She nods, then clears her throat before answering. “Well. To be more precise, you did.”
“I did?” My vocabulary has shrunk to almost nothing in the past five minutes.
“The envelope was addressed to me, but the letter was for you.”
A decade-old image pops into my head: me with my long-lost grandmother, filling a shopping cart to the rim with stuffed animals while dressed like we’re going to the opera. Tiaras and all. I push the thought aside and grope for more words. “Is she…Does she…Why?”
My mother reaches into her purse and pulls out an envelope, then pushes it across the table toward me. “Maybe you should just read it.”
I lift the flap and pull out a folded sheet of thick, cream-colored paper that smells faintly of lilac. The top is engraved with the initials MMS—Mildred Margaret Story. Our names are almost exactly the same, except mine has Takahashi at the end. The short paragraphs are typewritten, followed by a cramped, spidery signature.
Dear Milly,
We have, of course, never met. The reasons are complex, but as years progress they become less important than they once were. As you stand poised on the threshold of adulthood, I find myself curious to know you.
I own a property called Gull Cove Resort that is a popular vacation destination on Gull Cove Island. I wish to invite you and your cousins, Jonah and Aubrey, to spend this summer living and working at the resort. Your parents worked there as teenagers and found the environment both stimulating and enriching.
I am sure you and your cousins would reap similar benefits from a summer at Gull Cove Resort. And since I am not well enough to host guests for any length of time, it would afford me the opportunity to get to know you.
I hope you will accept my invitation. The resort’s summer hire coordinator, Edward Franklin, will handle all necessary travel and logistics, and you may contact him at the email address below.
Very sincerely yours,
Mildred Story
I read it twice, then refold the paper and lay it on the table. I don’t look up, but I can feel my mother’s eyes on me as she waits for me to speak. Now I really have to pee, but I need to loosen my throat with yet more water before the words can burst out of me. “Is this bullshit for real?”
Whatever my mother might have been expecting me to say, it wasn’t that. “Excuse me?”
“Let me get this straight,” I say, my cheeks warming as I stuff the letter back into its envelope. “This woman I have never met—who cut you out of her life without looking back, who didn’t come to your wedding or my christening or anything related to this family for the past twenty-four years, who hasn’t called or emailed or written until, oh, five minutes ago—this woman wants me to work at her hotel?”
“I don’t think you’re looking at this the right way, Milly.”
My voice rises to a near shriek. “How am I supposed to look at it?”
“Shhh,” Mom hisses, her eyes darting around the room. If there’s one thing she hates, it’s a scene. “As an opportunity.”
“For what?” I ask. She hesitates, twisting her cocktail ring—nothing like the five-carat emerald stunner I’ve seen on my grandmother’s hand in old pictures—and suddenly I get it. “No, wait—don’t answer that. That’s the wrong question. I should have said for who.”
“Whom,” my mother says. She seriously cannot help herself.
“You think this is a chance to get back into her good graces, don’t you? To be—re-inherited.”
“That’s not a word.”
“God, Mom, would you give it a rest? My grammar is not the issue!”
“I’m sorry,” Mom says, and that surprises me so much that I don’t finish the rant I was building toward. Her eyes are still bright, but now they’re watery, too. “It’s just—this is my mother, Milly. I’ve waited years to hear from her. I don’t know why now, or why you, or why this, but she’s finally reaching out. If we don’t take her up on it, we might not get another chance.”
“Chance for what?”
“To get to know her again.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say Who cares, but I bite it back. I was going to follow that up with We’ve been fine all this time without her, but that’s not true. We’re not fine.
My mother lives at the edge of a Mildred Story–shaped hole, and has for my entire life. It’s turned her into the kind of person who keeps everybody at a distance—even my dad, who I know she loved as much as she’s capable of loving anyone. When I was little, I’d watch them together and wish for something as perfect. Once I got older, though, I started noticing all the little ways Mom would push Dad aside. How she’d stiffen at hugs, use work as an excuse to stay away until past our bedtimes, and beg off family outings with migraines that never bothered her in the office. Eventually, being chilly and closed off turned into criticizing absolutely everything Dad said or did. Right up to the point when she finally asked him to leave.
Now that he’s gone, she does the same thing to me.
I draw a question mark in the condensation of my water glass. “You want me to go away for the entire summer?” I ask.
“You’d love it, Milly.” When I snort, she adds, “No, you really would. It’s a gorgeous resort, and kids apply from all over to work there. It’s actually very competitive. Staff quarters are beautiful, you get full access to all the facilities—it’s like a vacation.”
“A vacation where I’m my grandmother’s employee.”
“You’d be with your cousins.”
“I don’t know my cousins.” I haven’t seen Aubrey since Uncle Adam’s family moved to Oregon when we were five. Jonah lives in Rhode Island, which isn’t that far away, but my mother and his father barely talk. The last time we all got together was for Uncle Anders’s birthday when I was eight. I only remember two things about Jonah: One, he whacked me in the head with a plastic bat and seemed disappointed when I didn’t cry. And two, he blew up like a balloon when he ate an appetizer he was allergic to, even though his mother warned him to stay away from it.
“You could get to know them. You’re all the same age, and none of you has any brothers or sisters. It would be nice for you to be closer.”
“What, like you’re close to Uncle Adam, Uncle Anders, and Uncle Archer? You guys barely talk to one another! My cousins and I have nothing in common.” I shove the envelope back toward her. “I’m not doing it. I’m not a dog that’ll come running just because she calls. And I don’t want to be gone all summer.”
Mom starts twisting her cocktail ring again. “I thought you might say that. And I realize it’s a lot to ask. So I want to give you something in return.” Her hand moves up to the chunky gold links gleaming against her black dress. “I know how much you’ve always loved my diamond teardrop necklace. What if I gave it to you as a thank-you?”
I sit up straighter, already imagining the necklace sparkling at my throat. I’ve dreamed about it for years. But I thought it would be a gift—not a bribe.
“Why wouldn’t you just give it to me because I’m your daughter?” I’ve always wondered but never dared ask. Maybe because I’m afraid the answer would be the same one she gave my dad, not with her words but with her actions: You aren’t enough.
“It’s an heirloom,” Mom says, like that doesn’t prove my entire point. I frown as she rests one manicured hand on the edge of the envelope. She doesn’t push it, exactly. Just sort of taps it. “I always thought I’d give it to you when you turned twenty-one, but if you’re going to spend your summer in my hometown—well, it just seems right to do it sooner.”
I exhale a silent sigh and take the envelope, turning it over in my hand while Mom sips her wine, content to wait me out. I’m not sure which is more frustrating: that my mother is trying to blackmail me into spending the summer working for a grandmother I’ve never met, or that it’s totally going
to work.
I stretch my fingers toward the slick wall of the pool. As soon as they touch, I turn and push off for the final lap. This is my favorite part of any swim meet: water rushing over my extended limbs as I glide through it on pure momentum and adrenaline. Sometimes I resurface later than I should, which Coach Matson calls my derailer: a tiny flaw in technique that can mean the difference between being a good swimmer and a great one. Usually, I try to correct it. But today? I’d stay down here forever if I could.
I finally break the surface, gasp for air, and settle into the rhythm of the breaststroke. My shoulders burn and my legs churn in welcome, mindless exertion until my fingers brush tile again. I pull off my goggles, panting, and wipe my eyes before looking at the scoreboard.
Seventh out of eight, my worst finish ever for the two-hundred meter. Two days ago, that result would have devastated me. But when I spy Coach Matson staring at the scoreboard with her hands on her hips, all I feel is a triumphant spark of anger.
Serves you right.
Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’m never swimming for Ashland High again. I only showed up today so the team wouldn’t have to forfeit.
I haul myself out of the pool and grab my towel from the bench. The two-hundred meter was my final event of the day, in the last meet of the season. Normally, my mother would be in the stands posting overly long videos to Facebook, and I’d be poolside getting ready to cheer for my teammates in the relay. But Mom isn’t here, and I’m not staying.
I head for the empty locker room, my wet feet slapping the tiled floor, and extract my gym bag from number 74. I drop my cap and goggles into the bag and pull a T-shirt and shorts over my wet bathing suit. Then I put on my flip-flops and send a quick text: Feeling sick. Meet me at the door?
The relay is in full swing when I reenter the pool area. My teammates who aren’t racing are at the pool’s edge, too busy cheering to notice me skulking away. My chest constricts and my eyes prick, until I catch sight of Coach Matson at her usual spot next to the diving board. She’s leaning forward, blond ponytail spilling over one shoulder as she shouts at Chelsea Reynolds to pick up the pace, and I’m hit with a sudden, almost irresistible urge to barrel forward and shove her straight into the pool.
For a delicious second, I let myself imagine what that would feel like. The Saturday crowd at the Ashland Memorial Recreation Center would be shocked into silence, craning their necks for a better look. Is that Aubrey Story? What’s gotten into her? No one would believe their eyes, because I’m the Girl Least Likely to Cause a Scene About Anything, Ever.
I’m also a giant wimp. I keep walking.
A familiar lanky figure hovers near the exit. My boyfriend, Thomas, is dressed in the Trail Blazers jersey I bought him, his dark hair buzzed short for the summer like always. The knot in my stomach loosens as I get closer. Thomas and I have been dating since eighth grade—we had our four-year anniversary last month—and collapsing against his chest is like slipping into a warm bath.
Maybe a little too like it. “You’re soaked,” Thomas says, disentangling himself from my damp embrace. He looks me up and down warily. “And sick?”
I might’ve had one cold the entire time Thomas has known me. I’m weirdly germ-resistant. “You don’t take after the Storys,” my father always says with a sigh. “The merest hint of a virus can incapacitate us for days.” It almost sounds boastful the way he says it, like his side of the family are rare and delicate hothouse flowers, while Mom and I are sturdy weeds that can thrive anywhere.
The thought of my father makes my stomach tighten again. “Just feeling a little off,” I tell Thomas.
“You probably caught it from your mom.”
That’s what I told Thomas last night when I asked him to drive me today; that my mother wasn’t feeling well. I didn’t tell him the real reason on the ride over this morning, either. I couldn’t find the words. But as we reach his Honda I find myself itching to spill my guts, and it’s a relief when he turns to me with a concerned look. I just need him to ask What’s wrong? and then I can say it.
“You’re not gonna throw up, are you?” he asks. “I just vacuumed the car.”
I tug open the passenger door, deflated. “No. It’s a headache. I’ll be fine after I lie down for a while.”
He nods, oblivious. “I’ll get you home, then.”
Ugh. Home. The second-last place I want to be. But I’m stuck for a few more weeks, until it’s time to leave for Gull Cove Island. Funny how something that was so weird and unwelcome at first suddenly feels like sweet salvation.
Thomas starts the engine, and I pull out my phone to see if either of my cousins added to our group chat since this morning. Milly has; she’s posted a summary of her travel schedule and a question. Should we try to all take the same ferry?
When I first got my grandmother’s letter—which Dad immediately assumed I would agree to, no questions asked—I looked up both my cousins online. Milly was easy to find on social media. I sent a follow request on Instagram and she accepted right away, unlocking a timeline filled with pictures of her and her friends. They’re all beautiful, especially my cousin. She’s white and Japanese, and looks more like a Story than I do—dark-haired and slender, with large, expressive eyes and cheekbones to die for. I, on the other hand, take after my mom: blond, freckled, and athletic. The only characteristic I have in common with my elegant grandmother is the port-wine birthmark on my right forearm; Gran has one almost the exact size and shape on her left hand.
I have no idea what Jonah looks like. I couldn’t track him down anywhere except Facebook, where his profile picture is the DNA symbol. He has seven friends, and I’m not one of them because he still hasn’t accepted my request.
Jonah barely posts in our group chat except to complain. He’s angrier than Milly and I about getting sent to Gull Cove Island for the summer. Now, as Thomas pulls out of the Recreation Center parking lot, I distract myself by scrolling through yesterday’s conversation.
Jonah: This is bullshit. I should be at camp this summer.
Milly: What, are you a counselor?
Jonah: Not that kind of camp. It’s a science camp. Very competitive. Nearly impossible to get into and now I’m supposed to miss it?
Jonah: And for what? A minimum-wage job cleaning toilets for a woman who hates our parents and most likely hates us too.
Aubrey: We’re not cleaning toilets. Didn’t you read Edward’s email?
Jonah: Who?
Aubrey: Edward Franklin. The summer hire coordinator. There are lots of jobs you can choose from. I’m going to be a lifeguard.
Jonah: Well bully for you.
Milly: You don’t have to be a dick about it.
Milly: Also, who says “bully for you”? What are you, 80?
Then they argued for ten minutes while I ghosted the conversation because…confrontation. Not my thing.
The last time I saw any Story relative was right after we moved to Oregon, when my father’s youngest brother breezed through for a weekend visit. Uncle Archer doesn’t have children, but as soon as he arrived, he dropped onto the floor like a Lego expert to help me with the town I was building. A few hours later, he vomited into my toy chest. It wasn’t until recently that I realized he’d been drunk the whole time.
Dad used to call himself and his brothers and sister the Four As, back when he still talked regularly about them. Adam, Anders, Allison, and Archer, born a year apart from one another. They all had distinct roles in the family: Adam was the golden-boy athlete, Anders the brilliant eccentric, Allison the reserved beauty, and Archer the charming jokester.
Uncle Anders, Jonah’s father, is the only one who didn’t inherit the family good looks. In old pictures he’s short, scrawny, and sharp-featured, with eyebrows like slashes and a perpetual thin-lipped smirk. That’s how I picture Jonah whenever I read his messages.
I’m about to put my phone away when a new message pops up, from Milly to me. It’s the first time she’s ever texted me without including Jonah. Aubrey, important question for you: Is it just me, or is Jonah a total ass?
A grin tugs at the corners of my mouth as I type, It’s not just you. I open Thomas’s glove compartment, where he keeps a handy assortment of snacks, and dig out a brown sugar–cinnamon Pop-Tart. Not my favorite, but my stomach is rumbling with postmeet hunger pangs.
Milly: I mean, nobody’s thrilled about this. I might not be signed up for Genius Camp, but I still have things I’d rather be doing.
Before I can respond, another message pops up, from Jonah in our group chat. That ferry time is inconvenient and I don’t see the point in arriving in tandem anyway.
Milly: Omg why is he such trash???
Jonah: Excuse me?
Milly: …
Milly: Sorry, wrong chat.
Milly, in our private chat: Fuck.
I laugh through a mouthful of Pop-Tart, and Thomas glances at me. “What’s so funny?” he asks.
I swallow. “My cousin Milly. I think I’m going to like her.”
“That’s good. At least the summer won’t be a total loss.”
Thomas drums his fingers on one side of the steering wheel as he turns onto my street. It’s narrow and winding, filled with modest ranches and split-levels. It was supposed to be our starter home, bought after my father’s first novel was published almost ten years ago. The book wasn’t a blockbuster, but it was well reviewed enough that he was offered a contract for a second novel. Which he still hasn’t written, even though author is the only job he’s had since I was in grade school. For the longest time, I thought he got paid for reading books, not writing them, since that was all he ever did. Turns out he just doesn’t get paid at all.
Thomas pulls into our driveway and shifts into park but doesn’t cut the engine. “Do you want to come in?” I ask.
“Um.” Thomas takes a deep breath, his hand still drumming on the steering wheel. “So, I think…”
The Cousins Page 2