The Summer of Everything Read online

  “What? No,” Ella says incredulously.

  Wes inhales deeply. His forearm hairs stand tall, but he’s prepared. He can handle this.

  “They closed Book Attic,” Ella eventually says.

  “Book Attic?”

  “Yes. The bookstore on Fourth Street.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Wes says nonchalantly.

  Book Attic has been around almost as along as Once Upon a Page. Their staff was very competitive. Wes believes the store had decent foot traffic, though not as great as his bookstore, which is located near the pier. People constantly stop in at Once Upon a Page for a good beach read.

  “What’s the big deal?”

  “Book Attic is closed,” she repeats. “They shut down that Barnes and Noble near Third Street Promenade months ago.”

  “I thought they relocated?”

  “To where? Mars?” Ella’s boot taps loudly on the hardwood floor. “Are you picking up the clues, Sherlock?”

  Wes pffts at her. “That those stores had poor customer service and lowkey bad realty selections?”

  “Maybe…”

  “Not going there, Ella.” Wes’s neck is tight, but he still manages to shake his head. “Once Upon a Page is an institution. Nothing bad’s happening here. Those two bookstores closing, out of the ten around us plus the twenty in downtown L.A., are just wild coincidences.”

  “Hella wild coincidences, don’t you think?”

  “No, I don’t think,” Wes says with a lightheartedness he hopes she accepts.

  The corners of her mouth quirk. “Not very well, at least.”

  “That’s what my SAT scores say.”

  Ella doesn’t mention anything else about the bookstore. She tugs her phone out of her jacket. She has a My Chemical Romance phone case. Wes is aggressively disappointed by her choices. “I better go before this guy thinks he’s unworthy of my time,” she says.

  “If he can’t lift Mjölnir, then he’s unworthy of your glory.”

  “That’s some kind of nerd, DC joke, right?”

  Correction: Wes is aggressively disappointed by Ella’s comic book knowledge.

  “Whatever.” Ella waves. “Don’t wait up for me!”

  “Do I ever?”

  “Good boy.”

  “Use protection!” he shouts, but the door’s already slamming shut. Fine. Wes isn’t Ella’s guardian anyway.

  Wes spends ten minutes on his phone, updating his social media accounts with photos and videos from Italy. He scrolls through a few hilarious Reddit posts and watches random YouTube videos of talking cats and epic fails. But he can’t escape how quiet the loft is.

  Why can’t Wes be more like Ella when it comes to life and dating and, well, sex? Ella’s ridiculously confident about that topic. She’s all, “No biggie. Sex is just sex. It’s not a defining moment in your life.”

  It’s not that Wes is ashamed of his inexperience. He’s always had this idea in his head: Wes wants his first time to be with someone he can imagine being with for more than a month or a week or that moment. He wants his first to be someone he can share his comics with, someone who’s cool with his geekiness, someone who won’t pressure him because, honestly, Wes isn’t sure he’s ready for sex. But when he is, he wants that person to be cool if he’s nervous or if he can’t figure all of it out.

  High school was this epic buildup to a deadline. By the time he turned eighteen, Wes was supposed to know what college he was going to, see what his future would look like, and no longer be a virgin. And here he is, unable to figure out any of those things or even what to do on a Sunday night in the heart of summer, which, of course, is why someone knocks at the door.

  Wes groans, rolling off his bed. Ella’s undoubtedly forgot her keys or wallet or phone charger.

  The knocking grows louder.

  “Seriously, I’m not in the mood if you’re about to tell me this Long Beach dude is bringing friends and you need a wingman,” he shouts as he pads over the hardwood floor toward the door. “Ella, I’m not that guy. I have zero game.”

  When he pulls open the door, it’s not Ella awaiting him.

  It’s Nico.

  Chapter Three

  “Did you say you have zero game?”

  Nico leans in the loft’s doorway. His dark hair is a swoopy, tall mess. It always draws attention from the way his ears stick out. His crooked smile is magnified by the laugh lines around his mouth. It’s impossible for Wes to look anywhere else.

  “You’re wearing your glasses.”

  Okay, Wes is aware his comeback is weak, but it’s just that…

  Thirty days and an entire Atlantic Ocean separating them has made Wes’s cottonmouth, racing-heart issues more pronounced. All the Instagram posts with the worst filters, and TikTok videos of Nico doing the most random things because he’s that person, and poorly coordinated FaceTime calls can’t compare to seeing him in person, in his doorway, standing two feet from Wes and wearing black-rimmed glasses.

  Wes wishes he could come up with a better way than dark brown to describe Nico’s eyes. His mom’s a bestselling author, for fuck’s sake. His grasp on adjectives shouldn’t be this tragically limited.

  “Yeah,” Nico says, adjusting his glasses. A faint red hue blossoms on his cheeks. “Didn’t feel like being bothered with my contacts.”

  Nico’s passionately against wearing his contacts if he doesn’t have to. “You shouldn’t just go poking your eyes for the hell of it,” he grumbled the day before their freshman year of high school started.

  “Plus, I needed them to read the takeout menu.” Nico holds up a big brown paper bag that Wes hadn’t noticed before. A quick inhale coaxes a lazy smile across Wes’s lips.

  Chef Zhang’s Kitchen, Wes’s favorite Chinese cuisine restaurant on Wilshire.

  “Unless,” says Nico teasingly, shaking the bag in front of his face, “you’re not hungry, Wesley.”

  Wes’s stomach grouses like a cranky bear. Nico knows Wes loves that place, the asshole. As if he’d ever turn down beef and broccoli and quality time with his best friend. Wes wonders how anyone in this galaxy could survive without Chinese takeout and Nico Alvarez.

  “Get in here,” he finally says, almost reaching for Nico’s shirt to drag him inside.

  Nico strides in, automatically stepping out of his Adidas. He walks to the sofa as if he owns the place. He spent most of middle and high school occupying the same corner of the sofa or Wes’s bed. They fought alien invasions on Wes’s game system and did homework while sharing chicken tacos. They were two inseparable friends arguing over what movie to watch on Friday nights, which makes the fact that Wes is currently admiring Nico’s ass as he unpacks the food inescapably awkward.

  The first time Wes noticed Nico in a non-platonic way was a complete accident. Algebra worksheets were destroying Wes’s life, the PSATs were looming, and his parents were hovering a lot, providing him with inadequate “private hand therapy” time. And there Nico was, in mid-November, playing a pickup game of beach volleyball with some rando teens they’d met an hour before on the pier. Nico, fresh out of the awkwardness of puberty and shirtless, was like zero hour of the apocalypse for Wes. His mind kept saying, He’s not hot, he’s not hot, but the rest of his body didn’t comprehend.

  It was a day of epiphanies—Wes was really into guys—and utter catastrophe—Wes was really into his best friend.

  Nico props his feet on the coffee table, right next to Savannah’s stack of research books on cryptids and mythological creatures. “Drinks?”

  Wes chokes out, “Sure.”

  But he lingers. His eyes scan Nico: He’s wearing a worn-soft, faded, reddish-maroon T-shirt and skinny jeans frayed at the knees. Nothing special. Nico’s nothing special, Wes tells himself. Just a friend. What’s there to crush on?

  “Wesley?”

  “Drin
ks!” Wes shouts, startling himself. Nico raises an eyebrow and, yep, that’s Wes’s cue to exit.

  In the kitchen, Wes pulls out his phone. He considers texting Ella. Maybe she’d have some sage advice on how to reclaim his chill. Or she’d scream at him in all caps to GET IT TOGETHER WES, IT’S JUST NICO. Instead, he clicks on his notes app. He reviews his list. Most of the Top Five are interchangeable, depending on his mood—sorry, Ella—but one spot will never shift.

  Number One—Nico

  Nicolás Andrés Sebastián Alvarez. As in NASA. As in, Nico’s out of this world.

  The problem with Best Friend Crushes—besides the fact that one shouldn’t pine after friends, period—is that I’m too chickenshit to even mention the topic of dating with Nico. Us dating, to be clear. My biggest fear is it might jeopardize the gold-standard friendship we established way back in our juice-box-drinking days. Hell no. I can’t ruin that.

  I don’t even know what it is about Nico. I mean, I do. It’s the way he’s geeky but in that too-cool-to-be-a-nerd way. It’s the glasses. The laugh. The ass. Did I just type that? But he’s also a genuine friend. He looks out for me. He doesn’t care if I’m extremely into comics or get super nauseated at the scent of seafood. That I’m gay. We haven’t had The Talk about Nico’s own sexuality, but I’m fifty-fifty he’s this wicked-adorkable bi legend.

  He’s like the accidentally charming sidekick in a Netflix movie that you’re not supposed to fall in love with, but you do. You fall hard.

  So, yeah, I’m that guy. You know, the kind that draws hearts around our names in Sharpie on my Five-Star notebook.

  THIS IS JUST A CRUSH, OKAY?

  Wes quickly locks his phone.

  “I’m cool,” he whispers. “I’m hella cool.”

  He raids the refrigerator. It’s obvious Leo has stocked it recently: grapes, sliced carrots, water bottles, deli meats and cheeses, and microwaveable meals. Thankfully, he bought Coke, which Wes grabs for himself, and Nico’s favorite, orange soda. While Wes is certain Leo’s a certifiable dick three-hundred days a year, he finds it lowkey sweet that Leo thinks enough of Nico to buy a whole six-pack of glass-bottled orange sodas. Personally, Wes believes orange soda tastes like Tang-flavored piss.

  It’s telling that Wes would sacrifice prime refrigerator shelf space for Nico’s favorite drink.

  He’s been whipped for a long, long time.

  Nico is hip-to-hip, shoulder-to-shoulder with Wes as they eat. He’s built like Wes—lean but toned. It helps that Nico’s always been active—skateboarding and beach stuff—while Wes can thank Calvin for his gene-lottery win.

  “Oh. For you.” Nico passes him a cup of teriyaki sauce, because Wes lives and dies for that stuff.

  Cheeks flushed, Wes mumbles, “Thanks.”

  Nico’s crooked grin reveals an overbite and the fact that his canines are slightly above average in length. Growing up, Nico was always self-conscious about that. He never flashed one of those toothy smiles in photos. A few of the jerk-faces they went to school with called him a vampire in the halls.

  But when it’s just Wes and Nico, he doesn’t hide his teeth. Wes likes that.

  “How’d you know I was home?” he asks between bites.

  “Your mom,” Nico replies with a shrug. “Also, don’t pretend like I didn’t stalk your flight path on Delta’s app.”

  “You did?”

  “Duh.” Nico dusts his hands off on his jeans. He yanks out his phone, showing Wes his itinerary on the app. “I could’ve picked you up.”

  “You got no wheels,” Wes teases, using an unopened pack of chopsticks to poke Nico in the ribs. They never got the hang of using chopsticks. Plus, Wes is a messy eater with basic tools like forks and spoons.

  “I got wheels,” Nico argues with a puckered mouth. “My skateboards.”

  “Yeah, no.”

  “Whatever.” Nico resumes thumbing through his phone. “Check out this sick sunset.” He holds up the screen for Wes to view. He swipes through a few shots on his camera roll. Crisp images of the sun skidding behind the horizon. Everything is unfiltered. Nature at its greatest. By the angles, Wes presumes Nico took the photos from his bedroom window.

  “Put a few up on my Pinterest.”

  “Nice,” Wes says with a mouthful of beef and rice. “I like that one.” He points to the last shot: a smear of tangerine representing the sun. Palm tree silhouettes layer the bottom of the photo. It’s this unbelievable composition that Wes can’t look away from.

  “Me too,” Nico says softly.

  “I’ve missed—” Wes pauses before “you” leaves his mouth. It wouldn’t be weird if he said it, but it feels awkward on his tongue, as if he’d be saying it with a little too much emphasis.

  You don’t confess your lifelong crush on a friend with beef and broccoli bits on your shirt.

  “The sunsets,” Wes finally says after a gulp of Coke.

  “Whatever. This place has nothing on Italy.”

  Well, it doesn’t have you. Does Wes’s mind have a reset button?

  “True that. Santa Monica sucks balls compared to Siena.”

  Nico rolls his eyes, bumping their shoulders. “Keep telling yourself that, Wesley.”

  They laugh at each other. Wes knows nothing beats Santa Monica. And nothing’s as great as their friendship, which is why Wes isn’t going to say a damn thing tonight about how kissable Nico’s mouth looks.

  Nico slouches on the sofa, leaning into Wes. “Dude, today was brutal. A bunch of ravenous girls almost tore Anna’s face off when she confused Twilight and Vampire Academy.”

  “So, by brutal, you mean hilarious?”

  “Exactly.” Nico fills Wes in on what he’s missed. It’s not much, but Nico talks as if he’s breaking down the plot to every Marvel film ever made. Wes finds himself smiling at how normal this is. At how normal they are.

  “Oh, man,” Nico says between laughs, “and Cooper…”

  Cooper’s the new guy. Wes hasn’t met him yet. He’s also not sure if he’s flattered Mrs. Rossi had to hire two employees to replace him while he was away or if he’s been undervalued this whole time. He knows it’s for the sanity of the bookstore, but maybe he’ll suggest an increase in his hourly rate next time they’re alone.

  Wes kicks his feet up on the coffee table next to Nico’s, nearly knocking over Savannah’s books. At six-foot-one, Wes has a good four inches on Nico, something Nico’s not fond of. But, thanks to fanfiction, Wes is absolutely obsessed with the height difference and the idea of leaning down to kiss Nico.

  “…and he’s cute, leaning toward hot—”

  Wes snaps out of his daze. “Say what now?”

  “I said he’s kind of—”

  “Yeah. Got that,” Wes says, cutting Nico off. He hopes the stiffness in his voice isn’t noticeable. The fact that Nico finds someone else attractive flusters him. But why? Of course Nico can check out another dude who isn’t Wes.

  Wes hasn’t made any romcom-style declarations of his infatuation. Yet.

  “So, is he, um, hotter than…” Wes is ashamed at how his voice trails off.

  “Hotter than you?”

  Wes’s face scrunches. Slowly, he nods.

  “Hold up. Do you think you’re hot, Wesley?”

  “I think.” Wes pauses, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. “I think I’m acceptably attractive on a scale of one to that guy who’s in all the teen Netflix movies.” He’s proud of that response. “I also think this city’s—this state’s—full of good-looking guys.” A factual statement.

  Nico stretches his arms above his head, then casually drops one around Wes’s broader shoulders. “Well, then he’s just any guy from the city, right?”

  It’s not the response Wes was hoping for.

  They fall into an easy silence. The loft’s windows are open. Downstairs, someone’s
car blares Tom Petty’s “Free Fallin’,” and Nico hums along. Wes does too. Another example of why Santa Monica’s magic. They trade food cartons. Nico chugs soda while Wes picks at sesame chicken.

  “This is good,” he whispers.

  “Always.”

  Heat radiates where their hips touch. The heady scent of ocean air sinks into the loft. Under that layer of iodine and salt, Wes can smell sweat and teriyaki sauce and Nico’s deodorant.

  It’s a comfort. What is not a comfort for Wes is when he peeks down at Nico’s rising chest and sees the emblem in the corner of his T-shirt. A white block S with a redwood tree in the middle.

  Stanford.

  While Wes has spent his life with UCLA as his endgame, Nico had another plan after sophomore year of high school. In September, he’ll be attending Stanford. He wants to study premed. Nothing against UCLA and its rep, but they both know Stanford University School of Medicine is one of the premiere schools in California. Wes hoped Nico would at least complete his undergrad with him. But he knows why Nico’s doing this. It’s also more motivation to make this the Summer of Wes and Nico.

  After they finish eating, Nico cleans up the trash. Wes acquires more drinks. He’s deliberately not thinking about how cozily domestic this is. Who spends Sunday nights with their crush, crashed on the sofa, knees touching, tucked into each other’s sides? Their faces are so close, Wes could lean forward and—

  Do nothing.

  Wes deserves an Academy Award for Best Actor in a Dramatic Friend-Zone Role.

  “So, Wesley.” Nico has a controller in one hand; the other fumbles with the remote. “Kill aliens or go Donkey Kong on your lame Yoshi ass.”

  Wes yawns, shrugging. “Whatever.”

  “I’ll play, you watch?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Hey.” Nico unsettles Wes’s very comfortable resting place against him to reach for something on the coffee table. “You forgot your fortune cookie.”

  Reluctantly, Wes holds an open palm for Nico to drop the cookie into. Wes can’t lie—the fortune cookie is his favorite part of Chinese takeout. He cracks open the cookie and pulls out the slip of paper. He frowns at the message: