Spring Tide (Coastal University Book 1)

I’m scrambling around my living room, gathering up old magazines, dusting off shelves, and tucking ugly knickknacks into back corners. No matter what I do, the house doesn’t feel ready for guests. But it’s nearing seven o’clock, and Harper’s bound to be here any minute.

My fingers flex, fists clenching together as I enter the kitchen. Taylor’s happily stirring away at her risotto, clueless to my frantic energy as she dances and twirls to some LÉON song. The pungent smell of mushrooms, fresh oil, and pancetta wafts through the air, and I feel a little bit calmer.

It reminds me of home—my parents, Elio, Mia, and Vivia. And most of all, the earthy, almondy scent reminds me of little Giorgie, who used to pluck each mushroom out and feed them to Bentley under the table. It also reminds me that it’s been weeks since I’ve FaceTimed with her.

She’s only seven years old, and I’m her favorite sibling, yet I can’t even spare a few minutes to see her through the phone. To watch her smiling face light up as she clicks that four-leaf clover on her iPad, greeting me with her special nickname.

Lucky.

“Luc, hellooo,” Taylor singsongs, waving a wooden spoon in my face. “Earth to Luca.”

“What?” I ask, rearing back as she smacks me upside the head.

“You’ve been zoning out for, like, five whole minutes.” An amused expression quirks the side of her mouth. “You okay?”

“Just fine,” I grumble.

She turns back toward the stovetop. “Then you should probably go get changed. Your girlfriend is going to be here any second.”

“I wasn’t planning on changing.”

Her sudden burst of laughter echoes throughout the kitchen. When it’s met by my unimpressed silence, she whirls back around to face me, waving that spoon in my face again.Content is property of NôvelDrama.Org.

“You can’t wear that, Luc.” Her nose scrunches in distaste, gaze quickly sweeping over me from head to foot. “You look like you’re headed down to the pier for work, except you couldn’t find your uniform, so you put on Dad’s old, wrinkly, hand-me-down T-shirt from the eighties.”

My head drops back with a displeased groan. “Jesus Christ, now I have to fucking change.”

“Good,” Taylor happily chirps. “Before you do, taste this real quick.”

She scoops up a tiny bit of arborio rice from the pan, tilting the wooden spoon toward my face as she cups one hand underneath. I roll my eyes, leaning forward to accept her offer. The rice is piping hot, but damn, it might even be better than our mamma’s.

“It’s decent, Tay.”

“Decent, my ass,” she mutters, eyes widening at the sound of Bentley’s frantic barking.

“Shit, that must be Harper.” My fingers scrape through my half-styled, unruly hair, nervously pushing it back as the doorbell rings. “Can you get that while I throw on another shirt?”

She drops her spoon back onto the stovetop, nodding as she pushes me toward the hallway. “I bought you a couple of new outfits for tonight. On clearance. They’re in the shopping bag hanging off your door handle.”

“Dammit, Taylor,” I mutter. “This isn’t a fashion show.”

“Yes, it is. Now, go, go!”

I jog down the hallway, listening for the signature sounds of Harper’s animated voice. As soon as the front door swings open, I retrieve Taylor’s shopping bag and shuffle into my bedroom.

Of course, the clothes Taylor bought me look fucking ridiculous. There’s a pair of dark-wash jeans, charcoal trousers, a button-up, and this heather-gray sweater. An actual fucking sweater. I think it’s been about fifteen years since I’ve worn something like this.

I shake my head, grimacing as I assess my appearance in the mirror. I feel like a complete phony, but I don’t have time to fret over it right now. Besides, as if I needed the constant reminder this whole thing is fake in the first place.

But at least for right now, it’s officially showtime.

“Harper,” I greet, clearing my throat as I re-enter the kitchen.

She’s on her knees on the hard tile floor, scrubbing her hands through Bentley’s shaggy fur. Her chin tilts up at the sound of my voice, cheeks brightening with a sweet smile as she rises to greet me.

Her golden-brown hair is styled into a wild mix of braids and waves. She’s wearing a muted green dress that stops midthigh. It’s not tight, but it pools and dips along all the places where her body curves. At the mere sight of her, I swear something in my chest draws tight, a low and pleasant hum warming my blood.

“Hi,” she murmurs, glancing over her shoulder for a beat. My gaze cuts in that direction, noting my sister’s not-so-inconspicuous stare. Harper steps forward, fingers brushing across the side of my jaw, soft and slow, voice dipping as she says, “You look handsome.”

I might assume the words aren’t truly meant for me, that they’re a mere cover-up for our lie . . . but she’s whispered them. There’s no way Taylor could even hear what she’s said, not over the sound of King Princess playing in the background or the sizzle of our dinner on the stovetop.

I swallow back the lump in my throat. That ridiculous feeling from earlier, the one I had when I was staring at this godforsaken button-up/trouser combo, has suddenly disappeared.

It feels pretty fucking nice.

“You look great, too.” I glide my fingertips from the top of her bare shoulder down to the crook of her elbow. “Beautiful.”

A warm, peachy heat colors her cheeks. “Thank you.”

“Hey, lovebirds,” Taylor cuts in, her voice filled with unfiltered glee. “Our dinner’s ready. Take a seat at the table so I can serve us up.”

The food is great, the wine Harper brought is perfect, and she and Taylor get along like they’ve known each other for ages.

They’ve even developed some sort of inside joke about hot sauce. I won’t try to understand it, but it’s nice they’ve bonded this quickly. Even after three years, Taylor never formed a lasting relationship with my ex. In fact, Sofia was always much closer to my parents than she was to my siblings.

Now that we’ve been broken up for ages, Taylor always reminds me to move on and move up. In her words, that is. She always thought I could do better, but at the time, I thought Sofia was better. Or that she was the best fit for me, anyway.

My be-all and end-all.

Now I know that’s not the case. Not that Harper is meant for me, either, considering we’re not actually together. I haven’t fully deluded myself into believing that much, but at least I’ve gained a real friend out of all this. Someone who understands me.

It’s been a while since I could say that about anyone and truly mean it.

“I have a bartending shift in a half hour,” Taylor says, swiping a napkin over her lips. “Do you think you could take care of this?”

Harper shoots out of her chair, already gathering up the dirty dishware from the table. “Of course! You don’t even need to ask,” she insists, prying used cutlery from my hands. “You cooked, so we’ll clean.”

“I knew I liked this one.” Taylor pushes up from her chair, reaching out to pat my fake girlfriend on the top of her head. Harper simply grins at the affectionate gesture.

“She’s not Bentley, Tay,” I mutter, gathering up the empty wineglasses. “You can’t just give her head pats for a job well done.”

“Sure, she can.” Harper giggles, soft and sweet, as she turns on her heel. The dishes are piled high into the sink—pans, cutting boards, plates, glasses, and bowls. It’s a disaster, but I suppose it’s a sign of a well-loved meal.

“Thank you for dinner,” I tell my sister. “We’ve got this, no problem.”

“Thanks, you two. I’ll be home late, so—”

“Yeah, yeah.” I wave off her concern, mouth curved with a knowing smile. “I’ll play with Bentley and let him out right before bed.”

Her eyes narrow. “I was going to say, so you’ll have the place to yourselves.”

“Oh.” I choke on nothing, sputtering out a mixture of gibberish words before Harper comes to my rescue.

“Thanks, Taylor,” she cuts in, wrapping her arms around my sister. “And thank you again for the risotto. It was the best I’ve ever had.”

My sister cocks an amused brow in my direction. “Of course. You’ll have to come by our parents’ sometime and try the original recipe.”

“I’d love that.”

Taylor grins, her cheeks stretching wide before she traipses out of the kitchen, down the hallway, and into her bedroom. I wince at the heavy sound of her door slamming shut. Now Harper and I stand here alone, facing one another, and something has me feeling slightly unhinged.

“She’ll probably leave in about five minutes. You know, if you want to head out after,” I quietly suggest, gaze flitting to a chipped subway tile behind her head.

“No, thank you.” Her brows knit together. “I’d like to stay and help.”

“You don’t have to. You already spent the last few hours playing house. You know, pretending for my sake.”

She shakes her head, eyes brimming with warmth. “I wasn’t really pretending tonight. Besides, Taylor’s super cool.”

“Okay.” I clear my throat, folding up the sleeves of my button-down. “Let’s get these dishes done, then.”

I move toward the sink, Harper following closely behind. Together, we pile the dirty dishes into one side, filling the other with scalding, bubbling cleanser.

“I’ll wash,” Harper suggests. “You rinse and dry?”

“You got it.”

We pass the first five minutes in comfortable silence, washing and drying like two coworkers fulfilling an assembly line. It’s not long before the front door opens and my sister calls out a quick goodbye. Once we’re alone, Harper decides it’d be a good idea to splash me with dirty sink water.

“Woops,” she murmurs, the sparkle in her eyes spelling mischief.

I set the last two glasses in the drying rack, silently running my hands under the faucet. My palms rub together—once, twice—before I shake off the excess, the wayward droplets flying in Harper’s direction.

She playfully scoffs, gathering up a large scoop of bubbles with both hands. Her hips swivel toward me, palms flattening as she blows them directly into my face.

“Very mature,” I tease with a low chuckle.

“Oh no.” She swipes another handful of bubbles across the bridge of my nose. “I missed a spot.”

“I’d spray you with the faucet, but I wouldn’t want to ruin that pretty dress of yours.”

“A bit of water never hurt anyone.”

I scrub a clean hand towel across my face, clearing up the lingering soap residue. “So you do want me to soak you, then?”

“I’m sure you have something warm I could change into.”

My gaze dips to her mouth, assessing the curve of her tilted smile before flitting back to meet her eyes. There’s an unmistakable curiosity there, as if she’s testing me with her words.

“Harper—”

My phone buzzes loudly on the counter beside us, rattling me out of my daze. A heavy breath heaves from my chest as I slide the device toward me. There are three iMessages waiting, all sent from Giorgie over the past hour—a string of angry emojis followed by a singular snake and clover.

“Do you mind if I call my parents real quick?” I step back from the sink, wiping my palms down the front of my trousers. “My little sister’s sending me some weird messages from her iPad.”

Her smile is soft, gentle as she says, “Not at all.”

“I’ll be right back.”

I step into the living room, dial my mother’s number, and press the phone to my ear. She answers on the first ring.

“Ma, is Giorgie okay?” I ask before she can even manage to breathe a word.

“She’s fine, caro. She had a meltdown earlier, but she’s in bed now.”

“She’s been texting me for an hour, and I didn’t see them until just now,” I explain, gritting my teeth. “What happened?”

“Nothing for you to worry about.”

I pace across the living room, frustration bubbling in my gut. “Mamma, Giorgie doesn’t text me for nothing.”

“She’s just tired. It was her last day at the sensory gym and—”

“What are you talking about?”

“I told Taylor last week,” my mom says softly, mumbling some nonsense words under her breath. “Papa and I are cutting some costs now that Elio is doing courses at the junior college. We have two copays for occupational therapy per week, and the gym is extra.”

My heart squeezes inside my chest. “But she loves the gym.”

“It’s not a necessity.”

“It is a necessity,” I insist, gripping my phone tightly in one hand. “She’s so much happier when she goes there. It makes her feel better. Here, let me talk to Elio.”

My mom’s voice is stern as she argues, “He needs the classes.”

“I want to see why he can’t pay for them himself.”

She tsks. “Your brother is in high school.”

“Taylor and I both worked in high school.”

“Your brother is not the same.” There’s a rhythmic beating in the background, and I can almost picture my mother impatiently tapping her foot.

“Let me just speak with him, please.”

“He’s away.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “Fine, then I’ll call him myself.”

“You will not.”

“Ma,” I plead, only to be met by silence. “Fine, how much extra is the sensory gym? I can pick up some more shifts to cover it.”

“Giorgie will be fine, caro.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I say, carefully resigned. “I can send you one-fifty a week. I’ll FaceTime Giorgie in the morning and let her know she can go back.”

“Luca—”

“I have to go now, love you.” I hang up before she can continue the argument, a heavy weight settling on my shoulders. I might love my parents, but they simply refuse to see how Elio takes advantage of them. With six kids in the family, it’s impossible for me and Taylor to pick up the slack forever.

“Everything okay?” Harper asks, concerned as I slide back into the kitchen.

“Yeah, it’s fine.” I shake my head, attempting to clear the unwelcome cloud of fog settling in my mind. “I just . . . you should probably get going. It’s late, and we’re pretty much finished.”

“Oh, okay. I mean, I could stay if you wanted to—”

“I’m tired.”

“Okay,” she speaks slowly, carefully inching out of the room. Her confusion is so palpable that it’s starting to scramble my brain even more. “I’ll see you on Tuesday, then. My place?”

“Tuesdays aren’t going to work for me anymore.” I rub my face with both hands, frustration slipping through. “I’m gonna be picking up some more shifts down at the pier.”

“Oh, should we reschedule, then? I can do any other weekday or on weekends after lifeguarding. Just as long as I know ahead of time.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“What do you mean?” A deep furrow tangles her brow. “It’s no big deal for me to work around your schedule.”

My thoughts are misaligned, tumbling and scattering into one another faster than I can manage. “It’s just not fair, Harper.”

“What?”

“It’s not fair that you keep doing all this shit for me. You’re busting your ass to help me after I blackmailed you—going out to dinner with my friends, faking it for my sister—and I’m giving you nothing.”

“I don’t mind. I—”

“You should go.”

Her face falls. “What?”

“You need to go.” I force my spine upright, attempting to clear the emotion from my voice. “I’m not . . . I think I need to just calm down and think for a minute.”

We’re backtracking, scrambling toward the front door together. My fingertips make contact with the small of her back, and I almost crack into pieces.

“Okay, yeah,” she murmurs. “Call me when you figure things out?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll, uh, I’ll see you later?”

“I’ll text you.”

Once she’s out the door, I let the panic swell inside me, threatening to swallow me whole. Two more shifts at the pier, along with football practice, recovery training, midterms, and God knows what else.

But this is what’s best for Giorgie.

My heart thumps against my rib cage, fighting for space with the frozen air inside my lungs. I draw in a long breath, willing all the anxious thoughts to subside.

I can do this. I know I can, because I have to.