I reach for a second glass and hand them both to him. “In or out?”
“Always out,” he says, filling our glasses before putting the pitcher back in the fridge.
I follow him outside to our usual spot on the front porch swing, him on the left and me on the right with my feet resting in his lap.
“Ahh,” he says, taking a sip. “This is the life.”
“It’s not so bad.” The Arnold Palmer tastes fresh, the perfect combination of sweet and tangy. Aunt Jill must have used real lemonade, not the artificial stuff Mom uses.
“Thank you,” Dad says, giving my foot a squeeze.
“For what?”
“I know you didn’t want to come down here this summer.”
“Not for the whole summer, but it’s not like I had much say, anyway.”
“Well, thank you nonetheless.”
“You’re welcome more the less.”
It’s easy to pretend that nothing’s wrong when everything is normal like this. It’s only when Dad starts coughing, or when he stands to the side and I can see how thin he’s getting, that I remember. I mean, it’s not like I ever forget. It’s always lingering in the back of my mind; I just try to keep it as far back as I can. Because thinking about it, it’s just too much.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Dad says, but I can’t tell him what I was thinking. It would make him too sad if he knew what I really thought about, when I let myself think about what’s going on with him.
“They’re worth at least a dollar,” I say with a smile, trying to keep things light.
“Add it to my tab,” he says. “I want to know what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours.”
“Nothing, really.”
“Nothing is always something. Are you thinking about Liam?” He raises his eyebrow as if he thinks he knows.
“Who?”
“I get it, not something you want to talk to your old man about.”
“It’s not that.”
He gives me one of his shrink looks, like he’s waiting for me to keep talking.
“I mean, I like him,” I admit. “And I thought he liked me, but I think it was just an acting thing, like he was getting into character. Whatever it was, it’s over now.” I shrug, trying to make it seem like it’s not a big deal, like I haven’t been checking my phone every few minutes to see if he responded to the billboard picture I texted him. Which he hasn’t.
“I’m sorry, love bug.”
“Whatever,” I say again. “I think he’s going out with one of his sister’s friends. It’s hard to compete with a pretty college girl when you’re just a high school freshman.”
“Just you wait,” Dad says. “It won’t be long until you’re that pretty college girl breaking hearts and taking names.”
“It’s not a big deal,” I say, even though it is.
“I’m sure it feels like it is now, but it’s part of growing up,” he says. “And if it helps, boys like Liam who are all that now, well, sometimes that’s as good as they get.”
I roll my eyes. “They tell you to say that in the parenting manual, don’t they?”
Dad laughs, which makes me smile. “I wish there was a manual, but it’s true. You know, I wasn’t always this good-looking.”
“You’re not that good-looking now,” I tease.
“Oh, Cecelia,” he sings. “You’re breaking my heart.”
“And I’m shaking your confidence daily.” I say the words since my heart isn’t in a singing mood.
“Seriously, though,” Dad says, “I was the boy in school that everyone teased.”
“I’ve seen pictures, you were cute.”
“That’s because you love me. I was pretty chubby, and I stuttered when I talked.”
“You did?”
“I d-d-did.”
“Huh.” It’s hard to picture my dad as a little kid, much less a little kid who stuttered. I wonder if I would have been nice to him if I’d met him back then. I’m not sure I would’ve. “Why didn’t you ever tell me that?”
“It wasn’t important, and I’m only saying it now so you don’t worry too much about the boys who are stud muffins in high school.”
I flinch at the phrase “stud muffins.” “No one says that anymore.”
“Well, whatever you want to call it—forget about Liam and look for that frog who’s going to turn into a handsome prince like your old man.”
“They do say you have to kiss a lot of frogs.”
“Not too many,” Dad says, nudging his shoulder against mine. “Speaking of kisses . . .”
I sigh louder than necessary.
“Onstage with Liam, was that . . . ?”
“All fake,” I lie. “We were just acting.”
“Really?” He sounds equally impressed and relieved.
“I told you I’m a good actress.”
“You don’t have to tell me that,” he says. “I saw it with my own eyes.”
I blush because I love getting compliments. Especially ones that are well deserved.
My phone vibrates in my pocket and I lean forward so I can get it out. I know it probably isn’t Liam, but that doesn’t stop me from wishing it were. My face falls a bit when I see it’s just Beau.
Mom must have gone to the café. My friendship with Beau would be much less complicated if our moms weren’t besties.
“Anyone special?” Dad asks.
“Just a frog.”
He reaches for my hand and gives it a kiss.
I put my phone back in my pocket and look at my dad, trying to memorize his face. “So, what now?”
“Now, we sit and talk and drink.” He raises his glass to clink against mine. “We relax.”
“Not now-now.” I hate when I say the wrong words. “I mean, like, now that we’re here. What do you want to do?”
I can’t read the expression on Dad’s face, but I know enough to know it isn’t good. I look away, wishing I had never opened my big mouth.
When I finally get the nerve to look again, his smile is back, but it feels painted on, like it isn’t real. “I have something in the trunk. A box, will you go get it?”
I nod, happy for the distraction, and head over to the car. Inside the trunk, I find a cardboard box that’s like those document boxes Mom keeps in the garage, as if she’s ever going to need her old work notebooks and papers again.
It isn’t heavy, so I easily carry it to the porch swing. I hand it to Dad, who sets it on his lap. He raises an eyebrow and opens the box slowly, as if there’s something dangerous inside. When he realizes I’m not playing along, he takes the lid off and sets it down.
I lean over to see what appears to be a bunch of junk. I try not to look disappointed, but I had hoped it would be something cool. But he looks excited about it, so I pretend, which isn’t much different from acting.
“What is all this stuff?” I ask, trying to make my voice sound like it’s full of wonder instead of boredom.
“Just a few things to help me with my list.” He pats his shirt, where I see a little notebook sticking out of the pocket.
“What list?” I ask, reaching for the notebook. He stops me and shakes his head.
“A list of things I want to do this summer.”
I reach into the box and pull out the first thing my fingers wrap around. “A yoyo?”
Dad nods and watches me as I slip my finger into the white loop of string. I hold it in my hand before dropping it to the ground, where it lands with a clunk.
“Here, let me.” Dad takes the yoyo, winds the white string back around it and stands up. He drops the yoyo, just like I did, but when he does it, the little blue circle stops before it reaches the ground. I watch in amazement, not having to pretend this time, as my dad makes the yoyo do all sorts of tricks. With a flick of his wrist, the string disappears, getting pulled back into the yoyo, back into my dad’s seemingly expert hands.
“Wow.”
“Before the end of the summer, I want to teach you how to do
that.”
I nod, even though I’m pretty sure there aren’t enough hours in the summer for me to get as good with the old toy as he is.
“What else do you have in there?” I start digging through what seems like a random collection of junk. A few books and DVDs, a deck of cards, and underneath it all—no, he didn’t.
I smile and pull a giant puzzle box out from the bottom. “Ten thousand pieces?” I ask. The biggest one we’ve tried before was five thousand, and that had taken us until the morning we left the beach at the end of the summer.
The picture on the front of the box looks like it could have been taken down at our beach, with dunes in the foreground, and pure white sand stretching all the way to the emerald-green water, which blends into the clear blue sky.
“Whaddya think?” Dad says, the smile back in his eyes.
“I think the first one who finds all four corners gets to pick where we start.”
“Deal,” Dad says, following me back inside. He opens the sliding glass doors so we can feel the breeze while I turn the card table back into a puzzle table, the way it used to be years ago, before everything changed for the worse.
Chapter Nineteen
Alexis
My feet feel heavy, planted like one of the palm trees outside The Broken Crown, the bakery café Jill opened last year. I’m so proud of her for going after her dream, for picking herself up and thriving after Adam left her and the kids for a woman closer to their age than his. I knew he had a wandering eye, and I always suspected he did more than look. But for her sake, I wish I hadn’t been right.
One of those friends who’s more like family, Jill has been there since before the beginning, back when we were kids without a care in the world building sandcastles and chasing waves at the beach. She was there when Tommy and I first crossed the line from friendship to something more, and she was the first one I called when I found out I was pregnant—before I even told Tommy.
I cried on the phone, telling her how I wanted to be happy about the news, but I was terrified. I lived in Atlanta and Tommy was still living in Destin. A relationship could work long-distance, but I knew that was no way to raise a kid. I didn’t want to give up the career I had already sacrificed so much for, and Tommy had his practice in Destin. She let me talk until my voice was worn out, then she reminded me what I knew all along—that Tommy would move heaven and earth to have a family with me.
And she was right. I barely got the words “I’m pregnant” out before he said he was moving up to Atlanta. That was the first time he asked me to marry him. I can still picture him pulling into my driveway. He was so excited, he tried to get out of the car before unbuckling his seatbelt. He dropped to one knee, right there on the blacktop.
I took his hands in mine and pulled him back to his feet. Tommy knew how I felt about marriage—but he still looked disappointed when I told him no. His expression changed back to joy when I brought his hands to my belly. The baby was our future, and I wasn’t going anywhere.
Jill was there for me through all of it, and now, she’s going to be here for me, with me, through the end. I’m more grateful for that than anything, so I should be running up the stairs to see her. But I can’t make myself move.
The bell on the front door jingles a welcoming chime and I look up to see a woman with rusty-red hair and a face full of freckles holding the door open for me. Her smile takes me back to all of the summers when we were kids, younger than our kids are now.
“Are you just going to stand out there all day?”
The sound of Jill’s voice brings tears to my eyes. I shake my head and slowly walk up the steps to where she’s waiting.
“Your shoes,” I say, looking down to the bright pink Crocs on her feet, “are hideous.”
Jill laughs and folds me into her arms. I rest my head on her shoulder, and the moment I let myself relax, everything that’s been building up is released in a tidal wave of tears.
“Shhh,” she says, smoothing my hair the way I used to do with CeCe back when she still let me comfort her. Jill breaks out of our embrace but doesn’t let go of my hand as she leads me inside, past the crowded tables, behind the counter, and through the swinging double doors where a petite woman wearing a flour-covered apron is clearly in the middle of something. “Can you give us a minute, Lou?”
“But the tortes . . . ,” the woman says.
“They’ll be fine, I’ve got them,” Jill assures her.
The woman’s eyes avoid mine as she looks around the room, as though she’s not sure where else to go. “They need to come out of the oven in thirteen minutes. And then the glaze—”
“I said I’ve got it, Lou,” Jill says, her voice more assertive.
Lou smiles awkwardly, her eyes briefly meeting mine before she pushes through the doors toward the restaurant part of the café.
“Sit,” Jill says, pulling a wooden stool up to the industrial island.
“I’m sorry,” I manage to say between tears. “I’ve been so good at holding myself together.” I stop talking to wipe my nose, which is running as much as my eyes.
“Here.” Jill hands me a clean dishrag. “And you have nothing to be sorry about.” Her brown eyes are shining with tears of her own.
Jill pulls another stool up next to mine. “I want to ask how you’re doing, but I know it’s probably the dumbest question in the world.”
“It’s not,” I say, wiping away what’s hopefully the last of my tears. “And in spite of how it looks at the moment, I’m actually doing kind of okay.”
“Looks like you’re doing better than I would be.”
I shake my head. Jill is already doing better than I am. The how, the what, and the why of our current situations are different, but the end result is the same. Of all the things I imagined for Jill and me to be doing together as we grew older, raising kids on our own was not one of them.
As hard as it might be now, I know Abigail and Beau are better off without Adam being such a big presence in their lives. Even when we were kids, Adam acted like the world was his, and we were just along for the ride. If he wanted something, he took it, and he didn’t give a damn about the wreck he left in his wake.
When Jill first told me about their friendship-to-love story, she romanticized the slow dance she and Adam shared to “Satellite” by Dave Matthews. They were both at the senior prom with other dates, but the night ended with the two of them in the back of Adam’s pickup truck. By the end of summer, Jill had traded her dreams of culinary school for a shotgun wedding. They lost the baby, but the marriage unfortunately stuck.
I like to think that if I had been there, I could have helped Jill see that she had other options. Even if she had the baby, she didn’t have to marry him. Because even at his best, Adam Carter was a one-night-stand kind of guy.
He was nothing like Tommy. Who even now is at home, unpacking our suitcases before going to the grocery store. I am the worst caregiver in the history of caregivers. It’s so pathetic I have to laugh.
Jill raises an eyebrow. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” I say, but I can’t stop laughing. “Everything.”
Jill looks at me like I’m a crazy person, and I’m afraid she may be right. I bend over and focus on my breathing to slow the laughter down. I know all too well that laughter is just one step removed from tears, and I’ve cried all that I care to for one day.
Once the laughter has faded and my breathing is back to normal, I gather the courage to ask the question that I’ve been dying to ask, especially since I noticed the production trailers lined up down the street from the café.
“Have you seen her?” I ask, raising an eyebrow so Jill knows which “her” I’m talking about. As if there could be any other.
“She’s been in a few times,” Jill admits. I try to hide the disappointment on my face, but Jill sees right through me. “It’s not like I can turn customers away. They’re shooting right down the street. But she only comes in one day a week—I don’t think
her part is that big.”
“Can you believe she’s playing a mother?” I try to keep my tone light so Jill knows I’m not upset with her. And I’m not, not really. I’m just surprised because Jill is supposed to hate Monica even more than I do.
Back then, almost sixteen years ago, Destin was just a blip on my memory. Whenever I thought about the place I spent so many summers, Tommy and Jill were frozen in time, still twelve-year-olds on the beach where I’d left them. Not adults dealing with unfaithful husbands and evil, deceitful wives.
But Jill had a front-row seat to the destruction when Monica left Tommy with a broken heart—from both the sudden end of their marriage and the child that would never be. To hear Jill tell the story, she didn’t care much for Monica even before their relationship turned sour. I can’t imagine a world where all of that would be forgotten, much less forgiven.
“If you tell anyone I’ll deny it,” Jill says. “But I spit in her coffee. Hocked a good loogie in there.”
“You didn’t!”
“No.” Jill shakes her head. “I didn’t. I just gave her a quick smile and hid in the back. Mature, right?”
“More mature than I would be.” I’ve thought about what I would do if I ran into her. In my mind, it would play out in different ways depending on whether I was with Tommy or on my own. I’d have an advantage if it was just me since she’d have no idea who I was or how I was even peripherally connected to her life. One good thing about the fact that I wasn’t there back then.
Of course, like Jill, I don’t know if I’d have the nerve to do any of the things I imagined, but it was therapeutic to think about.
I’m about to tell Jill one of the scenarios that involves my car and a parking lot when I notice an unpleasant smell overpowering the sweet notes that filled the room just moments ago. “Is something burning?” I ask.
“The tortes!” we say at the same time. I move out of the way as she runs around the island and opens the industrial oven, letting black smoke billow out. Oops.
Lou rushes back into the kitchen, taking charge. “I’ve got it,” she says, stepping in front of Jill.
If I didn’t know any better, I might think Lou was the boss. She grabs the towel hanging from her side and reaches into the oven, pulling out the tray of ruined tortes. She sets the hot pan down and one by one dumps the burned shells into the trash can.
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