by Alexis Bass
I turn abruptly to the shelf and start pulling down the chairs. He’s completely detestable for a stack of reasons, the first of them being he’s as good a liar as I am. That he’s tricked me, shouldn’t intrigue me, it should serve as a warning that I need to stay far, far away from him. He reaches over me, his arm brushing against my shoulder, to get the chair that’s too high for me to reach.
Asshole is unfortunately my type. It comes with the territory of being attracted to people who are attracted to trouble or who are at least unafraid of it enough that they allow themselves to get in the thick of it.
I think of the way he brushed off his injuries so easily to the New Brown Family—I’m clumsy, and I fell—and how no one questioned anything he’s said. He’s a chameleon. And Finn was an act, too. The only real thing about him was the look in his eyes when he was running through the island, afraid he was going to die.
When I turn around holding the chairs, he’s standing in front of the door, but he doesn’t move. The air is stagnant in here, and he’s looking at me like he has something to say. I wait to see if he’ll say something Edison smooth with exaggerated facial expressions and a small laugh at the end of each sentence. Or if he’ll play this more like Finn, pretending he’s thought carefully about what he wants to say so much that it will sound like an admission.
It bothers me that I’ll probably never know him; he’s never going to share the truth with me, no matter what tricks I have up my sleeve. I was simply a momentary amusement to him. But I should be more. I saved him.
I try to press forward using the chairs as a barrier between us so he’ll move away from the door. But he still doesn’t step aside, and now I am closer to him than before. Much, much too close.
“Maris.” I hate that it sounds like he’s calling to me. “I’m sorry you have to lie to her about me. I should have said something that night, but it was so nice to just…” He stops to think of the right word, but he doesn’t have to because I know; I was there and felt the same way—like we were letting go of something, like we were somehow freer. That’s why it was a delicious secret; it felt like a world only the two of us had access to, that would’ve shattered if we let in other people. But he knew the whole time it was only an illusion of the night. “I don’t know,” is what he says instead of ending his sentence. I see a flash of Finn when he looks at me. He leans in closer, and the smell of cologne reminds me that I am not in here with Finn; I’m here with Edison. “Anyway, it won’t happen again. I can still promise we’re going to have a good summer.” He has the nerve to smile in that cheap way. “The best.”
This is Edison, full of charm and flirtation, even when he should be in trouble. Even when he messed up.
We carry the folding chairs out of the house, going quickly through the screened porch where George and Trisha sit with Phoebe, and down the steps.
The fireworks have already started as we move onto the beach grass, walking side by side. The noise from the fireworks exploding above us leaves a sharp ringing in my ears. Chelsea is dancing in the surf with her hands in the air and her eyes on the lights in the sky. She is completely herself around him now, her nerves swept up by the entity that is her Edison.
“She trusts you,” I say to him as we set down the chairs a few feet away from her. I don’t think he has the ability to feel bad about this, but I remind him anyway, as if some part of Finn is in there acting as a subconscious.
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t take his eyes off her. He just nods.
Chelsea has noticed us and she waves, but with the next bursts of color in the sky, she is back to craning her neck, her smile too big for her own good.
The sky is awash of drifting smoke and blinking stars. Chelsea rushes toward us. She says, “You guys almost missed the fireworks.”
Chapter 15
It’s against my better judgment that I sneak out that night and climb the hill to the half-built house. Where most people see a red flag, I see a question mark. Most see Do Not Enter and simply walk by; I think, Why not? What could be so bad? And I push past the sign to meet my demise.
But I couldn’t sleep and couldn’t stop thinking about him and the way he’d fooled me.
I don’t know why he would be here. I am clearly the fluke—the collateral that happened to him by accident that he has to contend with before he can enjoy his great summer with the girlfriend he chose, the one he speaks to every night before bed, time zone difference be damned, to sustain their distance for the majority of the year. The one who came to his mother’s funeral, who sees through the birthday bullshit with all the whiskey and cigarettes and the lost horse, and would probably laugh off a gambling debt, too, especially when his family seems like they could easily handle it for him.
I wonder if there’s any part of him that’s ashamed of the trouble, embarrassed about his near-death experience. Sometimes it is humiliating to get in over your head. When you’re experiencing the rush, you don’t anticipate the potential for failure and how it will affect your pride.
Just like I can’t predict the crushing blow of humiliation I’m about to feel now, when I get to the vacant house and realize he’s not there, that he’ll never be there again. Finn is a lie and Edison is a disguise.
As I’m walking up the dirt path I see light coming from the top floor. And then I see him. He’s standing angled against the window opening, the tarp pulled back, the lantern sitting on the ledge. I step behind a tree and shut off the light glowing from my phone. He alternates between looking out the window and checking his phone for the time.
Is there possibly anyone else he might be waiting for?
I stand behind the tree awhile longer, watching him. I am there for almost forty-five minutes, and he stays, he waits. No one else comes.
I decide not to show myself. He’s proved to me in more than one way that he’s not good. I think of Chelsea dancing in the surf under the lights and her desperately happy face when she saw him today. There are too many reasons to stay away from him and only one reason to see him.
I try to ignore that this feels like a victory, walking away knowing that maybe I wasn’t the only one who wanted something. That maybe he shared a part of himself with me that night, the way I did with him.
When I leave, I can’t see him in the window anymore. But I know he is still there, because of the light from his lantern.
The thing is, I am not good either.
Chapter 16
The next day, the sun is out in full force, the sky clear blue and vivid—a welcoming scene as we head to North Point Beach for the clambake, where the end of Main Street meets the ocean in the form of an expansive beach. Today, the docks are full, and the water is dotted with anchored boats. Boats next to boats next to boats. Everyone is here, whether you rent one of the houses along the water or have a mansion in the cliffs. Because who can tell the difference when you’re sand-smeared with ocean mist in your hair and scarfing on butter-drenched seafood.
Chelsea is walking on air. She’s off the boat first, jogging as fast as her wedge sandals can carry her, trying to find Edison and the Duvals.
The beach is crowded with people and lawn chairs and beach umbrellas, food vendors, and paddleboards and kayaks for rent. The air smells like suntan lotion and sizzling butter.
At first, we can’t find them, but then they appear, toward the back of the beach, higher up than the rest, under a blue-and-white-striped canopy, sitting on an outdoor living room set. The canopy is a clean, bright spot on this crowded beach. It looks out of place and perfectly in place at the same time.
Edison is leaning against the back of the couch with his arms crossed. When he sees us, he puts on a smile for the ages, stands up straight, and opens his arms.
“You made it!” He motions for us to come under the canopy, out of the sun.
The moment we enter their canopy, I can feel it, the air getting drier, cooler, the ocean smell fading, replaced with that of basil and pineapple. A true testament to the magic
of money, the extravagancies of wealth. It’s made them different already.
There are four Duval men, including Edison, all tall with broad shoulders and those gray-brown eyes. Edison is by far the youngest and the scrawniest, with his lean muscles that never seemed ropy until he’s standing next to the others. There is a woman sprawled out on the chaise longue in a large hat and oversized sunglasses.
Chelsea and Edison make the introductions since it’s the first time George and Trisha are meeting the Duvals. Both sides tack “We’ve heard so much about you” onto their greetings. When they say this to me, I know they are being polite.
The Duvals are strong in their stance and in their handshakes. They have full-toothed smiles and unwrinkled clothes and deep, earnest voices.
Oswald is the oldest. He has dimples still prominent against his aging skin, heavy with wrinkles and sunspots. Even I can tell that when he was younger, he was of the devastatingly handsome, knee-knocking variety.
“Please pardon Eddy’s appearance,” Oswald says, brushing sand off Edison’s bare shoulders and handing him the white polo lying on the back of one of the chairs.
Instead of putting it on, Edison rolls his eyes.
This surprisingly makes Oswald smile.
Warren is Oswald’s son. He has graying hair like Oswald’s, but a full head of it, as well as a finely trimmed mustache. He speaks in a tone that reminds us we are outsiders.
“Any friends of Edison’s are friends of ours,” says Warren. He smiles a practiced smile. “All the more people to keep an eye on Eddy, troublemaker that he is.” Warren’s eyes find Chelsea when he says this, and she beams back at him, laughing lightly like this is an inside joke—Edison getting into that playful sort of trouble he gets into.
“Clumsy is more like it.” Oswald chuckles, too.
Sepp Duval is introduced as Oswald’s grandson instead of as Warren’s son. He’s older than Edison, everything about him more progressed, from the hair on his chest to the definition in his shoulders, but his face still has a youthful glow. Sepp inherited Oswald’s dimples and has hair blonder than any of the others’. He doesn’t say anything, not even hello. His interest in us has faded, and he is looking out at the crowd in search of something more amusing. He flags down a passing beer cart, grabbing two.
Chelsea sheepishly bends forward, waving, trying to meet the eye line of the woman on the couch. I can tell by the shakiness of Chelsea’s smile that she is nervous about getting this woman’s attention.
“My wife, Karen,” Warren intercepts, since we’re all looking at her now.
It takes two pats on Karen’s shoulder and Sepp speaking for the first time, saying, “Mother. Mother, the Browns are here,” before she seems to notice there are people trying to talk to her.
She takes off her large sunglasses to reveal hooded eyelids smeared with shimmering bronze shadow and says, “Pleased to meet you.” At least, that’s what I think she’s said. It’s hard to understand her because she’s slurring. There’s an empty martini glass resting in front of her. Warren stands at the stainless steel drink cart in the corner of the canopy, mixing her another. Karen’s lips are very full, her cheeks prominent, her skin radiant, and she is beautiful. But her eyes look aged and wise, as if peering out from a mask of who she wants you to see.
I try to fit Edison into this picture as Warren and Karen’s son, Sepp’s younger brother. But I remember Edison’s mother is dead, and I wonder if it was she who was related to this family and there was once an authentic Duval woman.
“I bet you’re happy to have Eddy back for the summer,” Oswald says to Chelsea.
Sepp lets out a sharp laugh. “Look how he comes back to us—literally beat up by life.”
“You made it a whole year. I’m proud of you, kid.” Oswald pats Edison on the shoulder.
“Now’s your chance to be worldly,” Warren says to Edison. His eyes squint almost shut when he smiles. “Get it out of your system now before the demands of the real world catch up to you.” The way he laughs is almost threatening. Edison frowns, like this shift in the conversation makes him uneasy. “We can only have one Sepp in this family, after all.”
All the Duvals share the same low chuckles over this, except Sepp, who rolls his eyes and shakes his head.
Warren leans our way to explain, though despite this inclusion, it still feels very much like it’s their world here; we just happen to be standing under the canopy holding it. “Sepp spent the winter visiting some of our business partners in Spain and the last two months in France doing god knows what. Next month, who can say?”
“I handle all the international affairs,” Sepp states, a defensiveness in his tone.
“Right,” Warren says, “whether that takes you to Cannes for the film festival or Pamplona for the running of the bulls, or wherever the supermodels are congregating, you ‘handle it.’”
Sepp says something to him in French. Then something else in Spanish. Thus proving his point, I guess. Oswald starts speaking French, and he and Sepp banter back and forth for a while.
“Not this again,” Edison says, laughing. Now it seems Warren is the annoyed one. They all get a turn. It’s like a dance.
“I was only asking Sepp if supermodels did in fact congregate and how one knew where to find such gatherings,” Oswald says. When Oswald’s dimples make an appearance, it’s like a reset button, dissolving all the tension between the Duval men.
Chelsea asks Sepp if he’s going back to finish his degree after the summer’s over, and Oswald laughs.
“I graduated last year, thank you very much,” Sepp says.
“Congratulations on your useless degree,” Warren says, shaking his head. “A world history major. What a brilliant excuse to spend four years abroad.”
“And what was your excuse for majoring in philosophy?” Oswald asks Warren.
“To have something to talk about at dinner parties other than the cement business. As riveting as it is.”
“That’s your livelihood you’re insulting,” Oswald says. The dimples reappear in one of his magical smiles.
Chelsea notices the break in tension and leans in to ask a question. “You’re still majoring in business, aren’t you, Eddy?”
Warren and Sepp laugh heartily. The Duval men are either annoyed at their life’s situation or laughing at it. It’s blissful in a way, and it comes with having money, I can see, but in this moment, I understand the appeal of the Duvals. They have no real troubles. There’s something lax and infectious about being around this kind of laissez-faire atmosphere, like we’re breathing it in and we can rest assured that no one here will be talking about anything too serious or taking anything too seriously. Only shallow problems are welcome here.
“Hey,” Edison says. It is his turn to be irritated. “Someone’s got to worry about actual business practices, haven’t they?”
This gets another roaring laugh out of Sepp and a proud nod from Oswald.
“We still can’t believe how Edison got so lucky, meeting you,” Warren says to Chelsea, a quick and obvious subject change. She puts her hand over heart, in thanks to Warren.
I check to see if Edison is looking at me. He is pointedly staring at his toes. I feel powerful in a sense, knowing that he went to meet me last night, that he waited for me. We both know the truth: the real luck for him was me being there on the island.
Chapter 17
As the afternoon presses on, and we start mingling with others on the beach, people are more curious about us now that they’ve seen us come from the Duvals’ canopy. We meet men with gold watches and women with diamond earrings and other people my and Chelsea’s age, who are wary to be outright friendly but also polite enough to appease their parents. The people here are out to flaunt, and now we are no different.
“George Brown, head of sales, Goodman Pharmaceuticals” is George’s official title, the way he introduces himself to everyone he meets. Some have titles like George’s; others are like the Duvals and their names say e
verything you need to know about them. Trisha, Chelsea, and I are wife and daughters. Chelsea gets to assert her title as a future college student and, of course, the girlfriend of Edison.
On my second plate of seafood, I lose sight of the New Browns, who are not in the Duval canopy or under the beach umbrellas we set up closer to the water. I notice them in the surf, posing for a picture, George holding Phoebe with his other arm around Trisha and Chelsea, as one of their new friends—the family of Bryce Steward, VP of finance, Astley and Associates—takes their photo. Edison stands behind the camera making faces to get Phoebe to smile.
I plop down in the sand, right where I am, which is a fine spot because I’m not infringing on anyone else’s area and am not in the way of one of the volleyball games going on or in the path that leads to the fire pit with the food. I feast on my plateful of lobster and clams, crab legs and corn, watching as people try to navigate their paddleboards over the waves, children collect seashells along the shore, the New Browns act like a perfect family, and Edison plays the part of the perfect boyfriend.
Sepp finds me twenty minutes later, sitting in the sand, hunched over with butter dripping down my chin. I saw him coming a mile away and didn’t move because I thought he wouldn’t see me. Guys like Sepp—older, pretentious, worldly, even if his experiences are confined to only the privileged slices of life—never tend to notice someone like me.
“How’s it taste?” He falls ungracefully beside me, impressively managing to keep his own full plate upright and his beer from spilling.
The state of my face, covered in butter, and my nearly empty plate should make the answer obvious, but Sepp stares expectantly.
“It’s perfect,” I say.
This makes him laugh, low and breathy. “Nothing is perfect,” he says. I wish I could see his eyes through his Wayfarers so I’d know how far gone he really is. Instead, all I can see is my own hardened expression staring back at me.