I open my eyes and groan. Everything is bright, and blurry, and hellish. My head feels like someone is squeezing it. My stomach is churning. What is going on?

I’m in my bed. My bed in my parents’ guesthouse.

I think I’m hung over.

It’s been so long, I kind of forgot what being hung over feels like, but yeah, that’s definitely the state I find myself in.

I finished off my bottle last night. That was maybe six glasses? Ugh. At least I made it to the bed. Although right now my white comforter isn’t helping much. I pulled it over my head, because apparently I forgot to close the blinds, but all the terrible light is making the comforter glow.

I groan, roll onto my stomach, and try to bury my face in the mattress, but that just makes me feel like I’m going to puke.

How did this happen? I was going to cook last night—I used to love cooking. But when I got home, I was lonely, and I ended up on the couch, and I couldn’t drag myself off it. I ordered Chinese and poured myself a glass and looked at all of Tripp’s social media and watched Parks and Rec episodes before eventually…I don’t know.

I reach my hand out of the covers and feel around the bedside table for a glass of water that is not there.

Ugh. Drinking so much last night…that was stupid. Extremely stupid. Anytime I have more than two glasses, I get a headache the next day.

It wasn’t always this way. Used to be, I could bounce back from anything. Like Tripp. He went from death’s door to virile athlete after a nap.

Thinking about Tripp makes my stomach twist, which makes the pounding in my head worse. I try not to think about him, but for some reason he’s all I can think about. I sort of wish he was going to be the one “training” me today.

My hand slithers back out of my cocoon because I know I put a glass by the bed. My fingers don’t find it, but they do find my phone. I pull it in, and—“OOOOOH!” Fuck, that hurts. The light. I think I’m going to vomit.

I tilt the screen to the side and check the time. 8:33 a.m. I’m already thirty-three minutes late. Fuck. I wonder who I’m with today.

I click on my messages. I’m hoping whoever…you’ve got to be kidding me. I’ve got a new message from Tripp. From seventeen minutes ago. “Are you coming?”

Fuck.

* * * *

I don’t get to Seaside Sings until almost 9:15, which is earlier than Tripp arrived yesterday, and, frankly, I’m surprised I made it at all.

I’m definitely not running to the lifeguard tower today; I’m barely able to walk through this fucking sand, and my steps don’t come any easier when I see Tripp.

He’s standing on the deck that wraps around the hut, leaning against the railing and staring out at the Gulf. He looks hot, and I hate that I think he looks hot, but from a purely factual viewpoint, he does. He’s got all the right muscles in all the right places, and a jaw that could give Superman a run for his money.

It doesn’t help that I like his personality, too. Reluctantly. He’s funny. And…ignoring me?

Tripp doesn’t acknowledge me—doesn’t even turn his head—as I approach the tower. I walk up the ramp, stop beside him, and wait, but he continues to gaze out at the Gulf like he doesn’t know I’m here.

“Sorry I’m late.”

Tripp startles. “Bobby! You—you scared me.” He clutches his chest. “How long have you been there?”

“Yeah, yeah. Funny.”

“Funny?” He gives me a squint-eyed look, like he can’t quite figure out what I mean. “What happened?”

“I got a flat tire.”

“You did?”

“I sent you a text.”

“Sent me a text?” He grabs his phone from the railing and punches in his pass code. He swipes across the screen. “Let’s see…here it is. A flat tire.” He looks at me. “But you had a spare?”

“Yeah.” I place my left hand on the rail and hope Tripp doesn’t notice that I need to do this to stay upright. “A neighbor helped.”

“That’s great,” he says. “Which neighbor?”

I stare at him.

“So I can thank him or her if I happen to see him or her around. Longview is still a small town.”

“…Mr. Hinkley.”

“Sean? How is he?”

I glower. We both know there isn’t a Mr. Hinkley. “Different Mr. Hinkley.”

“Chris?”

I stare hard at Tripp—at the perfect jawline I was just admiring, and the perfect teeth glowing behind his perfect smile. He’s young, rich, unbothered—any depth I imagined yesterday, I clearly imagined. He’s a beach bum, basically, but with the resources to do whatever he wants and a condescending attitude that just makes me want to slap his smug grin right off his face.

“Can you just not?” I ask.

“Not what?”

“Not be an asshole.”

“You think I’m being an asshole?”

“We both know you are.” I try to find something to look at, anything that doesn’t hurt, and the only thing my eyes can find are Tripp’s sunglasses. I would expose myself to this entire beach right now for sunglasses, even if they do hurt my ears. I accidentally left my gas station shades at home.

“Mm, I’ll try,” Tripp says, giving me a look I can’t read.

“Please.” Yowzers, my voice sounds rough.

“You want some water?”

“Yes.”

Tripp steps into the hut, and I stare desperately at all that shade. He returns with a large red Hot Beach water cooler, which he sets on the wooden rail. He holds it while I fill my water bottle.

I take several big drinks before wiping my mouth and murmuring, “Thanks.”

“Sure.”

I can’t see Tripp anymore. Not even his glasses. My eyes are pretty much slits at this point.

“Do you…want to borrow these?”

I force my lids open just enough to see him pluck his sunglasses from his face.

“I…” Want them. So badly. “I’m fine.”

In one smooth motion, he slips them over my eyes. The relief is instant, and Tripp’s face comes into focus. He’s peering down at me, his green eyes curious.

“Why don’t you wear sunglasses?”

“They hurt my ears.” But these don’t. They feel great.

“You’re living with your parents, right?”

I blink at him, surprised, and I’m glad I have these glasses on, because I imagine without them, I’d look like a hungover owl.

I nod, and he says, “That’s cool.”

I nod again. “It’s been…nice.”

“Did you guys get fucked up last night?”

“What?”

Tripp grins. “You’re hung over.”

“No. What? No I’m not!”

“Yeah you are.”

“No I’m not.”

“Bobby, I’m kind of an expert.”

“Well, I’m not.” All this talking is making me dizzier.

“An expert?” The little shit is enjoying this.

“Hungover,” I snap.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I’m not ashamed.”

“But you are hungover.”

“No. I’m. Not.”

“You’re clutching the rail like you’re about to fall over.”

I look down at my hands. I’m white-knuckling that rail like I’m it’s the only thing keeping me from floating away on an ocean breeze.

“Do you want a chair?”

This guy came to work yesterday still drunk and passed out on a bench. What’s the point in pretending? “Yes.”

Tripp grabs two of the red and white folding chairs from inside the lookout hut and brings them to the deck. There’s shade on the left side; he places one of the chairs there and motions for me to take it. He sets the second close—but not too close—and steps back into the hut. He returns with a red Yeti cooler, which he places between our chairs.

He pops it open, and inside I see a lot of ice, and maybe seven or eight bottles of beer.

“Are you serious?”

“Best cure for a hangover.”

Did he bring these for me? That doesn’t make any sense. He couldn’t have known I would be hung over. So he just brought these…for fun? Some early morning drinking on the job? The lifeguarding job.

“You want one?” He offers me a beer in a red Hot Beach coozie. And fuck it, I take it.

“Are you sure it’s okay?”

He twists his top off. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

* * *

I have, of course, heard that a drink is the best cure for a hangover, but before this morning, I’d never put it to the test. I’m happy to report that after almost two beers, I feel pretty good. I might even be a little bit drunk? Well, not drunk, but definitely, I feel good.

It makes the sun more bearable. So do Tripp’s shades, which I’m still wearing. Also, I think I’ve had a sunglasses breakthrough: I need to buy a pair of these! I don’t know how they’re shaped differently, but Tripp’s don’t hurt.

“You can keep them,” he offers.

“I can’t do that.” They probably cost more than a paycheck for me.

“They were one of my sponsors. I literally have a dozen pairs. I promise; it’s cool.”

I’m charmed. By his offer, and by his personality.

I don’t want to be charmed—I feel like a Longview loser—but charmed is what I am.

My take on him as being some privileged party-boy…okay, it wasn’t exactly wrong. But I was definitely wrong to think he was conceited. Or boring. He’s funny. And interesting. And probably the most cynical person I’ve ever met.

“I am not cynical,” he says. We’re still on the deck—still drinking. We’ve been at it for a couple of hours, but no one seems to have noticed. The beach isn’t crowded—it’s a Thursday—but I’m still surprised. “I’m realistic.”

“You don’t have any heroes.”

He shrugs.

“You aren’t impressed with anything.”

“No. I said I’m not impressed with any one.”

I scoff. “Just no one alive, then.”

“Or dead.”

I shake my head. “Cynical.”

“It’s not cynical to realize that, objectively, people are bums.”

“Maybe you’ve only known bums.”

Tripp shrugs. “Maybe.”

I wag my beer at him. There’s only a sip left. I swallow it, and Tripp has another ready for me.

“Barack Obama isn’t a bum.”

“Yeah, that’s true, but, I don’t know.” Tripp shrugs and takes a swig from his beer.

“Einstein?”

“Doesn’t do it for me.”

“Mother Teresa. She helped all those people.”

“To get a good seat in heaven.”

“That’s about the most cynical take on anything I’ve ever heard.”

“Realistic. She definitely wasn’t doing it for a spot in hell.”

“Hmmmm…then what about artists? Or writers? What about Leonardo da Vinci?”

“You mean the guy who designed a bunch of machines that don’t actually work?”

“Hemingway?”

“Good writer, but kind of an asshole, from what I understand.”

This guy is frustrating. “Do you like, I don’t know, movies?”

“Sure do.”

“But none of the people involved impress you much?”

He shrugs.

“So, no writers. No presidents—”

“Most of them are dead.”

I laugh. “So someone alive?”

“That’s a given.”

“Okay…Amal Clooney?”

Tripp snorts. “George Clooney’s wife?”

“George Clooney’s wife? I hope you’re joking. She’s a lawyer and human rights advocate; she’s done amazing work all over the world. And you’re going to reduce her to that?”

“Absolutely.”

I narrow my eyes—although the effect is lost behind these spectacular sunglasses. “So you’re not a cynic, you’re an asshole.”

Tripp laughs. “Yes. But I’m not being either right now.”

“I have to disrespectfully disagree.”

He smirks. I’m not trying to be funny, but Tripp seems to have a being-amused-by-me problem.

“I said she was George Clooney’s wife to make a point—I’m not going to be impressed with someone I didn’t know existed until they married an actor.”

“Maybe you didn’t know who she was—”

Tripp scoffs. “Please. Ninety-nine point nine percent of the world—”

“That’s not true.”

“So I guess you knew who she was before she got with George? Be honest.”

I open my mouth to tell him that I absolutely knew who Amal Clooney was, but that’s a lie.

Tripp grins. “Let’s play a game: you tell me what Amal Clooney’s maiden name is right now, and I’ll give you the rest of the day off.”

“It’s…” Fuck. What was it? “I object to the term ‘maiden name.’”

Tripp snickers. “So you can’t.”

I scowl. “It doesn’t mean she’s unimpressive just because I can’t remember her old last name.”

“It doesn’t. And impressive isn’t the right word. I’m not sure what is, but sure, someone like Einstein has an impressive body of work or whatever, compared to other people. Certainly compared to me. And his theories and contributions feel important to us, and we can’t imagine a world without him. But who’s to say that someone wouldn’t have come up with the same thing a hundred years after Einstein? We would have missed out on the joy of knowing that the speed at which objects travel is relative to other objects, or whatever, but eventually it would have been found out.”

“So we’re all replaceable?”

“Kind of.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s beyond cynical.”

Tripp rolls his eyes in an exaggerated way, and I laugh. “Yeah, I can do it too,” he says with another eye roll. “By and large everyone—myself included—is replaceable. Even the president—if something happens to him or her, the vice president is from the same party, will enact the same agenda…” He finishes with a shrug.

“So like I keep saying: cynical.”

“Nope. I’m real.”

I snicker. “All right, Jennifer Lopez.”

Tripp looks confused.

“You know, she had that song with…what was his name?”

Tripp shrugs.

“The rapper.”

“Oh ‘the rapper,’ of course.”

“You know the one. He was short…”

Tripp shakes his head. “I’ve probably heard a Jennifer Lopez song before, but I can’t name one.”

I almost make a joke about “kids today,” but I’m not looking to highlight our age difference.

Not that it matters.

I mean—I don’t know what I mean.

“Okay, well, in the song, she sings about how she’s real, and Ja Rule—that’s him! Ja Rule!”

Tripp snaps his fingers. “Ja Rule.”

“Right? So, yeah, J.Lo sings about how she’s real. And that was the joke, because you said you’re real.”

“It’s a great joke.” He smirks.

“Shut up.”

He grins. “I want to clarify something.”

“What?”

“I totally like people.”

“You do?”

Tripp nods enthusiastically. “They’re just the best.”

“Convincing.”

“And I respect people. You know, people who have overcome things, or made breakthroughs in science, that sort of thing. And I admire poets—”

“Poets?” I didn’t mean to sound so shocked.

“Should I be insulted that you’re so surprised?”

“I’m not surprised.” I wipe imaginary lint off my top, schooling my lips into a straight line.

“You had a cartoon-like reaction when I said poets.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You did a triple-take.”

“I did not.”

“Your jaw was on the deck.”

I narrow my eyes at him behind my borrowed shades. “What kind of poetry do you like?”

“The poetic kind.”

“Do you write poetry?”

He shakes his head emphatically. “I’m terrible.”

I wiggle my eyebrows. “That sounds like a yes.”

“I have attempted to write poetry. Several times. Each one ending in failure.”

He sounds so serious; I’m having a hard time not laughing. “Awww, I bet that’s not true. I bet you’re really good.”

“I’m not. Believe me. And I’ve tried. I’ve tried to be good. I’ve read books about how to write poetry. I’ve written actual poems—but they were shitty. Like, a high school freshman’s first poetry that they posted on Tumblr.”

I choke on my beer. “That’s—that’s hilarious.”

Tripp grins. “I think I’m as good WickerManSelfie, but not even in UnicornPriestess22’s league,” Tripp says, and we both laugh. “And it does bum me out, because I would very much like to be a poet, but I am terrible at it.”

“Is it really objective?”

“It is,” he says. “At least, when it’s as bad as the stuff I write.”

I giggle. And oh God, I’ve been giggling a lot, right? I must be drunk. “I bet if you practiced, you’d be the best surfer poet ever.”

“Even better than RadicalEdWORD27?”

I nod. “Even better than that guy.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Believe in yourself.”

Tripp shakes his head. “Believe what I’m telling you, Bobby.” I like the way he says my name. He always enunciates in a way that makes it sound tasty. “It’s not rhythm. I’ve got plenty of that. I’m not at all in touch with my emotions, so that could be a problem.”

“My professional opinion is yes, that’s a problem.”

“It could also be that some people just aren’t poets. Most people, actually.” Tripp sighs. “But me, personally, I think it’s because I’m shallow.”

I giggle. No—I laugh like a full-grown woman in control of her destiny. “Who are your favorite poets?”

Tripp groans. “No thanks.”

“Why not?”

“Because, it’s too revealing. I’ll have to come up with a list that is diverse in approach, gender, race, ethnicity, etc. It’s too much work.”

“You don’t have the worry about any of that,” I say, shaking my head. “This is a no judgment zone.”

“I’m still not going to do it.”

“Come on.”

He shrugs. “I’m not even sure. It depends on my mood. But it’s, you know, all the poets.”

“All the ones?”

“Yeah. You know. The dead ones, mainly.”

I laugh. “At least you’re consistent.”

He shrugs. “Consistency is my last name.”

“What’s your middle name?”

“Poor Impulse Control.”

I sigh. He’s funny. “Do you know what I like about you?”

“What?”

“Your names.”

He chuckles. “I get that a lot.”

“You know what else I like about you?”

“My childlike sense of wonder?”

“Yes. That’s exactly what I was going to say.”

He nods. “I thought so.”