Never Vacation with Your Ex

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The Summer I Turned Pretty meets People We Meet on Vacation in a YA second chance romance from fan-favorite author couple #Wibbroka!

Seventeen-year-old volleyball star Kaylee Jordan lives a life of player rankings, constant training, and a carefully curated social media full of followers watching to see if she’ll go pro out of high school like her famous mom. Her one refuge, and the thing she looks forward to every summer? The vacation her family spends in Malibu with the Freeman-Yus. This year, there’s only one problem: Kaylee and their son, Dean, dated for the past three months, and Kaylee just unceremoniously dumped him. Hoping to spare them the worst summer ever, Kaylee comes to Dean with her unconventional solution: she’s going to walk him through her rules for getting over an ex. When Dean grudgingly cooperates, Kaylee’s got her work cut out for her. But helping Dean follow her own rules starts becoming difficult when the pressures of Kaylee’s family legacy and perfect life start to feel less like a plan and more like a prison…and amid warm California nights and stolen laughs, Kaylee feels herself falling for Dean for the same reasons and some new ones. With their trip coming to an end, Kaylee has to make the complicated choice between doing what’s expected and taking a (second) chance on love.”A moving subplot about how Kaylee lives in her three-time Olympic gold-medalist mother’s shadow adds depth to her development, and it’s refreshing to read a romance in which it’s the girl who’s the elite jock. A breezy, beachy teen love story.” –Kirkus 
  
“Developing rifts between Kaylee’s and Dean’s mothers and dilemmas confronting Dean’s younger sister add further emotional depth to this frothy, sports-forward beach read by married creators Wibberley and Siegemund-Broka” –PWEmily Wibberley and Austin Siegemund-Broka are the authors of Always Never Yours, If I’m Being Honest, Time of Our Lives, What’s Not to Love, With and Without You, as well as the adult romance The Roughest Draft (Berkeley, 2022). Raised by a school librarian, Austin’s always had a passion for books. He met and fell in love with Emily in high school, graduated from Harvard, and is now a practicing attorney. Emily, whose parents are screenwriters, attended Princeton University where she wrote the first novel in her self-published YA fantasy trilogy, The Last Oracle, which was featured in USA Today and was a finalist for the Next Generation Indie Book Awards. Now married, Emily and Austin live in Los Angeles.It would be easy to pick something impulsively, to decide one post in thousands didn’t matter much. I don’t, though. I force myself to evaluate each of Brianna’s shots until finally I decide on one where I’m running back from the net, volleyball in hand. The sunset shines off the top of my dark blond ponytail, which is overdue for a color appointment to return it to a shiny yellow-gold I look tan, which is good—​studying for finals turned my skin pale beige, but thanks to my mom’s genes, one or two days outside returned me to bronze. In the photo, I’m mid-​laugh, my expression offering no hint of the effort these photos took. I look casual. Carefree.
Which people respond to, I’ve noticed. While they engage with my sports content, they love the unguarded humanness, the reminders I’m a person. It’s one principle I’ve learned on Instagram and found extends into real life—​no one loves a princess who doesn’t make it look easy.
“This one,” I say. I hold out the phone to show Bri.
She doesn’t look to see the photo I’ve chosen. “You really don’t want to call Dean,” she comments, her brown eyes on me.
Just like I did in the photos, I put on a smile as I begin editing. “Thanks to your excellent photo taking, I don’t have to,” I say, willing my headache to remain manageable until I get home. I work steadily, warming up the muscles I’ve developed from years of doing this. First, I change the contrast, then play with the saturation to keep this photo consistent with the color profile on the rest of my feed. I write my caption, tagging the local clothing company.
When I’m about to hit post, my phone buzzes. It’s a text from my dad.
Remember we have to book flights for California tonight. I need to know what days you have practice.
Unexpectedly, the logistical reminder is exactly what I need right now. I let out a breath, immersing myself momentarily in the thought of Malibu, where my family goes for summer vacation every year.
The memory is enough to ease the pressure in my head. Crystal water. Soft sand. California sun. The trip coming up—three weeks in Malibu, between training and tournaments—will be my chance to unwind after the busiest year of my life.
I can’t wait.
Feeling renewed, I post the photo. I set my phone on the table, then reach for a fry, finally ready to enjoy my dinner.
My phone vibrates to life once more.
When I look down, my heart stops. It’s my dad. I read his message once, then over several times. Fighting past the zigzags in my vision, I start to hope the headache is making me see things.
The Freeman-​Yus are getting into LA a day before us, so the earlier we can fly out the better.
“Crap,” I say quietly.
Bri pauses expectantly, fry midway to the ketchup. I show her my phone, which she reads expressionlessly.
“Kaylee,” she says calmly. “Tell me your dad means different Freeman-​Yus.”
I wish I could.
I thought it would go without saying. I thought it was obvious our vacation plans would change this year from the tradition of our California trip every summer with my parents’ closest friends. Friends who they’ve known since college, who they settled down on the shore of Newport, Rhode Island, in part to be near—​the Freeman-​Yus: Terry Freeman, Darren Yu, their daughters, Jessie and Lucy, and their son, Dean.
Dean Freeman‑Yu. Dean, who I’ve known and vacationed with in Malibu since we were in diapers.
Dean, my very recent ex‑­boyfriend.
“Tell me you’re not going on vacation with the guy you just dumped,” Bri prompts me.
I feel like I’m watching my Malibu escape go up in flames, their devouring heat licking my face. I shove my phone into my sweatshirt pocket.
“I absolutely am not,” I say.US

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