Never Vacation with Your Ex(7)
Author: Emily Wibberley

 

His brow furrows, his expression shadowing with suspicion. “What about it?” he asks. “Don’t tell me the not-yet-but-probably-soon boyfriend is coming.”

 

“Ew, of course not,” I reply instantly.

 

When Dean brightens, I chastise myself for giving him something to hold on to. Just, of course I wasn’t going to bring my rebound on vacation. In fact, it’s gone unspoken in the decades of our families’ vacation history—no one else comes to Malibu. Not when Dean became inseparable from Trent Paul in seventh grade, bonded over some online video game. Not when I spent freshman summer dating this guy who went on to star in the Back to the Future reboot TV series. No one else comes. Malibu is ours.

 

But just because you don’t go on vacation with your new rebound doesn’t mean you should with your ex.

 

“I tried to back out of the trip altogether,” I explain. “But my parents wouldn’t let me. Or, they would let me, but only if I stay with Aunt Caroline.”

 

Dean grimaces. “Definitely not an option,” he agrees.

 

“Right. You get it.” I keep going, hurrying my words. “I wish I could have stayed home. I’m sure this trip will be . . . rough for you. I don’t know what you’re thinking, but . . .” I say it leadingly, hoping he’ll pick up the rest of the sentence.

 

His stare is blank until the moment what I’m suggesting registers with him. I see it happen, the slight widening of his eyes.

 

“You want me to stay home?” he clarifies.

 

I feel waves pummeling the sides of my desperate hope. “Want isn’t exactly the word I’d use. But, Dean,” I say, leveling with him. “Do you really want to spend three weeks living with me?”

 

He laughs, the sound humorless, like stone scraping on stone. “I want to spend three weeks in California.”

 

“Be serious, though,” I insist. “Really consider it.” Honestly, has he not? I look into his eyes, searching for reflections of the things I’ve imagined. The stomach-churning quiet of family dinners, the way each other’s presence is certain to make the sand feel gritty and the sunshine sticky. How could he want to come?

 

Instead, Dean crosses his arms, looking . . . victorious. “Did you think I’d just volunteer to stay home? While my whole family takes a vacation without me? Just because you’ll be there?”

 

I do not like the dark delight in his questions. “It’s not as unreasonable as you’re making it sound,” I reply defensively.

 

Once more, he huffs a hollow laugh. “No, it is. You really have no idea how spoiled you’re being. Look, I can’t force you to love me again. I can’t force you to explain why you stopped. But you can’t force me to give up my summer vacation. I’m not thrilled with the circumstances either, but it’s the way it is.”

 

I’m proud of my capacity for patience. I’ve practiced it, honed it. Right now, however, my patience has just run out. I put a hand on my hip, not caring how childishly indignant I look. Fuck looking perfect when Dean is driving his foot into our summer.

 

“Fine,” I say. “Well, I hope you do find a way to move on before the trip. Because I have.”

 

Dean winces, and I wilt. My rebelliousness flies out of me instantly. I regret how mean that was. It’s just, I’m not looking forward to my vacation becoming a sun-soaked living reminder of how I couldn’t make it work with someone as great as Dean.

 

“Sorry, that was harsh,” I say.

 

He rolls his eyes, but there’s no anger in it. “Don’t bother. I hope I move on, too.”

 

I smile weakly. “Right. Well, am I at least making you mad?”

 

Dean considers. “A little,” he concedes, sounding encouraged. “Maybe you could storm off?”

 

“Oh, good thinking. I’ll do that,” I reply, swallowing my smile with pursed lips. Spinning around, I take several decisive, angry steps away.

 

I hear Dean’s voice over my shoulder. “So should I include you in our surfing lesson reservation?”

 

It’s a pointed question and not Dean’s first playful reminder of my memorable face-plant. I kind of don’t mind the pleased flush it brings to my cheeks. I keep walking, smiling where he can’t see.

 

 

 

 

 

Five

 

 

I LOVE DRIVING. I got my license as soon as I could, sick of my volleyball-famous mother dropping me off at my clinics and practices. I’m proud of my mom, but having her at every first introduction instantly set the bar imposingly high.

 

After class, I drive to the café near Jeremy’s school where I said I’d pick him up. Dean’s refusal to refigure the vacation situation stuck with me for the rest of the school day, leaving me hopelessly distracted, including embarrassingly spacing out in Spanish when Ms. Huerta called on me.

 

However, I remind myself I’m doing exactly what I need to. I’m getting over the breakup. I’m rebounding. I’m following my methodology. Hitting my marks. Doing what I’ve practiced. It’s how I become the person I need to be.

 

If dating Jeremy doesn’t work, I’ll move on to one of my other heartbreak survival guide routines, like hobbies, maybe. In the wake of my freshman-year split with Isaiah Hunter, who’s now varsity quarterback, I watched like thirty seasons of Survivor in three weeks. I even filmed my own audition video.

 

I’ll be okay, I reassure myself. I’ll get over this. Unwinding for the few minutes I spend passing by the old-time storefronts on Newport’s picturesque streets, I lower the window for the wind to play with my hair, which is back to its highlighted, sunny look.

 

When I pull up in front of the cute facade of Daylight Coffee, where I’ve accompanied Brianna in her pursuit of elegantly decorated lattes, Jeremy’s waiting for me. I smile. This boy is rebound energy personified. Tall, limber, with long guitarist’s fingers, brown waves of hair, one or two perfect freckles on sandy skin. He stands up from the wire-frame table—holding, I notice, two coffees. One for me.

 

The gesture is sweet. But the coffee will need to be, too, if I’m going to get the drink down.

 

Opening my passenger door, he gracefully folds his legs into the seat, which doesn’t require much effort because my usual passenger is the six-foot Bri. Holding the coffees, he leans over the console to give me a kiss that’s longer than a peck, if not a full-on make-out. We haven’t graduated to pecking yet, the casual comfort of kissing hello.