Hot guys are the best part of summer. Pastel ice cream scoops, lemonade-like sunshine, and sea salt strung hair are staples, but there’s something about guys with sandy calves and strong, tanned arms wearing low-hanging swimsuits.
Honestly, I love everything about summer. The warmth, the way my mom stocks the freezer with the variety pack of popsicles—cherry for Milly, grape for Lottie, and orange for me. There’s new music and the feeling of going into a cold movie theater on a hot day. And, yeah, the guys. Everywhere you look, there’s a hot guy. It’s like that Oprah meme—you get a hot guy, you get a hot guy, everybody gets a hot guy!
I can absolutely appreciate all of the six-packs and dimples, but only as long as I keep my eye on the prize and stay focused. My mom always says fortune favors the determined… Or something like that.
And I am determined. I have two weeks and six days to finish and submit my screenplay before the Reel Sunshine competition deadline, which is totally doable.
My whole future depends on it. No pressure.
Damn, there really are attractive men everywhere—lying out at the pool or, past the iron gate and sandy walkway, stretching across the volleyball court down on the beach. It’s like in summer, hot guys get even hotter. It’s the sweat and the bronzed abs.
I don’t do the whole dating thing anymore, so this summer really is the equivalent of scrolling through the Calvin Klein Instagram or something—purely about the visual.
Getting close to a boy leads only to heartbreak, disappointment, and—most importantly—distraction from one’s goals. See, most people spend their high school years searching for their great romance. One like in the movies. But I’ve already had mine, and TSwift’s “Death by a Thousand Cuts” was my top song on Spotify last year, so I’m good.
Maybe once I’ve secured my spot at USC. Actually, maybe once
I’ve gotten an internship at a studio. By then I won’t even remember Grant Kennedy or what heartbreak feels like and I’ll be able to spend a little bit more time focused on romance.
Well, realistically, I should probably wait until I sell my first script and—
My youngest sister, Lottie, laughs maniacally, and I am snapped to the real world. I watch in horror as she grabs a fistful of Milly’s hair and yanks her down into the shallow end of the pool.
“Lottie,” I say. “Come on, that was totally unnecessary!”
Lottie, though she be but five, is fierce. And now she has hair that barely falls under her chin because she decided to give herself an impromptu trim with her crafting scissors just before her last day of school. Nana had to give her an emergency haircut. She narrows her eyes at me and then shrugs.
My mother is careening down the path from the club’s new restaurant, a tote bag slung over her shoulder with a large silver tumbler in one hand and her phone in the other. I haven’t been yet, but the photos I’ve seen are really cool.
Mom met some local beauty influencers there at the launch event and they’ve been promoting her products. Really, her company doesn’t need much more press since Jen Aniston likes her stuff, but she says it can’t hurt to keep reaching the younger crowd.
“Harold,” Mom says, out of breath.
She always calls me Harold. Even though Lottie and Milly get nicknames and everyone I know calls me Harry, apparently I’ll always be Harold to her. Because of this, Milly and Lottie call me Harold, too.
“I thought you guys went to the kid’s pool. I was worried for a second you’d disappeared.”
Moms are always worried. I’m convinced it’s a personality trait that’s earned as soon as they change their first diaper.
Sitting in the chaise next to my table, Mom is wearing a white cover-up and big black sunglasses. Under a giant straw hat, her hair is probably tied up into a knot—it’s dyed much lighter than Milly’s dark brown waves and certainly differs from the more chestnut hair Lottie and I have. Mom lowers her glasses to eye the girls, and then her phone sounds an alert.
“They’re at war,” I say, gesturing my Spider-Man pen toward my flailing siblings. This pen—a gift Lottie selected for me from her class treasure chest—reminds me of another reason to love summer: the new superhero movies. It isn’t all about hot guys. Even if most of the heroes are hot. That’s a happy coincidence.
“They’ll work it out,” Mom says, engrossed in whatever email she just got. She quickly responds as two more alerts come through. She doesn’t even kick off her flip-flops. She just sits up straight and reads, reads, reads and types, types, types.
For my sisters and me, the Citrus Harbor Beach Club is all palm trees and virgin daiquiris and nighttime Disney movies projected on the screen at the kid’s pool. For Mom, it’s a blurred background behind her phone—second to the masses of work emails and texts she gets when she tries to relax by the pool with us before she inevitably goes home because she needs her computer.
The club is fun, but there’s not much variety or excitement apart from the screaming kids like Lottie, or the guys who could resemble a shirtless Tom Holland if you squint really hard. It’s the epitome of our small town’s slow pace and fixed reality. When I’m home from college for nostalgia-filled summers, it’ll probably be a nice, calm escape from the hustle and bustle of my new Hollywood life.
“I said I want to play ‘DANCING QUEEN,’” Lottie shrieks.
“You little gremlin, you scratched me! Do you ever cut your nails?”
Ignoring Milly and Lottie, I look around for Hailey. Behind our table and chairs, up a winding path of rust-colored tile and past the children’s pool, cantina, and toddler play area, the two-story clubhouse is like a bright white seaside castle, complete with a courtyard and a big red fountain. It’s almost historic looking—Spanish, which is common in Florida, but especially here since we’re not far from where Ponce de León first arrived. That’s everyone’s go-to fun fact. Like, awkward silence? Ponce de León.
Lottie growls: “If you don’t play it, I’m gonna scream that you peed in the pool!”
“I would never do that!”
“They don’t know that.”
Hailey says she’s getting snacks and drinks, but there’s a fifty-fifty chance she’s at the spot with the perfectly placed palm trees, taking First Day of Summer selfies for her Instagram story.
“Would you tell me how to Instagram?” Mom says to me, as if she’s reading my mind.
“How to what on Instagram?” I blink.
“How to Instagram.” Mom sighs.
Lottie cackles again: “Is that a floating turd? Is it yours, Milly?”
“You get one song.” Milly groans in defeat.
Hailey sits down next to me and hands me a glass, cold to the touch and nearly overflowing with an Arnold Palmer. She sets down a basket of fries and chicken tenders with a little cup of ranch.
As my best friend and fellow admirer of GQ magazine covers, Hailey Birch appreciates hot guys as much as I do, which is why it’s almost a shame she wants to tie herself down with one guy—Justin Andrews. We’re only seventeen, after all. But Justin’s handsome, motivated, and completely sweet to her. Plus, he always gets me a coffee when he drives us to school. Things could be worse.
It all started when Hailey’s Mimi left the Philippines and moved in with them last summer. She was looking for an excuse to miss Sunday Mass—her parents pretended they hadn’t missed in years—so she signed up for a summer-long weekend surf camp, which lead to many extra one-on-one surf lessons with Justin.
The rest is history. And Hailey still can’t surf.
It’s just hard to understand how Hailey is such an effortless beauty—she’s wearing a red one-piece, her deep brown skin glowing in the sun and her lush windswept curls falling onto her shoulders—and now her entire life revolves around one guy. But that’s her choice and not all guys are Grant Kennedy, so I have to just root for her and Justin.
“Tell me you figured out the big hook for your movie.” Hailey nods toward my notebook, dunking a tender, and Mom looks up from her phone to us. Convinced she might meet a Hemsworth at Hollywood and Vine, Hailey wants my movie to be a total blockbuster for completely selfless reasons.
I think marrying a Hemsworth might be the only thing that could distract Hailey from winning Cutest Couple with Justin for the senior superlatives. It’s all I’ve heard about since we got back from winter break and realized we’ll be seniors this August.
“Justin might have some ideas, he—”
“It’ll come to me,” I say quickly, not ready to make this conversation about Justin. I do hope it’ll come to me.
“It definitely will,” Mom says. “Although it might not hurt to at least consider—”
“Mom, I’m going to win the competition,” I say.
Here’s the thing.
I sort of screwed up. Really, Grant made me screw up more than I was already screwing up, but I’m trying to listen to Mom’s advice and take responsibility for my actions.
My grades are mostly good—not perfect—and USC is not easy to get into. I always sort of knew I wasn’t getting in purely on grades. But then after Grant, it was like my brain just couldn’t do school. Or anything really. It was just looping my heartbreak, over and over, with no time for any other programming.
It was only really bad until December, but by then the damage was done. I had C averages in three of my AP classes and my GPA was seriously affected. Plus I’d absolutely bombed the fall SAT, despite months of studying. It was like it all flew out the window.
Young love is a bitch.
Now this contest is literally my only chance at USC, my dream school. The school I’ve wanted to go to for as long as I’ve wanted to work in movies, which is basically since I could start writing scripts and making Milly and the neighbors act them out. I’ve never even imagined myself anywhere else. Nowhere else will get me where I want to be.
There are severable notable (i.e. Oscar-winning) USC alum on the board overseeing the competition, and if I can win a mentorship, I’m guaranteed a letter of rec that will stand out.
USC is the best of the best. It’s in the heart of the film industry and even has its own Hollywood Walk of Fame star. Plus, USC has the First Look Festival for students’ work, which has an industry jury.
Kevin Feige, aka the president of Marvel Studios—who produced the highest grossing film of all time before the Avatar re-release I don’t speak of—applied to USC’s School of Cinematic Arts six times before he got accepted. Six!
Let that sink in.
“I want you to win,” Mom says. “You’ve just been struggling with the screenplay for a while now. It’s healthy to have options. That’s all.”
“Who has the time for options?”
“I simply meant USC isn’t the only school. What happens if, for any reason, you—”
“I’m going to USC,” I say, desperate not to have this conversation with Mom again.
She’s always been supportive, but ever since this terrible Grant-induced writing block struck, she’s been pushing for backup—more “viable” options. Safer bets, thanks to my guidance counselor calling USC a reach school.
The phrase reach school actually makes me want to throw up. Like USC is something I’m reaching toward, not something I have. She says I have to stand out from all the killer GPAs and SAT scores with my creative materials.
To name a few, there’s an autobiographical character sketch, my essay about my most challenging moment, and my writing sample. Then there are the letters of recommendation. That’s where the Reel Sunshine competition comes into play.
I think in my mom’s mind, I’m being impractical. A dreamer who screwed up and lost his shot. But I can still make it happen.
“I just need the hook to be perfect,” I say. “Once I have it, I’m gonna really work my ass off, and it’ll all come together.”
My mom points to Lottie. “Your sister can hear you.”
“It’s okay.” Lottie smiles. “Vanessa Thomas says ass all the time.”
Mom only offers her signature exasperated sigh. “Dinner ideas?” she says, and both my sisters turn, alert. “First one to tell me one of their summer reading books gets to pick.”
Hailey’s face falls as she and I rack our brains—oh, crap. I know we have to read some books from the `50s or something…
“Miss Spider’s Tea Party,” Lottie screams with a shit-eating grin. “I want breakfast for dinner!”
“Well, great. I don’t want breakfast for dinner.” Milly throws herself back into the water.
“Lottie won,” Mom says with a raised brow once Milly resurfaces. “If you won, you’d want me to honor that.”
“Yeah, I won,” Lottie teases, making her way over with a devilish smile. “And you lost.”
“CHARLOTTE!”
In the pool, Lottie has jumped on Milly’s back and wrapped her little arms firmly around her neck.
“AMELIA,” Lottie cackles, hanging on for dear life.
“That’s it,” Milly shrieks, pushing Lottie off her and storming up the steps. It takes her five quick steps to join us where we’re sitting, nearly soaking us and the family at the next table, who pretend not to watch her temper tantrum. She wraps a towel over her pink crochet bikini.
“You’re going to get my notebook wet,” I say, like it matters the blank pages might get a few splashes on them.
Milly rolls her eyes and groans something dragon-esque. “I’ve had enough of Lottie being a little demon. I’m going to Madeline’s and not eating breakfast for dinner.”
Lottie looks devastated as she walks up behind Milly, her new bob dripping wet while she unapologetically plucks a wedgie from her Little Mermaid bathing suit bottoms.
“I still can’t think of any of our summer reading,” Hailey says slowly.
“I only want to play, Milly,” Lottie whines with a stomp.
“You want to play guerilla warfare,” Milly says with a hiss. “I’m over it.”
Lottie looks at me, eyes all big and sad. I frown.
“She’s fifteen, Lot.” I say pointedly, eyeing Milly. “It’s not you. It’s her.”
Though, to be fair, Lottie might have very well knocked Milly unconscious had their playing continued.
“It’s definitely her.” Milly rolls her eyes and stomps a few steps from Lottie. “But go ahead, Harold, defend your favorite sister like you always do.”
“Milly, she’s five, you can’t just call her a demon. Anyway, like—hello, pot? It’s kettle.”
“Harold, please, you’re not helping. Your sister is just experiencing—”
Milly full on yells, flipping her hair and assaulting us with the heavily chlorinated pool water. She hurries over to snatch her bag before heading up to change, her wet feet slapping angrily against the cement.
“You have to learn when to just let her be.” Mom sighs. “She’s like a teenage grenade. It’s a constant battlefield. Do you want to make it to dinner or do you want to risk the minefield because really, it’s, like—” Mom mimics an explosion with her hands, and Lottie nods in agreement.
“On that note”—Hailey stands up and smiles—“I have to go take Mimi to get her lotto tickets.”
I tell Hailey I’ll text her later as I close my notebook and get up, then follow Lottie into the pool. She jumps on my back and nearly sends me hurtling forward.
“You’re supposed to wait thirty minutes before you get in the water,” Mom says, though it comes out exasperated. She hasn’t even opened the book in her lap; she’s just typing away at her phone, probably negotiating an international contract or something.
Lottie laughs as she dunks me under. When I come up, I sputter and shake out my hair.
I hear one of the staff members greeting my mom.
With my eyes closed, I remember a moment just like this from last summer: A tall, tan guy with wavy chestnut hair. He was lean and wearing an aqua polo that was tight around his biceps and just short enough that if he reached up, you’d see the golden skin of his stomach. His khaki shorts grazed his thighs, and his boat shoes were worn in, making the leather look soft. Of course, he wasn’t just any employee of the club. He was Grant, boy wonder. The hottest guy on the staff. A year older, so he was about to be a senior.
All the girls were always crushing on Grant in school. And I was, too.
When I open my eyes, I don’t see Grant. Obviously. Grant’s nowhere near here; he’s in California with his family living a whole new life.
“Can I get you anything?” The new guy says. He’s wearing the same aqua polo and khaki shorts Grant did. Only they don’t fit the same. On this guy, the shirt’s a little bit looser, and the shorts are a little longer, not brushing the tops of muscular copper thighs but hovering above pale knees.
He has these airy eyes—a cool light blue—and a wide, inviting smile. His hair’s dark brown, almost black, and it’s tousled haphazardly atop his head. He’s wearing tattered blue Vans with white socks that rise to his ankles.
This new guy seems nice, and I have to admit he is cute, but I can’t stop imagining Grant over at the cantina, leaning against the bar, probably causing some girls to swoon over his warm golden skin and piercing green eyes. With that, I submerge, letting air out of my nose until I’m sunken, sitting at the bottom of the pool and fighting every urge to scream or feel anything for Grant.
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