Page 8 of Small Town Swoo
When my folks were gone, I went into the bathroom to wash the chalk off my hands. In the mirror, I studied the woman wearing the pink diner uniform and remembered when she’d worn a white chef’s coat. How she’d bleached it relentlessly to keep it pristine. How she’d eventually shoved it in a dumpster the day she left New York, along with her crushed spirit, broken heart, and failed dreams.
After drying my hands, I checked to make sure that the ladies’ room was stocked with toilet paper, soap, and paper towels. Then I knocked on the men’s room door and checked that restroom as well. On my way back toward the counter, I made sure each table and booth had syrup, ketchup, mustard, relish, salt, pepper, and napkins in the dispenser. When I was finished, I glanced up at the framed photos on the wall—they were a mix of vintage black-and-white snapshots of famous people standing next to my grinning grandparents, who’d opened Moe’s Diner back in the fifties, and autographed headshots of celebrities who’d eaten here in the following decades.
One headshot in particular caught my eye. It always did.
Dashiel Buckley, star ofMalibu Splash.
Despite my melancholy mood just moments ago, I chuckled with satisfaction at the mustache, horns, and pointy little beard I’d drawn with a Sharpie on the glass over his handsome mug.
Served him right—no oneshould be that good-looking.
The photo was black and white, so you couldn’t even appreciate the indigo blue of his eyes or the golden hue of his skin. Plus, it was just a headshot, so there was no way to admire his broad shoulders, his bronzed chest, his rippling abs. It was all on full display in every episode ofMalibu Splash—and I’d secretly watched every season multiple times.
But I’d never admit to that. I was still mad at him for rejecting me the night I’d finally decided I’d crushed on him long enough, andtonight was the night.
The night I’d get him alone. The night I’d offer him my virginity and insist that he take it. The night he’d finally realize he was crazy about me too, and it didn’t matter that he was moving to L.A. to be an actor and I was just a teenage diner waitress...what mattered wasour everlasting love.
Of course, that’s not how it went down.
I mean, parts one and two happened almost exactly as I imagined them. It was a Saturday night. I was sleeping over at the Buckleys’ house, which I did all the time. I waited until the house was dark and silent. Until Mabel was asleep. Until I heard Dash come in from his job as a barback at the Pier Inn. Until the time on my phone screen said 2:22 a.m., which I thought would be lucky.
With a pounding heart, I carefully slipped out of Mabel’s bedroom and tiptoed down the hall. Opened Dash’s bedroom door—it didn’t even creak—closed it behind me, and timidly approached his sleeping form on the bottom bunk. (The top one, which had been Devlin’s growing up, was empty.)
“Dash,” I whispered.
He didn’t wake up right away. As my eyes adjusted tothe dark, I saw that he was sleeping shirtless, and the covers were only at his waist. The sight of his bare chest thrilled me—in a few moments, I would feel it pressed against mine.
“Dash.” I sat on the edge of his bed and placed a tentative hand on his bicep. His skin was smooth and warm.
“Huh?” His eyes opened, and he blinked a couple times. “Ari?”
“Yes.” Summoning every ounce of courage I had, I leaned over and pressed my mouth to his.
At first, he kissed me back—I would swear on my life he did. Fueled by his open lips and the yearning of my lovesick heart, I pulled back the covers and slipped in beside him. Gingerly, I placed my hand on his hot, hard stomach and slid it down inside the elastic band of his?—
“Jesus!” He scrambled backward, but since it was a twin bed, he didn’t get very far before he tumbled off the other side. Popping to his feet, he grabbed a pillow and held it in front of his crotch. He spoke in a furious whisper. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I wanted to be alone with you.”
“Why?”
I took a deep breath. This was my big line. “I want to give you something.”
He paused. “What?”
“Me.” Getting to my knees, I lifted the T-shirt I’d worn to bed over my head. My heart knocked crazily against my ribs—I’d never taken my shirt off in front of any boy. “I want you to be my first.”
“Oh my God. This is not happening.” Without looking at me, he reached for my shirt and tossed it onto the bed. “You need to put this back on and get out of here.”
“But don’t you want to?—”
“No! Ari, listen to me.” He turned away from me and spoke to the opposite wall, like he didn’t want to see my breasts. Like I was a hideous monster he couldn’t bear to look at. “I don’t—want you that way.”
“But you kissed me back.”
“That was a mistake. I was...confused,” he finished. “You’re like a little sister to me.”
Mortified, I tugged the shirt over my head.
