Dylan whips around when I scream, the shock on my face reflected in his.
"What are you doing here, Frost?" I demand, crossing my arms over my chest.
"Um, I, uh," he says very eloquently.
He turns his face away from me, and that's when I notice the tear stains running down his cheeks.
Crap on a cracker.
Was he crying?
Why does Dylan Frost have to be crying on a Friday night in my lighthouse? There are, quite literally, a million other places where he could be doing this instead.
The sensitive thing to do would be to comfort him, or ask him if he was okay. Of course, I do neither of those things.
"Are you crying?" I ask, reaching up to poke his shoulder.
"No, I'm not!" he shouts, his weirdly deep voice cracking.
"Look," I say to him. "This is my lighthouse."
Dylan stares at me with furrowed eyebrows and reddened cheeks. He looks as though my arrival is the cherry on the shit cake that was his day.
"I was here first," he says.
"Semantics!" I scowl. "I come here all the time. So what if you got here first?"
I'm not proud to say that Dylan and I squabble like children for the next few minutes. I will spare you the details. It involves a lot of words, rude gestures (sorry, not sorry) and furious glares.
"You can't force me to leave," Dylan says in exasperation.
"I'm not forcing you!" I exclaim. "I'm just threatening you a little."
"You--"
He stops short when a clap of thunder rumbles across the sky. A few seconds later, rain pours like blood out of a gunshot wound.
"Well, shit," I grumble as we take cover.
The shade above the gallery deck is like the miniskirts that Gracie Fitch loves to wear: too short and entirely fails to serve its purpose.
A gorgeous bully, a rich mean girl, Gracie Fitch is the typical queen-bee of my high school. I refer to her as Greasy Bitch. But only secretly because she is kind enough to leave me alone.
Anyway, it rains almost all year in my small town. I never bring an umbrella to the lighthouse because I love getting soaked in the rain. But with Dylan Frost standing right beside me, I can't enjoy anything. I can't listen to the sound of the raindrops falling into the sea. I can't focus on the smell of rain and salt mixing in the air.
Instead, all I can think about is my ratty white t-shirt. Being a woman of class, I allow the boy the view only after three dates. But my principles fly straight off the lighthouse and nose-dive into the ocean as the rain turns my t-shirt completely see-through.
I look up when Dylan clears his throat.
"It doesn't matter who came here first," he says, running his fingers through his wet hair. "We'll just leave after the rain stops."
"Fine," I mutter, turning away from him. "Sounds like a plan."
We stare in opposite directions, shivering as the cold clings to our damp skin. Dylan taps his foot against the cement floor in a nervous rhythm that makes me want to rip my hair out.
See, I told you. Change sucks.