The van is gone.

Hopefully, Nate or Ian drove it back to the motel, and our shit is secured. Kane’s really the only one who would be capable of losing it, which is why we don’t ever give him the keys.

The two-mile walk is perfect for clearing my head, sorting out what the fuck just happened. Spring break, by definition, is all about one-night stands and hook-ups, and I fucking put on the brakes tonight. I’m not sure who was more surprised by that turn of events, but it’s better this way.

It was the right thing to do.

I reach my room just as the sun starts its climb above the horizon and fall into the empty bed.

“You finally get laid?” Ian grumbles when the shitty bed creaks as I try to find a comfortable position.

I punch the lumpy-ass pillow and try again. “Now, you’re worried about my dick, too? You ladies sit around and talk about me tonight over your mocktails?”

“No, man. Just haven’t seen you dragging ass in this late.”

The air conditioner rattles to life, spitting out cool air, but more importantly, it makes conversation a bigger effort than either of us feels like making.

I wake several hours later, frustrated, hungry, and thankfully alone in the room. I thread my fingers through my hair, pulling it back from my face, and allow my mind to simmer on Gracyn.

She’s not bashful; she knows what she wants and isn’t afraid of going after it. And, now, I’m pretty sure that doesn’t fucking include me.

The top of my book just peeks out of the top of my duffel, taunting me. Whispering that the answers to why bad things happen to good people are right there. And, with my thoughts swirling around in my head, I heft myself out of bed, shower, and get myself together.

We’re playing at a different bar tonight, farther from the beach but later in the evening. The crowd should be better, but the odds of Gracyn being there are probably pretty shitty. And, because I’m a fucking glutton for punishment, I truck my ass back down the beach toward her condo, hoping to run into her.

My rumbling stomach steers me to a food truck, and I get a handful of street tacos. I’m so hungry, but I hardly taste the first one. The second and third ones though send flavors bursting across my tongue.

I kick back, chugging from the water bottle I remembered to bring with me today. The sun is hot, and before I dig into the rest of my lunch, I pull my hair back into a man-bun. A touch on the douchey side, but what can you do? As I wrap the band around the mess of hair one last time, it breaks, flying off to nowhere.

“Here.” Gracyn’s voice floats over my shoulder along with the purple hair band she had on her wrist last night.

I turn to face her, a bag that looks a lot like the one holding the rest of my lunch clutched firmly in her arm. A current runs through me when our fingers touch, and she yanks her hand back, curling her fingers into a ball.

“Thanks.” I clear my throat and secure my hair, scooting over to make room on the bench. “Want to join me?” She throws out, “About last night,” at the same time. Her eyes go wide, and her teeth dig into the corner of her lip.

“Sit down with me, please?”

Gracyn perches uncomfortably on the edge of the bench, picking at the top of her paper bag. “Sorry I was a shit last night,” she says. “I don’t know why I …”

“It’s okay. I just don’t …”

“Can we just forget it? Maybe pretend the weird part didn’t happen?”

With both of us talking over each other, the sudden silence is almost deafening. For sure, it’s awkward and uncomfortable.

What kind of a dumbass would I be to not want a do-over? To not want to spend more time with her? It would be insanity.

I nod slowly, pulling my lip between my teeth. “What’re you doing for the rest of the day?” I stare off into the distance, avoiding looking directly at Gracyn. I don’t want to make her uncomfortable. I don’t want to chance not seeing her again.

“Um. Just eating tacos and reading on the beach for a while.” She shifts and brushes her knee against my leg, and even with the sun beating down on me, my skin pebbles with gooseflesh.

“Do you want some company?” I ask hopefully.

She shrugs a shoulder and blows out a big damn breath, causing me to second-guess whether asking was even the right thing. Better to beg forgiveness than ask permission and all that.

“I thought we were letting the awkward shit go,” I say, shooting her a sideways glance but getting nothing.

Gracyn crinkles her bag, obviously looking everywhere but at me. This can’t get much more uncomfortable.

I scarf down the rest of my tacos and shove the trash into the bag, debating on whether to try again, to make one last-ditch effort at the whole making-nice thing. Gracyn hasn’t said a word, but she’s not made a move to leave yet either.

This is such a diametrical change from yesterday. She was fun, confident, fucking sexy as hell. This unease? The fidgeting and avoidance are not what I expected. Mad? Pissed off? That I could hang with but not this.

After a long, awkward moment, it’s obvious she’s still avoiding me. The last thing I want to do is pout, but there it is.

“Got it,” I toss out with a nod and plant my hands on the tabletop, standing. I grind my teeth something fierce, attempting to hold back whatever shit was about to slide out of my mouth. The trash can wobbles as I chuck my bag in, threatening to fall.

I shove my hands in my pockets and take off toward the water. There’s nothing better than a long walk down the beach to blow off the frustration.

I don’t know what my problem is.

I wait, perched on the bench, until Gavin disappears into the crowd. When he’s finally out of sight, I dive into my food and devour more tacos than a girl has a right to consume. I’m totally eating my emotions.

Last night, I was embarrassed.

Mortified.

I lay awake for hours, thinking of all the reasons he refused me. It’s not like there was any misunderstanding. Not on his part. I’d made it perfectly clear what I wanted, practically throwing myself at him in the stairwell.

At least, I thought I had.

The crashing waves call to me, so I gather up my trash, slide off the bench, and throw the bag away. The beach is just now starting to fill up with the slow-moving and stupidly hungover. I plop myself down in a spot just far enough away from any other people to discourage conversation, leaving me to sift through my actions, pick apart my thoughts.

I have no problem, none whatsoever, with going after what I want. I don’t usually read people so wrong though. I really thought he was into me last night with the way he called me babe, how he wrapped his big hands around my waist while we were dancing, and the way he kissed me like he owned me.

Jesus, the way he kissed me.

My fingers press into my lips before I catch myself and blow out an exasperated sigh. If I try hard enough, I can probably convince myself that the sexual frustration is the reason behind my shitty mood. It has nothing to do with the fact that I loved talking to Gavin, hearing his thoughts on everything from music to the Augustine basis for why bad things happened to good people to his openness on his ex-girlfriend.

No matter how hard I try, my thoughts keep running right back to everything that happened yesterday and, more unfortunately, to the things that didn’t. I don’t really do the relationship thing. Not that I’m a slut or easy or anything, but I’m better off with just having fun and keeping my heart safely tucked away.

Familial expectations don’t really mesh with the guys I tend to be interested in, which is why a spring break hook-up is perfect. No strings, no rules.

Why the hell is he not on board with this?

Is this what rejection feels like? Is this how Lis feels?

My girl’s confidence has been shot ever since the Christmas Eve debacle. At least her family is totally up-front in their dysfunction. Mine buries that shit deep, deep in the closet.

My day drags with my thoughts churning and rolling over the events of yesterday and the rebuff of last night. The more I mix it around in my mind, the more pissed off I get.

I pull my phone out of my tan-and-brown-swirled bag and check to see which band is playing where tonight. I tell myself it’s strictly to know which bar to avoid, but I’ve never been all that great at lying to myself.