Why do I feel this way when anyone says your name?

Carlos Bertonatti's voice croons from my portable speakers, the perfect accompaniment to the sound of the waves and general beach ambience. I've got this whole beach thing down pat— my towel set up a safe distance from the water, my phone playing the ultimate summer playlist, and my current nerdy fantasy read spread out in the sand in front of me. This is the life.

"Can you get my back?" I hand my bottle of tanning oil to Laila, who sits cross-legged next to me looking bored.

"Are you actually going to swim at all?" she asks, dutifully squirting the oil onto my back.

"Do you have any idea what's in that water?" Two words: fish poop.

She rolls her eyes. "It's water, it cleans itself. Plus, you can shower when you get home."

Rather than refute her logic (or lack thereof), I give her my most winning smile. "Wouldn't you rather tan with me and recap all the end-of-school drama?"

Laila wrinkles her nose. "I can honestly say I have no interest in the drama, and anyways, white girl tans are pointless."

"White girl tans?"

"You tan like a Hawaiian goddess," she explains. "I tan like a traffic cone. Like an Oompa Loompa. Like Anne Hathaway in Bride Wars. I turn orange, Sam."

I laugh out loud, because it's not entirely untrue. Laila is bone white, whereas my skin tone has always been warmer, somewhere between white and brown. "The blessing of the Filipina genes," I tell her, patting her knee.

She flips me the bird and drops my suntan oil. "I'm going swimming. Enjoy skin cancer."

"Wait no!" I grab her hand. "If I promise not to talk about how Kira Bernacki's boyfriend is not actually doing a summer internship in the Galapagos Islands, but is in fact secretly in rehab, will you let me bury you in sand?"

"Your friends are so weird," Laila grumbles, flopping backwards.

I take that as a yes, and start piling sand on top of her legs.

We don't talk about school drama or Will or last night or anything serious. We talk about all the stuff we want to do this summer, and about how we can make sure we work the same shifts at the thrift store. We talk about the 5k she's training for and my neighbor's new kittens and her cousin Ollie's wedding, and it's all so light and easy.

By the time I've got her well and truly buried, the conversation has died down and we've fallen into a comfortable silence. A few feet away, some guys from the private school are playing Frisbee and not-so-subtly checking us out. Down by the water, little kids busily collect shells to trade to Madge, the old hippie lady who sells shell jewelry to vacationers. The sky is stunningly blue and cloudless, and the air smells like sunblock with just the faintest whiff of charcoal from someone grilling. It's so perfect and nostalgic and familiar, it almost hurts.

I don't understand why my classmates are so eager for senior year to be done with. They complain all the time about how boring our town is, how they can't wait to get out of Colorado. And sure, I get that there's a lot more out there than Montclair. But I just don't think there's any other place that's going to feel like home, and I don't get how they can be excited to leave that behind. After all, everybody I love is here.

Thinking about that makes me sad, though, so I get up on my knees and survey my work. From the waist down, Laila has disappeared beneath a giant mound of sand. If I can get her to stay still long enough, I might be able to turn her into a mermaid.

When I glance up at her, her eyes are closed, and she's got this half smile on her face that she only gets when she's completely content. She must have some kind of sixth sense though because about a second after I look at her, she asks, "Why are you staring at me?"

How does she do that? "I wasn't staring. I was just thinking how you looked really peaceful, and I was going to make a wish for you."

This is a game Laila is well familiar with. She doesn't like to make wishes, on anything—birthday candles, dandelions, stars, ladybugs, eyelashes, pennies, rainbows, feathers, I've tried it all. Not even the magic of 11:11 could win her over. I've gotten into the habit of making wishes for her, to make up for lost opportunities. She thinks it's stupid but she lets me do it.

She says, "Wish away," and I don't let the heavy sarcasm in her voice deter me.

Laila Marie Benson, I wish that no matter how bad life gets, you can always find your way back to this feeling.

She pesters me about what I wished the whole time I'm making scales on her sand tail, but I don't tell her, because I understand how these things work. When you put thoughts like that out into the universe, you have to have faith. Telling other people what you wished is like blabbing about a secret you promised you'd keep. It only brings about bad things.

"For the millionth time," Laila groans, "Jinxes aren't real."

"Then how do you explain the time I told you about how I wished I could go with you to sleepaway camp, and the very next day I broke my arm on the jungle gym and had to stay home all summer?"

"That's easy. You're clumsy, and coincidence."

I'm about to protest when a shadow falls across us and Laila is suddenly very serious. I don't have to look up to know it's Will.

"Wait, don't tell me. Squid with a tragic past?"

Laila jumps up and destroys my admittedly oddly shaped artwork. "I'm going swimming," she says, and walks away before either of us can say anything. Judging by how fast she's going, I don't think she wants me to follow.

I turn my head slowly and give Will my best withering glare. "You know it was a mermaid."

He smiles at me, all mussed hair and red cheeked and shirtless, and I can't be mad at him. At least there was no shouting.

I make a very noble, concentrated effort not to stare at his abs, and instead lie down on my stomach, opening up the book I was reading before. He leans over my shoulder, his breath on my skin giving me goosebumps.

"Are you reading?" he asks incredulously.

"Are you sober?" I answer in the same tone.

"Harsh." He falls backwards, lying spread-eagle next to me. I focus on the page, but it takes a lot of effort for the words to make any sense. I am acutely aware of how much skin I'm showing, and how gorgeous Laila looks in my one piece. Curse crop top season.

"Hey, pay attention to me." Will swipes my book, and reads the title aloud. "King of Bones. Sounds stimulating."

"I'll have you know," I sniff, "that Ellie West's world building rivals that of Tolkien, and her characters are intricately layered and well-developed."

"Oh, forgive me." He schools his face into a serious expression. "Please, do continue. Let me guess—the protagonist is a strong, independent woman who doesn't need a man, but the brooding bad boy with a tragic past makes her quiver?" He does this weird shudder thing and rolls his eyes back into his head.

I kick sand at him, but I can't stop myself from laughing. "Shut up. You're so dumb."

"Hey, I'm not the one who reads books with hot shirtless vampires on the cover." He reaches into my beach bag to pull out said book.

"Give me that!" I snatch it from him and shove it back into my bag, my cheeks burning. "That was a recommendation from a friend."

"Sure it was."

He smiles knowingly at me, so I bop him over the head. This elicits a growl, and before I can even think oh crap, Will grabs me around the waist and tackles me to the ground.

"Wait, no! Stop!" I gasp, as he literally climbs on top of me. "This is—this is unlawful! I'm calling 911!"

He's pinned me down with a knee on either side of my hips, and when I push against his chest to try and shove him off, he grabs my arms and pins those above my head, too. Water drips from his hair and skin all over me. I squirm uselessly, but I can't get free.

Please God, no. Send a lightning bolt from heaven to save me. Let this be the end of times and may the rapture take me away from this heathen world.

"Any last words?" Will hovers above me, grinning malevolently.

"Will, if you tickle me I will never forgive—"

I don't get to finish that sentiment, because he's already running his fingers wildly over my ribs, my neck, behind my knees, and my million other weak spots. I thrash in the sand and try to fend him off, but I'm laughing so hard that my muscles feel like jelly.

By some miracle I manage to get into a half-sitting position and grab his hands, and even though I know he could easily overpower me, he lets me push him back. Then I'm on my knees and his legs are spread out next to me and our hands are locked together, hovering in the air, but we're not fighting anymore. We're covered in sand and giggling like little kids, and he's looking at me with his blue, blue eyes.

I wonder if it's possible to get high off of a person. I studied the effect of opioids in my AP psych classes; the way they block pain receptors, flood the brain with dopamine. They make everything that hurts go away, and when you're on them, you're just happy, and nothing else matters.

I let go of him. "Will," I say, and then I don't know what to say next.

He tugs on my hair. "What?"

"Nothing." I turn away, rummaging through my bag to hide my blush. Today is too good to ruin with dumb things like confessions.

"Don't lie to me, Sam. I know you too well."

Yeah? I think. Then how come you can't tell that I'm totally in love with you?