Lexy isn't very outgoing. In fact, she's a self-professed recluse who prefers the written word over reality, especially after her family takes an emotional hit. Until Logan moves next door and the world she's created so methodically comes crashing down.
Logan has just moved from Toronto to the small beach town that Lexy calls home. He's pissed, but is trying to make the best of things. After all, he'll be free after Senior year.
What will happen when these two meet?
It happened so abruptly that I barely knew what hit me.
He'd moved here. Him.
Of course, he didn't know that I'd been writing about him. Hell, I didn't even know I'd been writing about him until he showed up on my doorstep, clad in green bermuda shorts and a white polo. His hair all sweaty from helping his parents with the furniture and his cheeks tanned from his brief encounter with the early morning sun.
Okay, so maybe he didn't show up on my doorstep, but on the lawn. Next door.
My stomach did this weird dance that I'm sure resembled something my cousins did back in Cuba that involved a shaking of the hips and a seductive twirl. Behind me, on my cluttered desk, sat my typewriter.
"He arrived." I'd written, shortly before being interrupted by the sound of the moving truck outside. Curiosity killed the cat, sure, but in this instance, it made my heart stop.
Dark chestnut hair, bright indigo eyes that I could glimpse even from behind my yellow curtains on the second floor, and a body (if the clothes clinging to his sticky self were any clue) that just didn't belong on a teenager.
Inhale, exhale Lexy. He is real. This is not, I repeat, this is not an illusion.
The stranger, 'cause of course, I can't call him by my character's name (because what are the chances they have that in common as well?) looked up and his brow furrowed in a slight frown. His eyes met mine and I quickly pulled back from the window, squelching the leftover burn of his eyes meeting my own.
I gave my room a once-over, wondering what it would be like to have him here, sitting on my beanbag chair off to the side by my other window, or have him scavenging my bookshelves, five in total, for his next summer read.
I shook my head, the image of his broad shoulders hunched as he squinted at the pictures of friends and family that I have on the bottom shelf of my more elaborate bookcase disappeared.
I'm a writer, I told myself, stop imagining such things. A guy like that doesn't do a girl who enjoys reading more than she does attending a lame football game. No, a guy like Mr. Tall, dreamy, and new would date a cheerleader. Or, I debated, the smartest girl in the school. A guy like that, who cares more about helping his parents than he does about the fact that he just relocated the summer before Senior year, is bound to look for the best.
I sighed and looked at my manuscript, which has only grown by five or so pages since summer began last week. An unopened bottle of water sat on top of it, the sunlight from the window by the beanbag chair casting crystal like flecks of color onto the pages. This was supposed to be my big, successful summer.
But what have I done instead? Slowly fallen in love with my fictional character? Stayed in my pjs avoiding the sun like a social pariah? And now, I thought as I stared back out the window at my new neighbor, I had to watch the unfairness of life play out in front of me, literally, as he would sure gain popularity and the attention of the hottest girls in town.
Great, here comes summer: woot woot.