Candy Hearts | Watty's 2015

| 14 | Tuesday, July 17

|  1 4  | Tuesday, July 17 

According to Jeremy, every year his parents throw a small barbecue dinner at a beach house they have at the coast. It’s mostly just family friends, and the kids are free to invite any of their friends they want. Jeremy inviting Arizona, though, hadn’t been much of a choice, because Mrs. Miller had called the girl up, herself, and demanded that she be there.

            This barbecue ends up taking place one warm Tuesday night. Jeremy had told Arizona that she could invite whoever she wanted, and she ends up bringing Romy and Crosley—the latter roped into this with threats to set Gem up with a hot boy Romy knows, because he is the one with the car. The drive to the beach is a long one, filled with multiple (now crushed) cans of sodas (and lemonade for Romy), and lazy conversations, and yes, maybe a few Hot or Not rounds and karaoke sessions.

            The second the three step out of Crosley’s car, the boy whacks his face, muttering obscenities. “Fuckin’ fireflies, who ever said they were pretty was high as a kite.” There aren’t many fireflies in Oregon, but there are tonight. They flicker like tiny, moving stars in the trees, and the skies are pink, slowly sinking to obscurity behind the rocks Arizona can see waves crashing against in the distance. The air smells of grass and summer night, and Arizona can hear the crickets, as early into the night as it might be.

            “What if the kite isn’t flying?” asks Romy mindlessly, fixing her pixie cut in her distorted reflection in the side of the car.

            Crosley tugs a sweatshirt from the trunk and over his head, walking towards the path leading to the beach, whacking Romy’s head in the process. Folding her towel to her chest, Arizona follows Crosley with Romy in tow. Her bag slaps against her, outline of a thick book imprinting onto Arizona’s bare leg in pink lines. The sound of voices steadily gets louder as they near the sand, along with the rush of water to the shore.

            Romy accidentally steps on a sharp rock and yells out, gripping Arizona’s arm tightly as she limps to the side of the path, where she grabs her foot, staring at it in horror. “Calm the fuck down,” mutters Crosley, rolling his eyes, “you’re such a gi—” Romy pinches his ear  and twists, and he screams a very high-pitched scream.

            “You were saying?” she glares, letting her foot sink back into its sandal, and starting towards the beach again.

            “Fuck off.”

            Reaching the edge of the path, where stairs start and sand meets concrete, Arizona flips her flip-flops off, holding the straps around two fingers. The sand is warm and giving under her feet, spreading between her toes. “Man, I love the the beach,” says Romy, grinning a giant grin, and smacking her on the head for the second time that day, Crosley makes his way down the stairs, muttering about how Romy is “lame as fuck.”

            The sky is navy blue, now, and people are silhouettes.  Everyone is to the left of the beach, and Arizona spots a pit in which someone is now starting a bonfire. The coals on a barbecue grill burn golden against the dark, and she sees Mrs. Miller, breathing out gladly. Pasting on a bright smile, Arizona bounds up to the woman, who is laughing loudly at something her friend had just said.

            “Hey,  Laney,” Arizona greets the woman, who turns to see the girl, and gathers her up to her chest immediately. Her raven hair is twisted up in a chignon-type thing, and she wears a thin shawl over a pretty, floral sundress. Her deep-set eyes, much identical to not only Jacob’s, but also the ocean, crinkle around the edges when she smiles.