Did I Mention I Love You? (Did I Mention I Love You (DIMILY) Book 1)

When Rachael said she would talk to me in the morning, I didn’t expect her to turn up at my dad’s front door at 10:04AM. Waking up, never mind socializing, before noon during summer is an absurd thing to do. It’s against the norms of society for any sane teenager. I shoot Rachael a heavy glare the second I descend the staircase.

Dad holds the door open with one hand, a coffee mug in the other and a grin on his face. “Here she comes now!”

“Bye, Dad,” I say gently, and throw in an eye-roll too. He continues to beam down at me—it’s like I’m in kindergarten again and I’ve just made my first friend—and then finally shifts through to the living room. “He’s so embarrassing.”

Rachael laughs. “So’s mine. It must be a rule that all dads have to be lame.”

“Yeah,” I say. Still half asleep, I’m surprised I’m even able to string words together. “I didn’t realize we’d be leaving so early.”

Rachael’s eyes widen as she smiles in a this-girl-is-so-stupid sort of way. “It’s Saturday; if we’re going to the promenade, we need to go super early, because it’s gonna be packed!” I don’t even know what a promenade is.

“Ohhh.” I pause for a second (or four) to run my eyes over Rachael’s outfit. She’s wearing cute shorts and a cream button-down blouse and aviator sunglasses and a whole collection of jewelry. And I’m wearing an oversized T-shirt with cartoon alpacas on it. “I’m gonna go get ready. Do you want to come in and wait or . . .?”

“Just come over to my place when you’re ready,” she says, and then adds for clarification, “It’s that one.” She points to the house across the street. Before heading back over, she politely asks me to hurry up.

It takes me thirty minutes to get ready. I skip breakfast, spend six minutes in the shower, pull on an outfit similar to hers, leave my hair down, and apply a light layer of makeup. Nothing too complicated and nothing too time-consuming.

“I’m going out now,” I tell Dad as I stick my head around the kitchen archway after following the sound of his voice.

He stops mid-conversation with Ella. “Be careful and don’t stay out late. Where are you going?”

I shrug. “Somewhere called a promenade or something like that, I think.”

“Oh! Tyler’s at the promenade too,” Ella comments. I’d forgotten about that moron until now.

Dad automatically turns to fix his eyes on her. “Isn’t he grounded?” he asks, his tone a little harsh. It seems he can’t stand the guy either, and I really can’t blame him. Tyler isn’t the warmest of people. “Stop cutting him so much slack. You need to stop backing down.”

“Have fun,” Ella says to me and smiles, completely ignoring my dad’s fuming expression. It’s like his words completely bypass her mind.

The awkwardness grows and I get out of there as fast as I can. I don’t want to keep Rachael waiting. Pissing off my new friend on the second day of knowing her isn’t something I particularly want to do. Thankfully, when I arrive on Rachael’s driveway at 10:37AM she doesn’t seem annoyed, despite clearly having been waiting for me—no one rushes out of a house this early for no reason.

“It’s gonna be hot today,” Rachael says. She throws her head back to the sky as she exhales. Admittedly, yes, the weather is much hotter than it was yesterday. And it’s not even 11AM yet. “Alright, let’s go.” There’s a red Bug parked by us on the drive, and she pulls out a set of keys and unlocks it.

I’m a little skeptical before getting in. “When did you pass the test?”

Rachael arches a brow and sighs as I unintentionally stall her journey to the promenade. “November,” she answers. I stare at her. “I know what you’re thinking: It hasn’t been twelve months yet. But around here no one follows all those bullshit restrictions, so come on and get in.”

Ignoring the fact that it’s illegal for me to get in the car with her, not twenty, I settle into the passenger seat. I take extra care to ensure my seatbelt is secure. “So you’re seventeen?” I guess. Rachael backs out onto the road.

“Yeah, I’m about to be a senior,” she says, but her attention is clearly focused on the street ahead as we pull away ridiculously fast. “Same age as Tyler. We go to school together. You?”

“Junior.” Only two years left of high school before I hopefully get to pack up and head for the University of Chicago. The wait is taking forever, and I’ve already started filling out my Early Action application, because I’m just that desperate to get in. My heart has been set on Chicago ever since freshman year, and although Mom would much rather I applied for Portland State University, I feel Chicago has the better psychology program, and psychology is all I’ve ever been interested in. I’m curious about people.

“Junior year is the worst,” is the advice Rachael gives me. “You’re gonna hate it!” She switches on the radio then, and it blasts to life in a way that’s almost deafening as we hurl along Deidre Avenue and turn left. Rachael sings along.

As we drive for five minutes, I can’t figure out if I feel nauseous because of Rachael’s terrible driving or because we’re heading to a social spot with hoards of people. Hoards that include Tyler.

“Meghan’s coming too, by the way,” says Rachael as she lowers the volume of the music. She pulls up by a pale-bricked house on the corner of the street and honks her horn. I play anxiously with my fingers.

A few moments later, an Asian American girl with glossy dark hair half jogs over to the vehicle. She slides into the backseat behind Rachael, saying, “Hey, guys!” in a soft voice.

Rachael starts up the engine. “Hey, Meg. This is Eden, Tyler’s sister.”

“Stepsister,” I correct. I tilt my head over my shoulder to meet her eyes. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too,” Meghan says, offering me a wide smile as she pulls on her seatbelt. “You’re here for the summer, right?”

“Yeah.”

The music blows up again, leaving no room for conversation, and I’m grateful. We soon emerge from the residential side of the city and head into the more industrial area, passing motels and cafés and office buildings. Soon we’re crawling through traffic.

“I hate trying to find a spot to park,” Rachael complains, despite pulling into a parking structure, accelerating up three levels, and then pulling into a free spot—diagonally. “Now let’s hit the stores!”

I still don’t know what a promenade is.

We make our way back down to the ground while I trail slightly behind. Rachael and Meghan are walking way too fast, and I’m quite happy with walking slow to take in my surroundings. I follow them around the corner and onto the next street. And it’s then that I discover what a promenade is—it’s a huge pedestrian-only street cluttered with designer stores and expensive restaurants and flashy movie theaters, and it’s the kind of overrated entertainment complex that I usually hate.

“Eden, meet Third Street Promenade!” Rachael says, and I cringe. “My favorite place in the whole of Los Angeles. You can’t beat it.”

“Same,” Meghan adds. They must both be either insane or just extremely mainstream and cliché. Of course they love this wonderful, fantastic promenade, because they are girls. Pretty girls. It’s only natural for them to grow attached to a place like this, for it to become their safe haven.

“This is so cool,” I say. My voice is so dry that it’s blatantly obvious I’m lying. I attempt to chirp up, so I clear my throat and keep going. “How far does this place stretch for?”

“Three blocks!” Rachael glances at her watch and then waves her hands around erratically. “Now come on, we’re wasting shopping time!”

God. Shopping is one of the worst pastimes to ever exist, unless it’s scouring the shelves of a bookstore. I don’t think Rachael and Meghan are into that type of shopping. This is confirmed when they pull me into American Apparel.

“You’re basically a tourist,” Rachael says, “so you should probably knock yourself out. I need a new pair of pants, so I’m gonna go find some.”

“I need a new bra,” Meghan comments.

They both strut off without another word, leaving me alone in this huge store to do something I hate—shop. Admittedly, I could do with some new outfits for the summer, so I man up and begin rummaging and sifting through racks and rails of clothes. Eventually I find a cute skirt and an Aztec-print top that can both pass as acceptable. I decide to try them on for size, and I groan when I discover the line by the fitting rooms.

“Eden,” Rachael says as she approaches out of nowhere. “Get outta this line.”

I stare at her. “What?”

“Because—” she says, but then stops when the woman in front of me turns around to look her up and down. Rachael grasps my elbow and pulls me away. “Because,” she says again, “there are fitting rooms at the back of the store that are closed, but we always use them anyway. Beats waiting in line. C’mon, I’ll show you.” With a pile of pants over her arm, she directs me through the store to the very back corner. “I need to finish looking, so just come find us when you’re done or whatever.”

When she twirls off again, I find myself staring at a white door with a sign informing me that it is, indeed, closed to all customers. I don’t know if Rachael is playing a joke on me or something equally as cruel, but I glance all around to make sure the coast is clear before slipping inside. I feel scandalous. I’ll try the items on quickly and then get out of here as fast as I can, before I get caught. It’s quiet besides the sound of the lame store music, and I slip into the first cubicle I come to. My heart is racing and I have no idea why. Reaching for my shirt to pull it off, I hear a giggle from the cubicle next to mine, and my entire body freezes as my breath catches in my throat.

“Stoooop,” the voice whisper-giggles. It’s so light and so quiet that it’s barely audible. It definitely belongs to a female.

“Babe,” a male voice murmurs, low and firm. There’s the sound of lips smacking. Or skin and lips. I can’t tell the difference.

“What is that you’re wearing?” the girl asks. More smacking noises. “Is that Montblanc? It smells like it.”

“No, it’s Bentley,” the guy answers. I sniff. There is an amazing scent of cologne lingering in the air. “Come here.” Even more smacking. A body thuds against the wall of my cubicle, and I try not to exhale as my hands hover in mid-air.

The girl laughs. “What are you doing?”

“What?”

“Whatever it is you’re doing right now. It feels nice.”

“Of course it does.”

My face contorts with disgust and I press a hand to my mouth as I shake my head. This is the most awkward thing I’ve ever experienced. In fear of these people glancing down and seeing my feet through the opening at the bottom of the divider, I silently step up onto the chair. I’d try to leave without them ever knowing I was here, but the thought of me making a sound and them discovering my presence is keeping me glued to the spot. I tilt my head to the side and let my eyes fall to the floor. They may not be able to see my feet, but I can certainly see theirs. Sky-blue flats and brown boots.

“Tyler,” the girl gasps as she pulls her lips away, “we’re not doing that here.”

I don’t know what it is that they’re not doing here, but I do know that those brown boots and the voice and the name Tyler click in my mind all at once. Please, God, no.

It’s then that I almost throw up, and it’s also then that I hear Rachael call, “Eden, are you still in here?”

Without waiting a second longer, I snatch the clothes from the wall and leap off the chair, throwing open the curtain and fixing Rachael with a frantic stare. I make my way toward her, half jogging as I wave my hand around in an attempt to let her know that we need to get the hell out of here.

“Shhh,” the girl says sharply, and then, louder, “Who’s here?”

I try to push Rachael out the door, but she stops. “Tiffani?”

“Rachael?” The curtain of the cubicle next to mine slides open, and a tall, platinum blond girl takes a step out. Her cheeks flush with color and she bites her lip. Half the buttons on her blouse are undone. “Um, I didn’t know anyone was in here.”

Clearly, I think.

“What are you doing?” Rachael asks, raising her eyebrows suspiciously. “Tyler, are you there too?” We wait for a response.

“Yeah, I’m here.” Tyler steps out around the curtain just as he’s pulling on a faded gray T-shirt, and then he runs his hand through his hair. Admittedly, he looks a lot better than he did in the early hours of the morning. “Ever heard of privacy?”

“Ever heard of not hooking up in the middle of American Apparel?” Rachael shoots back, her voice even, her nose wrinkling. “That’s gross.”

Tiffani’s perfectly arched brows and high cheekbones and plump lips all fall to the floor. At first she appears abashed at being discovered, but then her expression hardens as she quickly closes up the buttons on her blouse. I have to look away.

“What the hell are you guys even doing here?” Tyler asks, locking his attention on me. His sharp eyes fix on me for several seconds, and a shiver surges down my spine as I worry about what he might say next.

“Trying on clothes,” Rachael answers tersely, “which is a normal thing to do in fitting rooms.”

Tiffani throws her a death glare before locking her eyes on me, clearly pissed off. She tilts her head. “And you are?”

“Eden,” I murmur. I’m struggling to meet her eyes, partially because I feel so small and partially because the circumstances are awkward. I look to Tyler instead. “His stepsister.”

“You have a stepsister?” Tiffani’s tone softens only briefly as her eyebrows knit together. She flashes her eyes at Tyler.

He just shrugs. “Apparently.”

She blinks at him for a few seconds, as though a stepsister is some sort of mythical creature that only exists in fairy tales. When she eventually comes to terms with it, she glances back over to me, her eyes narrowed. Her tone is sour. “Why were you in here? Were you spying on us?”

“Chill, babe,” Tyler tells her, saving me from having to muster up an answer, and reaches for her arm. “It’s not even a big deal. Stop tripping out.”

Tiffani’s eyes grow wide as she parts her lips, appalled at his lack of care. She folds her arms across her chest and sulks. “I’m just saying.”

“Yeah, well, don’t,” he says. He presses his lips together, shrugs again. “She doesn’t care. Let’s just go. I need to go to Levi’s.” He throws his arm impatiently over her shoulders and pulls her against his body, but she heaves a sigh and stands her ground, pausing to meet Rachael’s eyes.

“I’ll see you on Tuesday,” she tells her. “You’re still coming to the beach, right?”

“Yeah,” Rachael says, and then glances at me. In that second I know exactly what she’s thinking, and I pray she doesn’t say it loud. But, of course, she does. “Eden can come too, right?”

Ugh.

Tiffani’s features harden again as she exhales slowly, evidently having a mock debate with herself on whether or not she should allow the intruder to invade her beach plans. Eventually, she just murmurs, “I guess.”

And then she allows Tyler to pull her away, his arm slung around the back of her neck. She’s semi-mortified and semi-irritated. It’ll probably take several hours before the rose tint fades from her cheeks.

I stare at Rachael in the new silence that appears once they leave, arching a brow in curiosity. “Girlfriend,” she tells me. “They’ve been dating since freshman year. You’re probably scarred for life.”

I shake my head and breathe for the first time in ten minutes. “He’s such an asshole.”

“He’s Tyler Bruce,” Rachael says. “He’s always an asshole.”