Page 1 of Square Waves (Big Fan #2)

I

I haven’t lived here in a decade, but my parents have kept my childhood bedroom a time capsule: a preserved-in-amber reminder of who I used to be Before.

The white lace curtains on the windows are sweet and girly; the vanity mirror has photo booth snapshots of me with high school girlfriends tucked into its frame.

There’s a literal blue ribbon hanging above the bed, a souvenir of the academic merit award I won as a senior.

All the markings of exactly who I was: the kind of girl people love.

I rarely think about that version of me anymore.

For the first twenty-two years of my life, Cassidy Weaver wasn’t a household name or one synonymous with scandal.

But I’ve been After Cassidy for long enough that that can be hard to recall.

Unless, of course, I’m thrust back into rooms where I used to spend most of my time focused on English homework and extracurriculars that looked good on early decision applications.

In so many ways, I know myself better now than I did then.

And one thing I’m certain of is that if I don’t unpack tonight, I’ll spend the next three weeks living out of a suitcase.

I force myself from the edge of the bed to the closet, open its door, and groan.

How is there still clothing in here? Didn’t I take everything with me when I moved to DC for college?

As I scan the relics, I allow myself a moment of tenderness for this former self and her miniskirts so mini, they might as well be belts. Band T-shirts from my short-lived emo phase hang above pairs of very aspirationally high heels.

Then I shove it all to the side and start hanging my things—my current things.

The Char cashmere sweater I bought with my first big paycheck, the boots I’ve had resoled three times, and the Issey Miyake dress that will probably always be my best-ever thrift find.

I wish I saw the contrast between these two wardrobes as reassuring: a reminder of all of the years that have passed since I lived here.

How much I’ve survived and even grown. But the things I’ve packed feel like they’re from another life too.

One I’m not entirely sure I want anymore.

One that might not want me either.

Once I’ve slid my suitcase under the bed, I give in to the teenage gravity of the room and flop down on my old comforter.

When I free my phone from my back pocket, there are no new messages.

The last person I heard from was my mom, alerting me that she and my dad were on the plane, headed to Paris for their thirtieth anniversary celebration.

The house is going to be so happy to see you! ! she wrote.

I tap a thumbs-up reply and then unreply and replace it with a heart instead.

Technically, all I have to do this month is unpack my bags in my parents’ Berkeley Craftsman.

Starting Friday when I left the office, I officially kicked off the minisabbatical that my boss didn’t suggest as much as ordered.

It turns out I wasn’t the only one to notice my thoughts shifting from I wonder if I’m burning out to I physically cannot make myself function at work .

This break was framed as a gift, but we both know there was an underlying message: Take a few weeks, get yourself together. .. and if you don’t, don’t come back.

My parents aren’t aware of the unstated threat.

They only know the story that I’ve been telling them, which is that the time off is a reward for an intense-but-gratifying job well done.

I’ve already consumed my fair share of sympathy and can’t risk eliciting more.

I have zero desire to see pity on anyone’s face ever again if I can help it.

I shift onto my back and fight my first yawn. I’m trapped in that weird in-between time of oncoming jet lag. It’s 11p.m. where I came from but 8p.m. here. Too early to go to sleep, but my eyelids are getting heavy anyway.

I need to get out of this house if I want to stay awake, but I don’t have a lot of options. I’ve already eaten—my mom left me a square of lasagna in the fridge, which I consumed standing up in the kitchen as soon as I walked through the door.

But... a bar, maybe? A drink sounds nice. An adult activity, a reminder that I’m not actually eighteen anymore. And who knows? Maybe I’ll meet someone hot. Have a flirtation.

I laugh out loud, alone by myself. Berkeley guys come in three types—nerdy grad student, nerdy techie, and nerdy professor—and none of them are mine. But I roll off the bed, put on my favorite jeans and some mascara, and grab my parents’ keys anyway.

There’s a mirror hanging above their entryway, and as I head out, I catch a glimpse of myself: my blonde hair in its messy topknot, my cheeks pale because, despite the fact that it’s deep summer, I haven’t spent an afternoon outside in ages.

I look as tired as I feel. But that’s fine.

I’m not going anywhere fancy. Mostly, getting a cocktail will waste away an hour.

And what am I doing here if not killing time?

I haven’t lived in Berkeley in a long time and never when I could legally drink, so I have to consult the Infatuation about where to even go.

I decide on a comfortingly divey place that, on Sunday night, is busy but not packed.

Almost as soon as I slide onto an empty seat at the bar, a bartender comes over to take my order.

She has a tragus piercing and a complicated haircut.

It’s cliché but true: the Bay Area is so different from DC. And I have missed it here.

“Do you know what you want?” she asks.

I bite my lip, like this is a trick question.

In college, I drank vodka sodas; AC (After Cooper) I learned that that was a sorority girl tell and switched to gin and tonics.

But my go-to doesn’t feel like the right thing for this moment.

It suddenly seems so... East Coast blasé.

But then what do I want? A beer? A glass of wine?

Is this a celebratory drink or a mournful one, and how do I even—

My ruminating is interrupted by a hand on my shoulder. A man’s voice near my ear, low and pleased with itself. “Do you need help ordering, Cassidy?”

I whirl around and find myself face-to-face—uncomfortably close, nose-tip-to-nose-tip, he-can-probably-smell-my-breath close—with Leon Park.

The first thing my traitor brain thinks is, Handsome .

Which, to be fair, is an accurate reaction to Leon’s presence.

He was hot in high school, and he’s even hotter now.

His thick black hair has grown out into perfectly tousled waves.

His eyes are still amber and still sparkling.

He smirks at me, and it’s equal parts disarming and infuriating.

I’m both grateful and annoyed that I tried even a little bit before coming here tonight.

Thank god he drops his hand and steps back, creating some distance between us so that I have room for a second thought: Oh, Jesus Christ, no.

It wouldn’t be fair to say that Leon and I were nemeses back in the day because that would indicate that he cared about me.

But we did annoy the shit out of each other, our opposite personalities creating friction every time we so much as spoke.

I would have avoided him if I could, but my teenage best friend Willa dated his best friend Zeke for all four years of Berkeley High .

.. only to break up a few weeks after graduation, when it was too late to do me any good.

It’s been almost a decade since I’ve been in Leon’s proximity, but his presence kicks me into gear, and I hear the words “I’ll have a martini” coming out of my mouth before I have a chance to consider the thought.

A martini? Where the hell did that come from?

The bartender reaches for a glass. “Vodka or gin?” she asks.

“Gin.” At least this part I know. “Botanist, if you have it.”

“Sure. How dry do you want it?”

“Oh. Um. Medium dry?”

“Olives?”

My neck goes hot. What is this, the Spanish Inquisition? “Sure.”

She looks over at Leon. “And you?”

“I’ll have a Pbr, please.”

I know he’s just ordering a beer, but it still feels like he’s trying to show me up by getting something simple and unfussy that doesn’t require a litany of follow-up questions.

Leon is the chillest bro ever to chill. And I am not .

That’s one thing that Before Cassidy and After Cassidy have in common: an inability to live up to every California girl’s birthright and just, like, go with the flow, man.

Leon turns so that his back is against the bar.

He props himself up on his elbows and stretches his long legs out in front of him.

His jeans are so worn, they’re almost—but not quite—ripping at the knees, and his Vans are authentically skate-scuffed.

His eyelashes are soot black against his cheeks as he blinks at me.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

I look for accusation in his tone, but he actually sounds curious. I’m still not letting my guard down. “Having a drink.”

“Oh, so we’re being literal tonight.”

“What else would we be?”

“Excuse me for making conversation.”

I can’t help it: I roll my eyes. “Since when do you want to talk to me in the first place?”

“Cass. Please.” Only people who know me from Before call me Cass. I correct everyone else, to ward off any creep toward unearned intimacy.

Leon smiles like he means it, and a pinprick of a dimple forms on his right cheek. There’s a corresponding uptick in my heart rate. God damnit . I hate this guy for a lot of reasons, and the way my body responds to his has always been one of them.

He slips a hand into his front pocket. “Anyway, I could ask you the same question.”