Page 7 of Seashells and Other Souvenirs

“Where have you been?” Elle leaned forward and around me to glare at Sutton.

Sutton ignored her and set up her folding chair in the grass next to Rebekah’s. I looked over and lifted a brow, hoping that my silent question had a better chance of eliciting an answer than a thinly veiled accusation.

“I was on the phone.” She smiled sardonically at Elle.

“I wasn’t aware I had to get permission to move around independently.

I’ll be sure to check in with the rest of the unit next time.

” For some reason, the comment stung me more than it seemed to bother Elle.

The past year of high school had caused some kind of unwelcome shift in my oldest cousin, and I couldn’t help but feel she was keeping things from us.

Rebekah pulled an elastic band from her wrist and twisted her hair up into a ponytail. “I hope it wasn’t that dumb basketball player. I thought you were over him. I keep hoping you’ll finally figure out that guys don’t magically become decent in the span of a few months.”

“And I keep hoping you’ll learn to mind your own business,” she snapped.

Sudden tears sprang to my eyes. “I hate this.”

The yard, filling with family, buzzed around us, but the four of us sat in silence.

“It’s not like we’ve never fought before,” Sutton finally said.

Rebekah slid her chair close and linked her arm in mine. “We’ll get over it, Al. It’d take a lot more than Sutton’s witchy attitude to break up the four of us.”

Sutton stuck out her tongue and made an over-the-top hateful face.

A giggle snuck out of Elle. And then another. Soon, she couldn’t stop.

Rebekah joined in, and my chair shook so hard I didn’t stand a chance. Sutton hung on the longest. She tried her best to stay angry, but by the time my Great Aunt Debbie sat down in the middle of the circle with her ukulele, we were all in hysterics.

The Uku-Lady, as we grew up calling her, looked our way and waited for us to control ourselves before she began.

“Any requests?” She scanned the crowd. But everyone knew we’d sing them all.

It took the skunk and watermelon songs and the first two verses of the one about the ticklish turtle before I finally let myself believe it: we were all right. And, as long as we kept showing up for each other, we always would be.

“Good morning.”

I was proud of myself for setting an alarm and getting an early start today, but Jude was already fully dressed and cooking eggs. I should have guessed that he’d be a morning person.

“Morning.” I open the cabinet and survey the tiny cereal box collection. “How long have you been up?”

“Not long. I just went down to the beach to check on Ty’s surf lessons and take a few pictures for the website. You want an omelet? I’m using the good cheese.”

He turns around just as I pull out the fruit loops. “Don’t judge me; I’m on vacation.”

“Never.” He holds up the spatula. “I was honestly thinking about a bowl of that chocolatey kind myself.”

“Excellent choice.” I reopen the cabinet and grab the box, then open a couple of drawers, trying to remember where to find spoons.

I locate bowls and set them on the island, and by the time I’ve retrieved the milk from the fridge, he’s cutting the omelet in half and transferring it onto two plates.

“Was the Taj Mahal still standing?” I ask as I pour my cereal.

“Sadly, no. I wanted to get a picture before the tide came in.” He frowns. “But we’ll always remember how perfect it looked by the light of a dozen glow sticks.”

“We’ll build a better one next time,” I promise.

“Here.” He slides a piece of paper across the counter.

“I thought this might be helpful.” I study the calendar page with a surfboard logo at the top.

“It’s the template I use to keep Ty organized, but since my work schedule is kind of unusual, I put all my shifts for the next couple weeks on here so you’ll know when I’ll be around.

My phone number is at the top in case of emergency.

And down here is the schedule for trash pick-up and all that kind of stuff.

” He pauses and runs a hand through his hair.

“And now I’m realizing that this seems kind of weird, like I’m trying to be your landlord or something. That wasn’t my intention.”

“No.” I set my spoon down and offer him a reassuring smile. “This is very considerate, Jude. And it will help with planning all the fun stuff. Can I borrow a pen?”

He opens the most organized junk drawer I’ve ever seen in my entire life and passes me a pen. I go through the calendar and add things like “crab hunting,” “shell painting,” and “postcards to celebrities” in between bites of the cheesiest, most delicious omelet I’ve ever eaten.

“So you don’t go in until this afternoon to . . . wait tables?” I consult the chart. “What restaurant?”

He averts his eyes, and I don’t miss the color that creeps into his cheeks. “I’m not ready for that conversation yet.”

“You know that only makes me want to know even more, right?” I lean forward. “Is it something scandalous? Illegal? Do you have a secret double life?”

He starts clearing the dishes. “Anyway,” he changes the subject, “do you think we have time to squeeze in a traditional beach activity this morning? Or do you have plans already?”

“Well, the weather is gorgeous today. It would be perfect for a beach swap, but seeing as I only brought two books, we might need to hit up the used bookstore first.”

“Hmm.” He turns off the sink. “Want to explain that one for me? What’s a beach swap, and why do you need books for it?”

“It’s something the four of us started a few years ago. Everyone brings a favorite book, and we trade. We spend a couple hours reading together on the beach, and then we give our honest reviews over a bag of tortilla chips when everyone’s done.”

“Why tortilla chips?” He catches himself. “Right. Tradition.”

I nod approvingly.

He leans against the fridge, considers for a moment, then says, “Okay. Come with me.”

I follow him down the short hallway, my curiosity piqued.

I’m not sure what I’m expecting, but when he swings open the door to his bedroom, my hand flies to my mouth in shock. “Oh my gosh! JUDE.”

Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line an entire wall and are filled with books organized by color.

There must be hundreds of books in here.

My feet act before my brain has a chance to process, and I think, too late, that I probably should have asked his permission before running my hands across the spines and pulling a few from the first shelf to read the backs.

I look up. He’s watching me admire his collection with a look of pure pride. It isn’t unwarranted.

“This is amazing,” I squeal. “Is it okay—?” I look down at the book I’m holding.

“Of course. How else are you supposed to pick one for the beach reading tradition?”

“Okay, first of all, forget the beach swap. I’m trying to figure out how to convince you to swap rooms with me.

And secondly, you’re supposed to pick which book I read.

” I slide the book back into its place. “And now would probably be a good time to tell you that you’ll either be reading Pride and Prejudice or a rom-com Sutton loaned me. ”

“If I admit that I’ve read the first a handful of times already, does that automatically mean I end up with the rom-com?”

“No, Mr. Bingley, it does not. It is impossible to read any Austen book too many times. And this one is my comfort read.” I scan the titles in front of me. “What’s yours?”

He crosses the room to stand next to me. “You promise you won’t laugh?” He chuckles and shakes his head. “I guess you already know I’m a nerd anyway . . . ”

“Jude.” I point to the bookshelves. “You are the coolest person I know right now.”

“Is that why you called me Bingley?”

“Well, you’re too nice to be Darcy,” I confess. I mean it as a compliment, but I’m not sure if it comes across as such. “Okay, so your comfort read . . . ?” I prod.

He reaches above my head, selects a yellow book, and places it in my hands.

“ Little Women ?” I trace the intricate lettering with my index finger. “Why would I laugh? This is one of the best stories ever written.”

“It doesn’t seem like a very manly choice, I guess.” He raises his shoulders and lets them fall again. “But it’s oddly comforting to escape to the March household sometimes. It actually makes me think of you Henrys.”

I laugh. “That makes me very happy.” I wince. “Although, I think all four of us might be some combination of Jo and Amy. There’s not a mild-mannered Meg or Beth amongst us.”

“You aren’t wrong.” His countenance softens.

“And Laurie didn’t have a geeky younger brother tagging along either, so it’s not a perfect analogy.

” He reaches to the right and picks out his own copy of Pride and Prejudice .

“We should get going,” he suggests. “Those tortilla chips aren’t going to eat themselves. ”

Two hours later, I carefully mark my spot in Miss Alcott’s story with a gum wrapper and turn in my beach chair. “Just so you know, you guys were both our Lauries.”

He smiles and keeps reading.