People We Meet on Vacation by Emily Henry (best story books to read .TXT) 📕

This week, though, I’m not going to need anything from him. It’s my mission to help Alex let loose, to bring Silly Alex back out of Overworked, Hyperfocused Alex.

“You know,” I say, sitting on the bed, “if you ever want to borrow some overbearing parents, mine are obsessed with you. I mean, clearly. My mom wants you to take my virginity.”

He leans back on his hands, his head tipping. “Your mom thinks you haven’t had sex?”

I balk. “I haven’t had sex. I thought you knew that.” It seems like we talk about everything, but I guess there are still a few places we haven’t gone.

“No.” Alex coughs. “I mean, I don’t know. You left a few parties with people.”

“Yeah, but nothing serious ever happens. It’s not like I dated any of them.”

“I thought that was just because you didn’t, like, want to date.”

“I guess I don’t,” I say. Or at least so far I haven’t. “I don’t know. I guess I just want it to be special. Not like it has to be a full moon and we’re in a rose garden or anything.”

Alex winces. “Outside sex isn’t what it’s cracked up to be.”

“You little minx!” I cry. “You’ve been holding out on me.”

He shrugs, ears reddening. “I just don’t really talk about this. With anyone. Like even just saying that made me feel guilty, like I’m wronging her somehow.”

“It’s not like you said her name.” I lean forward and drop my voice. “Sarah Torval?”

He bumps his knee into mine, smiling faintly. “You’re obsessed with Sarah Torval.”

“No, dude,” I say. “You are.”

“It wasn’t her,” he says. “It was another girl from the library. Lydia.”

“Oh . . . my . . . god,” I say, giddy. “The one with the big doll eyes and the same exact haircut as Sarah Torval?”

“Stoooop,” Alex groans, pink spreading over his cheeks. He grabs a pillow and hurls it at me. “Stop embarrassing me.”

“But it’s so fun!”

He forces his face to relax into the On-the-Verge-of-Crying Puppy Face and I scream and fling myself backward on the bed, my whole body going limp with laughter as I drag the pillow over my eyes. The bed dips under his weight as he sits beside me and tugs the pillow off my face, leaning over me, hands braced on either side of my head, insinuating his Sad Puppy Face into my line of sight.

“Oh my god,” I gasp through a mix of tears and laughter. “Why does this have such a confusing effect on me?”

“I don’t know, Poppy,” he says, the expression deepening sorrowfully.

“It speaks to me!” I cry out through laughter, and his mouth pulls into a grin.

And right then. That.

That is the first moment I want to kiss Alex Nilsen.

I feel it all the way to my toes for two breathless seconds. Then I pack those seconds into a tight knot, tucking them deep in my chest where I promise myself they will live in secret forever.

“Come on,” he says softly. “Let’s go get you on a mechanical bull.”

13

This Summer

WE GET THE thermostat down to seventy-nine and set it for seventy-eight before we leave for a Mexican restaurant called Casa de Sam, which has a great score on Tripadvisor and only one dollar sign signifying its cost.

The food is great, but the air-conditioning is the real MVP of the night. Alex keeps leaning back in the booth, closing his eyes, and making contented sighs.

“Do you think Sam will let us sleep here?” I ask.

“We could try just hiding in the bathroom until closing,” Alex suggests.

“I’m afraid to drink too much and get heat exhaustion,” I say, taking another sip of the jalapeño margarita we ordered a pitcher of.

“I’m afraid to drink too little and not be able to knock myself out for an entire night.”

Even thinking about it has my neck crawling with sweat. “I’m sorry about the Airbnb,” I say. “None of the reviews mentioned faulty air-conditioning.” Though now I’m wondering how many people stayed there in the dead of summer.

“It’s not your fault,” Alex says. “I hold Nikolai fully responsible.”

I nod, and the silence unfurls awkwardly until I ask, “How’s your dad?”

“Yeah,” Alex says. “Good. He’s doing good. I told you about the bumper sticker?”

I smile. “You did.”

He gives a self-conscious laugh and thrusts his hand through his hair. “God, getting old is boring. My best party story is that my dad got a new bumper sticker.”

“Pretty great story,” I insist.

“You’re right.” His head tilts. “Next do you want to hear about my dishwasher?”

I gasp and clutch my heart. “You own your own dishwasher? Like, it’s in your name?”

“Um. They don’t typically register dishwashers to your name, but yes, I bought it. Right after I got the house.”

A nameless emotion stabs at my chest. “You . . . bought a house?”

“I didn’t tell you?”

I shake my head. Of course he didn’t tell me. When would he have told me? But still it hurts. Every single thing I’ve missed in the last two years hurts.

“My grandparents’ house,” he says. “After my grandma passed away. She left it to my dad, and he wanted to sell it, but it needs work he didn’t have the time or money for, so I’ve been living in it, fixing it up.”

“Betty?” I swallow the tangle of emotions rising in my throat. I only met Alex’s grandmother a few times, but I loved her. She was tinier than me and fierce, a lover of murder mysteries and crocheting, spicy food and modern art. She’d fallen in love with her priest and he’d left the priesthood to marry her (“And that’s how we became Protestants!”) and then (“eight months later,” she told me with a wink), Alex’s mother had been born with a head of thick dark hair just like hers and a “strong” nose like Alex’s grandfather, God rest his soul.

Her house was a funky quad-level from the early sixties. It had