She poked out her lip. “I live here. But you don’t.” With that, she turned around and went back inside, the rickety screen door slapping shut in her wake.
Shaking my head, I kept walking up the block toward Deacon McCoy’s old place. I couldn’t even make pint-sized women happy. My record was impressive.
Deacon’s house was similar to Nick’s. Nondescript. Forgettable. Just as Chloe’s was.
I decided to see if Snake—the murderous one—had lived here as well, but he’d been a few streets over. Since I had time, I ambled that way. It was all the same. Slight variances in house paint colors or in the toys strewn on the lawns, but more alike than different. Kids were running and screaming joyfully, their play the same no matter the zip code.
As a couple of them whizzed past me on their bicycles, I tucked my hands in my pockets and smiled. I was jealous of those kids. Oh, to be so innocent again.
If I’d ever been so.
I rued my lack of sunglasses as I made my way back to the bus stop. The blinding sun should’ve made me remember to buy some, but I was forever losing them and didn’t have as much of a need for them in London as I would here.
While I was waiting for the next bus—and trying not to hit the pavement from certain retinal damage—I scrolled Instagram. I didn’t even go to Zoe’s right away, but the program already knew what I wanted to see.
She was on Venice Beach. Right now. Or maybe not, since my stomach sank as I realized the picture she’d posted was labeled “Sunday sunrise.”
A little late there, boyo.
Story of my life.
Maybe she’d just recently posted it, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t still there. Lots of people went to the beach for the day. If you enjoyed this kind of blasting sun, this was probably a picture-perfect day. My fair London skin didn’t appreciate it, nor did my unshielded eyes, but I was a stranger in a strange land.
When the bus finally arrived, I climbed on and took a seat, then I slanted my hand over my eyes and studied the maps app on my phone. I could get off in a few stops and find my way to the beach without much trouble. Hopefully, I’d be able to buy a pair of sunglasses and maybe something to fill the pit inside me on the way.
But finding Zoe was the priority. Too bad I didn’t have her camera, both so I could taunt her with it and so I could try it out. I wasn’t one for memory-keeping, but it probably would’ve been nice to take a couple of old-school pictures on the beach.
Ah, blimey, I wasn’t just some tourist. And I didn’t know how to load film into that old camera anyway. I’d have to figure out how.
Or I could just keep using the camera on my phone and leave the kitschy things to those who enjoyed them.
At my stop, I got off and yet again shielded my eyes with the side of my hand. I wasn’t far from the boardwalk and the skate park beyond it. Boardwalk meant food. Food meant it was time to pick up my pace.
Along the way, I snapped a few shots with my phone. Probably because I’d spent so much time scrolling through Zoe’s Instagram. She had such an eye for this stuff that I was tempted to test my own.
By the time I neared a soft pretzel vendor on the boardwalk, I’d come to an irrefutable conclusion—my artistic eye was shit.
Countless faces surrounded me. Zoe managed to turn those faces into interesting character studies. Me? I’d been fascinated by a rollerblader and I’d blurred half the photos.
Good thing I could sing, because I wouldn’t be switching careers anytime soon.
The sun was beating down on my back so I tugged off my T-shirt and tucked it in the back pocket of my pants. I wasn’t nearly as golden-hued as most of these sunsoaked types—my own brother included—but I’d rather try for a tan the natural way than endure that sprayed-on stuff that Sabrina probably carried in her purse for emergencies.
The talent couldn’t ever look pasty. God forbid.
A cute girl whistled as she jogged past with a poodle, and I blinked as I looked down at myself. I worked out plenty, but maybe I wasn’t as fair as I’d feared. Or else the abs made up for it.
I tossed her a smile and a wave and walked backwards to catch her rearview. Yeah, she was cute.
But she wasn’t Zoe. And wasn’t it a pisser that she was already the gold standard for every other woman?
Clearly, I needed a good shag. Or five.
My mobile beeped and I tugged it out, frowning as a series of Instagram notifications filled my screen. I’d turned on notifications for Zoe’s feed, but she wasn’t the reason my phone was on constant vibrate. All the tags were for my account. The Instagram account that before today had approximately sixteen followers, at least half of which were vendors who sold cat T-shirts.
So I liked my pussy. In all forms.
I scrolled through the notifications, wondering how they’d even found me. Yes, my name was on there, but my handle was the smartass moniker TheOtherKagan. Then again, I hadn’t exactly hidden myself well. I’d had no reason to. No one had been looking.