Chapter 1:
“Annabelle, try to hustle. The world isn’t going to save itself,” Mom calls to me from downstairs. “The Bahars will be here in fifteen minutes!”
Ugh! How could I forget? My hands pause on the laces of my running sneakers.
“An-na-belle!” Mom calls again, impatience growing with each syllable.
“Coming!” I quickly finish tying my shoes and dash down the stairs, pulling my unruly curls into a ponytail as I try to remember what we’re protesting today. Factory farming? No, that was last week. Restrictions on reproductive rights? No, that’s every third Saturday of the month. It's hard to keep track. After all, there’s just so much wrong with the world. And no, I do not find it at all problematic that I can’t remember what we’re protesting (or that we were protesting at all today). Just because I’m not always as well-informed as my best friends, Del and Mason, or Mason’s dreadful girlfriend, Zoe, it doesn’t mean I care any less.
Saving the Greenway! I finally remember as I hit the landing and turn into the sun-filled kitchen at full speed. Mimi (my other mom) is pouring coffee and smiles at me. “I see the protest has you all fired up.” She tosses me an apple. At five-foot-three she’s shorter than Mom or me, but despite her petite frame, she’s the strongest person I know.
“Well,” I bite my lip guiltily, catching the apple in midair. “For sure it does, but also, Ms. Adler just emailed me that my book order came in.” I carefully omit the title, not sure Reforming a Rake would compel Mimi. I am absolutely, not-at-all ashamed I secretly read romance novels. It’s just that I know how it makes me look—especially to my two uber-educated moms and my highbrow friends.
Mimi looks at her watch, then pushes her blonde hair behind her ear. “Do you really have time to go to Bookcourt before the protest?”
‘Hey, I’m a fast runner,” I remind Mimi. I may not have the same academic chops as my nearest and dearest, but I am one of the stars of Edgartown High’s cross country team. “And Bookcourt is on the way to the Greenbelt. Just tell Mom to tell Ms. Bahar to get me on Main Street after they pick up Mason.”
“Okay,” Mimi relents. “I guess they will be driving right by it.” Her sky-blue eyes hold a warning. “Just hurry. You know how your mom is about time.”
“I heard that!” Mom sweeps into the kitchen, glamorous in her silk green shirt and jeans. Her auburn hair is swept into a perfect low ponytail, and tiny gold studs spark at her ears. Her porcelain skin looks flawless and dewy.
“I was just telling our daughter how I so admire your commitment to punctuality.” Mimi kisses Mom’s cheeks and winks at me. “I wish I could come with you two! Hate to miss this one.”
“You’re too busy saving actual lives,” I assure her as I inch quietly toward the door. Mimi is dressed in her teal scrubs, about to head to the OR to perform surgery.“We’re saving lives too, sweetie,” Mom reminds me as she turns to fill her coffee mug, thankfully not noting that I am trying to leave the house. “We just don’t get covered in blood while doing it.”
I put my hand on the doorknob.
Mimi nods in bemused agreement. “It’s a good thing, too, because I don’t think that silk shirt would convey the same ‘woman about town’ look with blood splotches on it.”
I stifle a laugh before turning abruptly toward Mom. “Mom, I’m running to Bookcourt first. Meet me there. Mimi will explain!” I say as fast as humanly possible and practically leap out onto the flagstone steps that lead from our backyard to the front. I take a half second to enjoy the changing colors and smell of the crisp fall leaves of the towering beach tree in our backyard before I pop my earbuds in, press play on my favorite romance novel themed podcast, Fated Mates, and practically sprint toward town.
****
Sarah and Jen, the podcast co-hosts, are discussing grand gestures in romance novels, as I continue my grueling pace down my understated yet tasteful Eastside neighborhood of Edgartown, North Carolina, where we (and anyone we like in Edgartown) live. Whizzing past the tree-lined streets, espresso bars, community gardens, and yoga studios, I turn onto Cranberry Road, one of the rare residential streets that borders both sides of town. On the Northside, gas-guzzling SUVs sit parked in front of McMansions, with impeccable, pesticide-treated lawns that are certainly environmental nightmares, but look straight out of Better Homes and Gardens. On the Eastside, Craftsman houses with hybrid cars and virtue-signaling LEED plaques seem to compete for the “I care about the earth the most” award.
I start to imagine what it would be like to be on the receiving end of a romantic gesture. Would I even like it? Sounds kind of intense, right? I think as I finally hit Cranberry and Main Street, where the Northside and the Eastside collide. I push a sweaty curl off my face as I wait for the light to change to walk. To my right, on the Eastside of Main, are the local yarn shop, specialty cheese store, and Bookcourt, my destination. To my left, the Northside of Main, Vineyard Vines, Starbucks, Restoration Hardware and other upscale chain stores reside. Mimi says the Northside lacks imagination, but Mom disagrees—she thinks it lacks taste.
The light changes and my heart rate ticks up. Not just because I am racing down the street again, but because the podcast hosts instruct, “Earphones in,” meaning they are going to say something really juicy. My vocabulary has been wildly expanded since I started listening to tFated Mates. And I do mean wildly.
I am about six feet from Bookcourt as Jen and Sarah start ranking the sexiest beach scenes they’ve ever read when BOOM!
I slam into what feels like a wall of bricks, my earphones fall out, and my traitorous iPhone starts blaring, “And she had FOUR, that is right FOUR, orgasms in two pages. Now THAT is impressive.” I scramble to get my phone and turn off the sound. My cheeks are on fire as I hope against hope that no one overheard.
“That really is quite impressive,” a voice from above me says followed by a low, masculine chuckle.
I close my eyes briefly, remaining crouched down, filled with all the cringiest feelings. I force myself to slowly stand up and open my eyes. I want to slam them shut again when I find myself face to face with Gabe freaking Delgado, quintessential Northside boy. I don’t know him well, but, because of his father, everyone knows who he is.
I rub my shoulder, which is stinging from where it slammed into Gabe’s splendid (not that I am noticing of course) chest.
Like me, Gabe is dressed in running gear. He’s wearing a white Edgartown lacrosse team t-shirt and navy shorts. I try hard not to notice how toned his arms are as he lifts his shoulder and rotates it as if working out a kink, probably from where I barreled into him. And then I try even harder not to notice how chiseled his cheekbones are as he tilts his head to smile at me and says, “Is your shoulder okay? Sorry about that.”
He actually looks concerned and is genuinely apologizing even though I am ninety nine percent sure that the reason we collided is because I went to turn up the volume on my phone and wasn’t looking. I find this all super annoying — Gabe Delgado acting like Mr. Nice Guy. Please. Northern guys are many things, but nice is not one of them.
“Yeah, it’s fine. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“Well, I can’t say I blame you.” He shoots me a half smile. “You were listening to some pretty enlightening stuff there.” Gabe gestures toward my phone and laughs when my face flames again. “I’m just kidding,” he assures me and appears to consciously pull back his teasing tone when he sees how embarrassed I am.
Before I can decide how to reply—my top options being 1) claim I’m flushed only because of my high running speed or 2) tell him cheekily that I hope I gave him something to aspire to—Ms. Adler, the owner of Bookcourt and one of my favorite people, appears, holding my book. Unfortunately, due to the recent paperless policy at the store, there’s no bag, just the naked book…bodice-ripping cover and all.
“Honey, here you go!” Ms. Adler says in her soft sing-song voice. Her grey hair is in a neat, low bun and her warm brown eyes crinkle in greeting. Her face is lightly weathered from her years and great love of the beach and per usual she smells lightly of lavender. “Your mom is across the street and looks like she wants you to hurry so I thought I’d run this out to you.” Ms. Adler hands me my book.
My head whips across the street where I see Ms. Bahar’s Volvo pulled over. Mom is in the passenger side, window down, motioning for me to hurry. My best friends Delasa Bahar and Mason Brent are in the back seat looking at me slightly agape, likely wondering why on earth I am standing with Gabe Delgado on Main Street.
“Hi, Ms. Adler,” Gabe says pleasantly. If I weren’t so aware of Gabe looking at the cover of my book, biting his lip to prevent himself from full on laughing, I’d have wondered about Gabe’s familiarity with the Bookcourt owner. I never many Northsiders in there.
“Annabelle, hustle over here!” my mom calls from the car.
“Yup!” I yell back.
“Thanks, Ms. Adler,” I say as she heads back into the store.
Gabe pops his own earphones back in and apologizes again for the run-in.
“Not as sorry as I am,” I reply through gritted teeth.
Gabe laughs again. “Enjoy the book,” he says as he resumes his steady jogging pace down the street, athleticism evident in each stride.
I shake my head and run across the street, dodging cars. I slide in the back seat next to Del and Mason.
Mom throws me a disapproving look, presumably over my time management skills, and hands me a granola bar. “Mimi was worried you didn’t eat breakfast.”
I take it, suddenly realizing how hungry I am, bite into it, sliding low into my seat as Del and Mason turn to look at me inquisitively as Ms. Bahar steers the Volvo back onto the road.
Del, in the middle seat, pokes me in the rib. “You okay?” You look a little flushed.”
I turn and look at my bestie. Today she’s pulling off a hipster beanie, her thick, wavy (but never frizzy) hair spilling from it. Meanwhile, my own ponytail seemingly triples in size as I wait for the Bahars’ AC to cool me off.
“Why is he so perfect muscley?” I whisper, barely resisting fanning myself. “I mean really, why? Sure, I have no doubt that good-looking lacrosse players are probably all at least mildly misogynistic, but I mean, wow.”
Del rolls her eyes at me. “Perfect muscley?”
“Like not big, creepy and steroid-y—because gross—but not so small that he looks like the underfed vegans we hang out with,” I elaborate.
“Hey!” Mason objects, glaring at me. He’s wearing jeans and a plaid button-down along with his trademark red scarf.
“Don’t worry, you pull off the anemic look better than most. Being pale makes the gray flecks in your eyes pop.”
Del and Mason laugh, but I catch Mason scrutinizing his reflection in the mirror. He still feels like the scrawny kid getting picked on by the guys who won the puberty race. By fourth grade, Mason had shot up like a weed, but he officially made the jump from ‘nerd’ to ‘cool’ in fifth grade when he picked up the guitar. Ever since, he’s been quite popular with Eastside girls. His red scarf even has its own entire Instagram account, thanks to some precocious Eastside freshmen last year.
“Anna thinks Gabe is hot,” Del complains to Mason.
“Shh. Remember, sore subject.” I elbow her.
“It’s fine.” Mason crosses his arms. “If Annabelle wants to lust after Gabe — not just my personal enemy, but the enemy of the left — that’s on her. Should I ask your mom what she thinks about it, Anna Banana?” He winks at me.
Horrified, I swing my head toward the front seat to ensure sure my mom hasn't heard. Lilly Morningstar, darling TV pundit of the liberal elite, would be displeased, to say the least, to hear that her daughter thinks Gabe Delgado, the son of Republican Senator Oscar Delgado, is a total hottie. Which, for the record, he is. Gabe is the definition of tall, dark and handsome with wavy dark brown hair and large, piercing eyes.
But we put our talk of preppy lacrosse players on hold as we pull into the driveway of the community center. We gather Del’s hand-crafted signs, tighten our shoelaces and prepare to march to save the Greenway.
