ I’ll drive,” says Jensen. “In case you pass out again.” And then he takes off in a jog for the car, rifling through my bag for the keys on his way.

“Where’s June?” I ask as I scramble to my feet. When I reach down to try and help LaRynn, she bats my hands away. The blonde pixie gives me a look so exasperated I half expect her to turn red and shed sparkly gold dust.

“That guy”—she nods toward Jensen’s retreating form—“said she doesn’t do well with blood, either,” says Tinker Bell. “Elyse, by the way.”

“Sorry. I’m sorry” is all I can mutter. “I’m Deacon.”

“I gathered as much,” says Elyse. I’ll think about that later, about how that means that LaRynn has mentioned me before. I wonder if she ever looks at my pictures online in the same moony, stupid way I’ve done with hers. Right now, I only trip after them toward the concrete stairs that lead up to the main street. I swipe a towel from the ground and hover behind LaRynn as we go, covering her thong-clad ass from everyone staring.

LaRynn stops abruptly when she catches on to this.

“What the fuck are you doing?” she barks, and oh sweet Jesus her entire face is swelling and turning a deep, angry burgundy. I can make out the lines from the volleyball on one cheek. I think I can make out the Wilson logo on the other. No, no that has to be my imagination. My guilty conscience conjuring things.

“I’m sorry,” I sputter again.

“My shorts,” LaRynn says. “My phone is in them. They’re still back there.”

“Got it! I’ve got ’em,” I insist, elated to have something I can do.

By the time I make it back with her shorts and phone, Jensen’s pulled up and Elyse is helping LaRynn into my shitty old Bronco. I’m certain I’d be feeling self-conscious if I hadn’t also noticed that a fresh wave of blood has splashed across LaRynn’s chest. I concentrate on fighting the sway in my step and thrust out my shirt and her shorts.

“Here,” I croak.

She snatches them all from me with a mumbled “Thanks.”

Jensen, the bastard, remains unflappable on the drive, making small talk as a distraction. At least, that’s what I assume. By the time we pull into Dominican Hospital, I know more of Jensen’s life story than I’ve gathered in the previous year of being his friend. I also now know a great deal about Elyse, who’s been engaging with Jensen just as enthusiastically. I keep my face planted in my palms in the back seat through it all, only picking it up occasionally to apologize to LaRynn again.

We get checked into the packed ER, and my guilt sinks further. There are all sorts of summer injuries in here, a handful of mystery vomiters, plus the usual coughing crowd. We’ll be here for hours. The triage nurse gives me and LaRynn each a hospital gown to cover up with, a sympathetic smile, and an ice pack to hold on her face. And Elyse and Jensen decide they’ll head out to get us food. Food we never asked for.

“Great,” LaRynn says with a sorrowful sound as they walk away. “Thanks for that,” she growls at me.

“For what?”

“Did you not witness the instalove that I just did? Those two are already twitterpated. Your buddy barely kept his eyes on the road, he was looking in the rearview mirror so much to see her.” She slides down in her hospital chair and lets her legs splay outward. Elyse had given her her sandals when they realized they’d forgotten to grab LaRynn’s off the beach, and they appear to be about two sizes too small for her feet. She also has the nicest legs I’ve ever seen. Long, but muscular, too. I want to run my palms up them, see if they have any freckles to match the few I noticed on her face. Her face. Dammit. Remembering her face and how it came to be in its current state pulls me right out of my wandering thoughts. “And if he wasn’t into her already he will be in no time, I’m sure,” LaRynn adds.

“And that upsets you?” I ask. I feel hot all over, suddenly. Maybe she’d been hoping to spark up something with Jensen.

She tries to pull a face and hisses in pain. “It doesn’t upset me,” she spits. “Everyone falls in love with Elyse. But the summers she has boyfriends I inevitably see her less, that’s all.” She lets out a sigh and adjusts her ice pack, folding her free arm tighter around her middle.

“I promise I won’t fall in love with Elyse,” I say.

She peers at me sidelong through one of her puffy eyes. “I don’t care what you do,” she says. But it’s quiet. Unsure.

I don’t want to let the conversation die. I want her to talk to me until she forgives me. “You could always get your own boyfriend, you know” is what I choose to say. She gives me a look that reminds me of a snake winding up to strike. “Or girlfriend. Whatever floats your boat.”

“Why would I want a boyfriend when I leave at the end of summer every year? I’m nineteen and about to start college.” A smug look comes over her. “OH. I guess you probably saved me that risk now, anyway!” She waves a hand at her face. “Thanks again.”

I let my head fall back against the wall with a small thud. “I’m sorry. Again. It was an accident. Again,” I speak to the ceiling.

“Whatever,” she grumbles. “My grandma’s on her way. You don’t need to wait with me.”

I drag my hands down my face. Cece and Hel are going to end me. “Of course I’m going to wait with you,” I say.

But our grandmothers come blustering through the automatic doors just then, their matching gardening hats bouncing animatedly on their heads. I get up so that Cece can sit and coo over LaRynn, hugging her and petting her hair. It surprises me when LaRynn seems to stiffen in their embrace at first, like it’s a foreign sensation. From what I know of her and observed before: high-end everything, a picture with her first car on her sixteenth birthday (a Mercedes), a prestigious private school (if the uniform I’ve seen in pictures is any indication), the four suitcases she had for two weeks over that Christmas break, and the spoiled, stuck-up vibe she otherwise projected… I’ve always assumed she was coddled. Treated like some precious thing.

“You,” my grandmother says, spearing a finger at me. “I already called your mother.”

“It was a freak accident,” LaRynn quickly volunteers. It’s the truth, but I expected her to make me suffer a bit longer for it. We lock eyes. I almost wish she had made me suffer longer so I might feel less terrible.

“I’m still sorry. I hope it’s not broken,” I say. She nods in reply. And then I slide the hospital gown off, throw out one last “sorry,” and go wait outside for Jensen to bring back my car, thinking that, at the very least, this summer has the potential to be something.