I snapped out of my gloom and walked Zoe back down to my room. A plain red one-piece lay folded on my bed. I escaped to the bathroom and slipped it on, leaving the door open a crack so I could see Zoe playing with the phone Libby had given me a day ago. So far it had only one number in it. But it was a smartphone, the fancy kind with all sorts of apps already loaded. Libby’s old one, I’d guessed. Zoe seemed more skilled with it than I was.
I took a second to admire myself in the mirror. With the addition of Libby’s semi-sheer tunic, I looked almost cute. I swept my hair up into a messy ponytail and grabbed a book—a collection of Poe stories I’d had to purchase for my Gothic Lit class—just in case. Zoe trotted down the stairs, singing softly.
“Finally,” Libby said as we rounded the corner. “Hurry up now, just head out to the garage. The baby’s already in the car, and Walker’s getting impatient.”
Walker looked anything but that as we piled into the car. He grinned broadly at me and reached over to honk Zoe’s nose, causing her to break out in another fit of giggles. Zoe was happier than I’d yet seen her.
“Guess what I’m gonna do, sweet pea?” Walker asked, glancing back at Zoe.
“What?”
“Well, why don’t you take a look in the back and you’ll see.” Zoe and I peered into the hatch, where an inflatable raft rested.
“Zoes, it’s a shark!” I told her. She looked at me doubtfully. I could understand her skepticism; it looked more like a tent all deflated like that.
“That’s right, babycakes! I’m gonna take you out on those waves in your shark boat, so you can scare off the other fishies and have the ocean all to yourself!”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Walker.” Libby had just opened the passenger door, armed with a picnic basket. “The water’s going to be way too cold for that.”
“You never know, Libs,” he replied, refusing to be put off. “These heat waves, they can get under your skin”—he reached back and ticked Zoe under her knee—“and make you crave an icy dip.”
“I suppose,” Libby allowed.
“Libby does not like the beach,” Walker informed me seriously. “Which is why we’re heading there today. I’m determined to convert her.”
“I don’t understand why we can’t just stick to the pool,” she argued. “Pools are the perfect compromise. No sand, no wind, water for you to play in with the kids . . . no jellyfish, no stingrays . . . we could even go to the club if you want a change of pace.”
“I have news for you, little lady,” said Walker, his Texas accent suddenly thicker. “Stinson Beach ain’t got no stingrays.” Libby sighed dramatically, as if annoyed, but she was clearly trying to hide a smile. They were cute together, Libby and Walker. They worked. They gave me hope in romantic relationships. I looked at Libby, staring out the window; at Zoe, sucking her thumb from her car seat; and at wide-eyed little Jackson beside her. And I looked at Walker’s tanned, muscular forearms gripping the wheel; the way he fidgeted, playing with his bottom lip with the fingers of his left hand while he drove; the light shadow of stubble that covered his jaw. I didn’t want Walker, not the way Libby had suggested. I wasn’t some sort of college kid with a crush. Walker was very attractive, but that wasn’t it. I realized in that moment that more than anything, I wanted to be Libby. I wanted all of it: her entire life.
• • •
A FEW HOURS LATER, my arms were sore and I felt like I’d run a marathon. I’d never swum in the ocean before, and so I hadn’t been prepared to brace myself against the cold, or for how battered I’d feel by the waves. Walker and I were out with Zoe, tugging her along in the shark raft as promised. Libby was right: it hadn’t been a good idea. But I’d already entertained Zoe with a sandcastle for far longer than her attention span normally allowed. And so finally we’d caved. Zoe was having a blast, but even Walker looked like he might collapse.
“Does she ever come in?” I called to Walker over the crashing of the waves. He gave me a questioning look.
“Who, Libs?” he asked. I nodded. “Nah, she likes to do her sunbathing right over there. She thinks the ocean’s dirty and all.” I glanced toward Libby, who was enjoying the setup Walker had created for her out of a beach blanket, an umbrella, and a foldable lounge chair. It looked like she was sipping on something, maybe a beer, while she flipped through her magazine. She looked so glamorous sitting there, in her sunglasses and her big floppy hat and her blue-striped bandeau bikini. As I stood there with sodden strands of hair sticking to my cheeks, I felt as if twenty lifetimes, and not twenty yards, separated us.
“Watcha thinking?” Walker called out. I turned back to him, the violence of the waves, and ruddy-cheeked Zoe. Maybe there was more than one way to have it all.
“This is so much fun,” I shouted, my mouth widening into a grin. “It’s my first time, you know.”
“Your first time at the beach?” Walker looked at me in disbelief. “But you’re . . .” He clamped his mouth shut, as if he’d thought better of whatever he was about to say. Then he got a devilish gleam in his eye and let go of Zoe’s raft for a second, reaching out toward me. My heart quickened as he moved toward me, narrowing the gap between us. I kept my hand on Zoe’s raft, anchoring her.
“Daddy!” she cried. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!” But his eyes were trained on mine, and they didn’t flicker away for even an instant. I was aware of Libby watching us from somewhere close to the shore, but I didn’t care. It was as if I’d lost all control.
And then he dove under the water and grabbed my legs, and before I knew what was happening, he was pushing me up, up, higher than the water until he let go and I soared. For a moment, I flew. It was a brief feeling of delirious freedom. And then I hit the water, its icy fingers dragging me down, pushing me back and forth against the sand until I lost all sense of direction and hoped only that it might let me go before I drowned.
And then it was over; he was helping me to my feet. I coughed, choking up water and phlegm. I blinked the salt out of my eyes, which were burning furiously.
“Why did you do that?” I shouted, shaking in fury. I’d been certain I was going to die. Walker looked at me with concern. Zoe looked back between the two of us, her big eyes wide.
“Initiation,” Walker told me, his voice abashed. “I’m sorry; I didn’t realize you’d be so scared.”
“I think we should go in,” I told him. “Zoe’s looking pink.” I was just saying it as an excuse, but when I looked at her more closely, Zoe did look pink. More like red, actually. My little goose was frying. And then it occurred to me that I hadn’t put any sunscreen on her.
“Zoe, did Mommy give you sunscreen?” I asked her.
“Mmm-mm,” she said, shaking her head.
“Oh god.”
“It’s fine,” Walker assured me. “She doesn’t look that bad.”
“I bad, Daddy,” she said, sensing his concern and my panic. Her eyes began to tear up.
“Shh, you’re fine, sweet pea,” he told her. But I was already beginning to drag her back to shore. I prayed that her burn wasn’t as awful as it looked in this light. But as it turned out, it was worse. Once we got in the shade, it became evident that Zoe was going to be in a lot of pain later on.
“I can’t believe you didn’t put any sunscreen on her!” Libby’s voice was shrill, more furious than I’d ever heard it. “How could you be so careless?”
“I’m so sorry,” I stammered.
“Sorry? Do you even know what sun exposure does to baby skin? It should have been the first thing you thought of!”
“She didn’t know, Libs,” said Walker, trying to soothe her. “You’re her mother. She probably just thought—”
“And you’re her father!” Libby said coldly.
“What about Jackson, should we put some on him? Even in the shade . . .”
“I already did that!” Her fury was almost more terrifying because it was controlled. She wasn’t losing it, the way I’d seen my mother lose it with Dean back when he first
moved in. She was completely calm.
I stepped away as they spoke in low voices, reaching for my bag. I’d packed a T-shirt for myself, and I pulled it out and over Zoe’s head to cover her exposed skin. She was crying softly, bothered by her parents’ fighting.
“Hush,” I whispered. “It’s going to be okay.” It struck me that Libby hadn’t so much as glanced at Zoe’s skin yet, but I guessed she would once we packed up and got into the car. Besides, the burn hadn’t fully manifested itself. It probably would be much brighter and more painful by evening.
I settled on the opposite end of the blanket and pulled Zoe into my lap, reading to her from my book. I glanced over after a minute, and it appeared that Walker was apologizing profusely. Finally, he reached over and squeezed Libby’s hand, and she offered him her cheek for a kiss. I couldn’t help feeling grateful that Walker had absorbed the brunt of her anger.
“How’s my butterbean?” he asked as he approached.
“Good, Daddy. Annie’s weading me a stowy.”
“Is that so?” He glanced down at the book in my hand. “‘The Pit and the Pendulum?’” he asked. “Don’t you think she’s a little young for that?”
“I was giving her the abridged, G-rated version,” I said. “I’m really sorry about the sunscreen. I should have thought of it.”
Walker sighed. “You probably should have,” he agreed. “But so should I. And so should Libby,” he added. “I don’t know why she’d do Jack’s sunscreen and not Zoe’s.”
“Zoe is Annie’s responsibility, Walker,” Libby called. “And by the way, I can hear you.”
“Have I told you how gorgeous my wife is?” Walker asked, reacting quickly. “I’d say she’s the most beautiful woman on the planet, really, if I had to put money on it. . . .”
“Oh please,” Libby said. “Nice try. Come on, let’s pack up and get out of here. We can eat our lunch by the pool at home, like civilized people.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Walker agreed. “Come on, troops. You heard the woman. Let’s load up.”
“You know I hate it when you call me ‘woman,’ Walk.”
“Noted.” But he was smiling again. They both were. I clasped Zoe’s hand in mine, and we headed for the car, a beach bag slung over my shoulder and Falafel, none the worse for wear, cradled under her chin.
CHAPTER
SIX
OWEN’S FACE LIT UP WHEN HE—thankfully not one of his parents—answered the door. It had nearly killed me not to visit him sooner, but I wanted to show Libby where my priorities lay (with them) and refute her suspicion (that I had a crush on Owen) even if it was true (it was). But now it was Sunday, my day off, and I could spend it however I wanted.
“You either have the world’s worst manners, or it took you a hell of a long time to recover from your fall.” His face broke into the cutest closed-lipped smile I’d ever seen on a guy. A toothpick hung out of one corner of his mouth, and he was a little sweaty, but not unattractively so. Quite the opposite. I’d caught him unawares, and yet he looked even better than the last time I’d seen him. I sighed inwardly. It wasn’t fair—I’d spent a half hour selecting the perfect outfit from my meager wardrobe, a balance between subtly alluring and effortlessly casual. And the perfect makeup: lip gloss and a swipe of mascara.
“Actually, I happen to be the epitome of mannerly,” I informed him, trying to sound both cuter and more confident than I felt. “So polished are my manners that I even brought you a gift.” I pulled a plastic container from behind my back. Zoe and I had labored over its contents all morning. Owen looked through the side of the container and, seeing only a brown mass, pried its corner open and sniffed skeptically.
“If you’re trying to poison me,” he said, “it’s not going to work. My stomach’s built like an armory.”
“I would never. Apparently I need you too much.”
“So what is it?”
“Invite me in, and I’ll tell you.” Owen stepped aside and assumed the affected half bow of a butler. I couldn’t believe how bold I was being; it was totally unlike me. But that’s the funny thing about reinventing yourself: you can be any way you want to be at any given moment. I felt hopeful but without any confidence. I guess I didn’t truly expect things with Owen to go anywhere. I still felt too much like the old me, no matter what sort of masks I put on in the meantime. It would take more than a new home, family, and school to really change that. But for a while I could be satisfied with playing pretend.
Owen led me through the foyer and into the kitchen. The house seemed to be composed of a lot of tiny rooms, rather than an open expanse of just a few large rooms, like Libby and Walker’s. And from the looks of two of the rooms we passed on the way to the kitchen—a family room and dining area, maybe?—these small rooms were far homier and less formal than anywhere at the Cohens’. My brief glimpse told me that they were chaotic but lovely, filled with objects that didn’t make any sense individually but formed some sort of discordant harmony when all lumped together. The dining area was colorful and bright, lined with windows that overlooked the bay and decorated with Japanese vases and vintage Euro-style furniture in shades of green and blue. There was a gate up in the kitchen, the childproof kind, blocking the room off from the rest of the house. Owen disassembled it, blocking my line of vision. As soon as it was down and I was free to peek around the corner, I saw her.
“Annie, meet Izzy,” Owen said. “Isabella, Annie is our neighbor. Say a polite hello.” An enormous dog about the size of a small pony barked twice in response, her tail wagging expectantly. “‘Say hello’ was one of the first commands we taught her,” Owen explained. “That and ‘Pee outside.’”
“Hi, Izzy.” I knelt down and stroked the dog’s head and belly. Her rough tongue lapped at my palm in response. “What breed is she?”
“She’s a Rhodesian Ridgeback,” he said. “Izzy here won Best in Group at Westminster back in her day.”
“And how old is she now?”
“Pushing ten. She was two back in her glory days.” He turned to the dog, grabbing her around the muzzle so he could address her directly: “I’m only saying this for our guest’s benefit, Iz. You know I find you more glorious every single day.” I laughed, helping myself to a stool by the large granite island that graced the center of the room. On it rested a plate with a half-eaten bagel. And on the bagel rested a substance that closely resembled cat puke.
“What is that?” I asked him, not attempting to hide the horror in my voice. “Please tell me it’s something for the dog.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Owen replied. “Izzy has far better taste than that. I’m the only one in the family who eats sardines out of the can.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“You brought me a container full of brown slop as a thank-you gift,” he reminded me, raising the sardine-covered bagel to his mouth. He bit off a huge hunk. “Mmmmmmm,” he said through his chewing, his voice slightly muffled. “Delicious.”
“You’re disgusting,” I repeated, and this time I actually meant it. “And Zoe slaved away at that slop, I’ll have you know. It’s dirt pudding, and it’s delicious. Extra cookie crumbs, and I already picked out all the worms.”
“The worms are my favorite part!”
“The worms are no one’s favorite part. They’re a terrible idea. It’s like someone had an extra bushel of gummy worms they needed to get rid of.”
“I like the worms.”
“Take it up with Zoe,” I told him. “They’re probably at the bottom of her stomach by now.” We stared at each other for a second, an awkward silence descending. I leaned over to pet Izzy so I’d have something to do with my hands. Owen cleared his throat.
“So how are you liking it over there?” he finally asked.
“It’s great,” I replied. “Really great. The Cohens have been super welcoming.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Why do you sound surprised?”
“No reason, really.” Owen looked mildly unc
omfortable. “I just . . . we don’t know them very well. I think my mom swung by a few times to invite them to dinner, but they seem to prefer to hang out by themselves.”
“Well, Libby did just have a baby,” I heard myself saying defensively. “And they just moved here, so I’m sure they’re still settling in.” That last part was a blatant lie—their house was fully set up and their belongings unpacked like they’d been there for years.
“It’s cool,” Owen said, raising both palms in the air in a gesture of innocence. “I didn’t realize you were so close to them. How do you know them, anyway?”
“We met online at the beginning of the summer,” I mumbled. “I answered their ad.”
“So . . . you don’t actually know them,” Owen stated. “You sort of Internet-dated them.”
“I’ve been living there for two weeks now,” I told him. “I think that’s enough time to get a sense of anyone. I guess I trust my instincts. Libby just kind of . . . gets me. I can’t explain it. And besides, you’re hardly one to talk. You’re my age and you’re still living at home.”
“I’m probably older than you. I’m twenty.”
“Case in point.”
“Touché.”
I laughed. Owen was fun to talk to; he didn’t seem to take anything too seriously. My budding crush, which had originally been based on superficial things like looks combined with scenario (being “saved” by a handsome EMT was a meet-cute too good to waste), was full-fledged now that I liked his personality, too.
“Can I have a glass of water?” I asked. “I’m feeling parched from all this verbal sparring.”
“Yes . . . if you’ll also join me for a milkshake.” I felt myself blush—was he asking me on a date? Then Owen gestured toward the blender, already half-full of ice cream, chocolate syrup, and milk. Not a date. Right here, right now. I ducked my head down, hoping he didn’t notice my face’s rapid transition to a vivid shade of pink.
Owen brought down a glass from the cupboard above the island and filled it with water at the sink. Then he dropped two more enormous scoops of ice cream into the blender and squeezed chocolate syrup on top, sighing melodramatically as it oozed slowly from the bottle.
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