[COMPLETE]
When Hanna Haddad embarks on what's supposed to be another uneventful summer as a lifeguard on Cape Cod, a trip to the past comes as an unnerving surprise. The discovery of her estranged mother's journal opens up the world of tragedy and...
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September 17, 1992
8:46 p.m.
Samantha officially thinks I'm an idiot.
She's always believed that she has some moral obligation to find me a boyfriend, since she found the love of her life at fourteen. She and Benjamin have been going steady since freshman year of high school, when he saved her from getting hit by a bus and she technically owed her life to him.
Everyone adored Sam and Ben in school, even the teachers, who always let them sit next to each other, even in assigned-seat classes. Unlike most "it" couples in high school who became prom king and queen, Samantha and Benjamin were voted "most likely to get married" in the superlatives section of our yearbook senior year.
That, they have yet to carry out, but I can't say I'll be surprised when it happens.
Despite how madly in love they are and how madly single I am, I've never been jealous. I've never even expressed to her my sadness over not having a guy in my life because the truth is I'm not sad. But for some reason, I never stop her habitual meddling into my love life. I let her point out cute guys to me in the dining hall or as we walk to class. Introduce me to Ben's frat brothers at parties. Give me pointers on how not to embarrass myself in front of the rare guy I have a crush on.
But after informing her in one of our signature long-winded chats before bed about seat-stealing asshole, she's convinced that he's the one. I'm not sure what part of my less-than-stellar description of him led her to that conclusion, but I've learned over the years to not question her logic (or lack thereof).
Tuesday, he tried to talk to me again, this time sitting one row behind me (which actually meant he was just stealing another person's seat, but you know). He tapped my shoulder and stared into my eyes for a solid three seconds before politely asking for a pencil. I handed him the worn-down yellow one I kept at the bottom of my backpack for these purposes. He said a quiet thank you, and his fingers lightly brushed mine as he took it from my hand. I tried so hard to focus on Kozlov's heavy Russian accent instead of the strange feeling that coursed through my body.
This morning he handed me back the pencil before class started, despite having broken off the eraser and chipped the wood in the middle. I eyed it with a hint of disgust and told him he could keep it. He shoved it back into his pocket but didn't walk back to where his friend was sitting on the ground, slumped over a sci-fi novel.
Instead, he leaned against the wall next to me, sending a waft of cologne my way. I started doing the shit I do when I'm too close to guys: obsessively tucking my hair behind my ear, chewing the inside of my cheek, refusing to make any eye contact.
And I wasn't even into this guy, at least not yet—
"Hanna, you leaving yet?" I tore my eyes away from the journal in my hands and found Jesse standing on the sand at the bottom of the chair. Our shift had ended ten minutes ago, and I'd figured I'd get through a couple entries before heading home.
