Jill looks hurt but recovers beautifully, shifting the conversation like a pro. “So what are your plans this summer, now that you’re here?”
“He’s got a list,” I tell her, trying not to sound too smug.
“I like lists,” Jill says. “What’s on it?”
“A little bit of everything,” Tommy says. Beyond telling me that there is one, he hasn’t divulged any of the details. In due time, he says, even though he knows I’m probably the least patient person on the planet. “Little stuff, like spending time with the three of you, watching some of my favorite old movies again, and some bigger things like getting matching tattoos with Lexie.”
“Not a chance,” I tell him. “It’s against my religion, and you know that pain and I are not friends.”
“Speaking of pain,” Jill says. “How hard has it been not working? Think you’ll really be able to let it go?”
I shrug and take a sip of wine. Normally, the question wouldn’t bother me, but I can’t help recalling the sting I felt when Jill sounded so surprised after I told her I’d decided to take the summer off rather than try to work remotely. I had hoped now that Jill had her own business she would understand that work isn’t a chore for everyone, that I really love what I do.
“It’s definitely an adjustment,” I tell her. “I think it will be easier next week when I’m not so aware of the day-to-day things going on, the schedules that have to be kept. I mean, I trust Becky to handle everything, it’s just a lot.”
“I can relate,” Jill says. “Lou is the best, but if I’m not there, I don’t know, maybe I just like to think I’m more necessary than I am.”
I nod a little too eagerly in agreement, relieved to see that she does get it.
“You’re a lucky girl, Ab,” Tommy says. “You can learn a lot from these two strong, successful women right here.”
Jill and I look at each other, and then at Tommy, who is smiling like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
We stick to safe subjects for the rest of the evening—a lot of reminiscing and talking about the past, maybe so we don’t have to think too much about the bleak future that lies ahead of us. Abigail mostly listens, and Jill doesn’t protest when Tommy pours a little more wine in her glass.
On our way out of the restaurant, Brit stops Jill. “Do you have a minute?”
“Sure?” Jill says uncertainly.
“Go ahead,” I say, giving her a big hug. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Brit smiles in our direction before leaning in close to talk to Jill.
It could be something about the café. Jill mentioned trying to get her pastries into some local restaurants. But then Brit looks over her shoulder in our direction, and I see the concern in her eyes.
It was impossible not to notice the coughing earlier, and she’s known Tommy long and well enough to notice the changes in his physique.
I send a silent thank-you toward Jill, hoping she knows how much I appreciate her. One of the worst parts of this whole thing has been telling people what’s going on. If it had been any other type of cancer, it may have been different, but with lung cancer people put the blame on the victim. Even if they don’t ask, you can see the thought cross their mind, wondering if the person was a smoker. As if getting sick was their fault.
“What do you think?” Tommy says as we reach the bottom of the stairs.
“Sorry, I wasn’t listening.”
“I asked if you wanted to see if there was a room at the inn.” There’s just enough light in the dark parking lot that I can see the sparkle in Tommy’s eyes.
“That inn?” I point toward the motel behind him.
“Babe.” I close the distance between us and wrap my arms around his waist. “I love you, but you’ve clearly lost your mind.”
“It could be a little staycation.”
“As lovely as that sounds, you know I’m more of a hotel girl.”
“This is a hotel.”
“It’s a motel. And we have a lovely house just a few blocks away.”
The beep of the car as he presses the unlock button lets me know I’ve won this conversation. I hold my hands out for the keys and climb into the driver’s seat.
“What’s the difference between a hotel and a motel, anyway?” Tommy asks, buckling his seatbelt.
“One letter,” I tease. “And about three stars.”
“Smart and beautiful,” Tommy says. “How in the world did a guy like me get a girl like you.”
I reach over and rest my hand on his cheek. He puts his hand on top of mine and I almost consider changing my mind.
“Let’s go home,” he says.
And I couldn’t agree more.
Chapter Twenty-Two
CeCe
@BeauBo: HEY
@WhistlerGurl: Hey
@BeauBo: WHAT R U DOING?
@WhistlerGurl: Nothing. And stop using all caps
@BeauBo: Want to go to the beach?
@WhistlerGurl: Not really
@BeauBo: Ur no fun
I don’t reply because he’s right. I’m not very much fun right now.
@BeauBo: Text me if u change ur mind
@WhistlerGurl: I won’t
@WhistlerGurl: But thx
@BeauBo: L8r
It’s a nice day out. I should go with Beau—but my heart can’t take another day on the beach without running into any of the Seasiders cast.
It was stupid to think I could casually bump my way into an opportunity of a lifetime. Kind of like it was stupid of me to think I wouldn’t be upset to see the cast announcement for the summer camp production of The Sound of Music this morning. It hurts knowing my name should have been on the list, and what I saw on Instagram hadn’t helped, either.
Liam posted a picture of himself looking as cute as ever, standing by the wall next to the cast list, with his arm around my former best friend. I had to beg Sofia to do theater camp with me; she should have dropped out as soon as I had to.
The text was a little blurry, but I could see enough to tell that Liam was playing Captain von Trapp, which I knew he would be. But I hadn’t been expecting to see that Sofia would be playing the role of Maria.
I’d taken some solace in the fact that the Captain and Maria weren’t star-crossed lovers like Liam and I had played, but then I googled and found out there is a scene when they kiss. I haven’t been able to get the thought of them together out of my head since. It probably doesn’t help that I keep looking at their stupid picture.
I close my laptop and decide to at least get some fresh air. I can sit out on the porch swing and read if Mom isn’t already out there. She’s been spending a lot of time at the café with Aunt Jill, so hopefully she’s there. Anywhere but here.
Downstairs, the living room door is closed, which means Dad is probably talking to one of his head cases. I glance out the front window, and it looks like the coast is clear. My spirits pick up as I head into the kitchen to pour a glass of the Arnold Palmers that are always in the fridge. I don’t really see what the big deal is about them—it’s just iced tea mixed with lemonade, but Mom loves them.
I would understand the fascination a little more if Mom didn’t use the granulated lemonade that comes in a canister. She uses the same thing for the iced tea, not even a real tea bag. They’d taste so much better with natural lemonade and sun tea. Maybe some fresh mint.
That’s not a bad idea, actually.
I scrawl a quick note that I’m going on a bike ride and grab $20 from the coffee mug on the second shelf of the cabinet by the sink where Mom keeps a little emergency cash.
The Whole Foods is on the other side of 98, and Mom would flip if she knew I rode my bike across the busy six-lane highway—but what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.
I grab my helmet and start off. I hesitate at the edge of the highway, almost second-guessing myself, but at least there’s a traffic light at this intersection. I wait at the red light, my foot on the brake and my heart beating in my throat.
The light turns green and I pedal as fast as I can until I’m on the right side of the highway. Cars in both directions are stopped at red lights, so it’s not really a big deal. But it feels exhilarating, kind of like the day I snuck into the theater at school. I’ve wasted so much of my life following the rules.
I consider turning left into the Commons to buy a little something for myself. That $20 in my pocket could easily turn into a few new lip glosses at Sephora. But I took the money to buy something for Mom, to do something nice for her so she knows I’m not the worst person in the world.
But lip gloss.
I ignore the urge and turn right toward Whole Foods. Now that I know it’s not a big deal to ride across the highway, I’ll come back and go to the Commons another time.
There’s a bike rack outside Whole Foods, so I lock my bike up and take off my helmet, trying to fluff a little life back into my matted-down hair. I grab a cart even though I’m just getting a few things and toss my helmet in the basket.
This Whole Foods isn’t as big as the one Dad and I go to back in Atlanta, but I’m not looking for anything that fancy today, and I assume they’ll have the basics.
My first stop is the produce department, where I ignore the prebagged bunch of lemons and grab an empty bag to fill with the juiciest ones I can find. My eyes are drawn to the brightest ones that don’t have any wrinkling on their skin, just the way I learned on the Food Network.
I take two lemons in my hands. They both smell good and feel heavy for their size, but the first one doesn’t give when I squeeze it, which I know means it won’t yield much juice. The second one has the perfect amount of give, so I drop it in the bag and continue looking for six more that are just as ripe.
Next, I roll my cart over to the fresh herbs. Mint had been my first thought, but now that I’m here, I’m thinking basil or rosemary might be better. I reach for all three containers even though I can’t afford to get them all. I smell them one at a time, imagining how each one would taste mixed with freshly squeezed lemons and sun tea.
I put the rosemary back and try to decide between the mint and the basil. On one hand, the whole point of this was to elevate Mom’s palate and show off mine, and basil is much more creative. But I know mint will be good, and maybe it’s better to take baby steps with Mom.
Holding the two herbs in my hand, I think back to how great it was when I stopped playing it safe and flew across the highway, so I put the mint back and drop the basil in my cart.
I find everything else I need quickly, then make my way to the register. I don’t understand why most people, including Mom, complain about going to the grocery store. It’s so much fun, picking out different ingredients and imagining how they’ll come together. After the thing I don’t want to think about happens, maybe I’ll take over the grocery shopping. As long as Mom pays for it and lets me decide what to buy.
“Find everything you need?” the cashier, a woman with blond dreadlocks, asks.
“Yes, thank you.” I try to make my voice sound as mature as I can. She hands me my change as if it’s not weird for a fourteen-year-old to be grocery shopping for herself.
Maybe this will work . . . Pushing the cart back toward the front of the store, I consider the logistics of it all. While there is no doubt in my mind I could do a better job at the grocery shopping than Mom would, I don’t know if I’d be able to pull it off. Especially since I won’t even have my learner’s permit for another year.
As I set the grocery bag into the basket of my bike, the realization of what I’d been thinking makes me sick to my stomach. Something must be seriously wrong with me, making plans for when Dad’s gone as if it’s not a big deal. And it’s the biggest deal. It’s the worst thing in the entire world and I’m worried about who’s going to go grocery shopping? Maybe Mom’s right—maybe I am a horrible, selfish person.
I put my helmet back on. It hurts a little going over my ears, but the hurt feels good. I deserve that, and a lot worse.
Riding back over to the intersection of Highway 98 and Crystal Beach, it doesn’t seem like as big of a deal anymore. Instead of butterflies in my stomach, it just feels like there’s a big, empty hole.
The light turns green and I pedal across at a normal speed, back down Crystal Beach and back down Luke to the house where my dad is dying.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Alexis
What’s this?” I ask out loud, even though no one is around to answer me. A big glass jar is sitting on the edge of the front porch with four tea bags floating inside. One of CeCe’s cooking experiments, no doubt.
Inside, the sliding doors to the living room are closed, which means Tommy must be talking to a patient, even though he was supposed to stop working before we left Atlanta. He says it makes him feel good to be needed, and I resist the urge to make a joke about clearly not being the only workaholic in the family.
I push the thought of what’s happening back at the agency out of my mind and head toward the kitchen to put the canapés Jill insisted I bring home in the refrigerator. I pause in the doorway, surprised to find CeCe sitting at the kitchen table.
“What are you doing inside on such a beautiful day?” I assumed she would be down at the beach.
“Isn’t it obvious?”
I look at the Whole Foods bag sitting on the chair beside her and the pile of lemons on the table in front of her.
“Did Dad take you to Whole Foods?” He’s not supposed to be driving anymore, but at least it’s close by.
“I just got a few things,” she says, flickering her eyes between me and the cutting board. “I’m actually making something for you.”
I must have heard her wrong. “For me?”
“Is that so hard to believe?” she snaps.
“What? No? I mean, of course not.” I pull a chair out and sit down across the table from her. “What are you making?”
“An elevated Arnold Palmer. The powder stuff you use is all chemicals, it’s gross.”
“That’s the way Gran used to make it,” I say, which clearly is the wrong thing to say because CeCe’s shoulders shoot up and any ounce of softness she was showing me is gone.
“I shouldn’t have bothered,” she says, picking up the knife.
“No, no, I’m glad you did.” I reach for a lemon. “I’m sure it will be much better. Are you following a recipe?”
“It’s my recipe,” she says, her voice brimming with pride.
I watch as she holds a lemon vertically on the cutting board, slicing off one side. She rotates the lemon and does the same thing with the other three sides. Her hands move so swiftly; I envy the confidence she has in the kitchen. The paint on her nails is chipped again; maybe later this afternoon we can go for another manicure. I could probably use a pedicure, too.
CeCe takes the remaining core of the lemon and squeezes it into the bowl in front of her. She shifts the lemon in her hand and squeezes again, getting every last drop of juice from it.
“How’d you learn to do that?” I ask, impressed.
“Food Network.” She tosses the empty skins in the Whole Foods bag before reaching for the next lemon.
I keep watching as she works her way through the stack of lemons. We don’t talk much so she can concentrate on what she’s doing, but it’s nice, sitting together and watching her work. Making something for me.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asks.
“Nothing, why?”
“Your face,” she says. “It looks funny.”
“Hmm.” I bring a hand up to my face and slide it down, as though I could wipe away whatever expression CeCe reacted to. I never did have a poker face. “Can I do anything to help?”
“Grab the sugar?”
“Splenda okay?”
“I bought the real stuff, it’s over there.”
I follow her gaze to the counter, where a growing number of orange prescription bottles have been stacking up. I know it’s called comfort care, but it feels more like giving up to me.
One of the websites I signed up for weeks ago emailed me an update about a new drug trial the other day, but Tommy shut me down before I even finished the sentence.
My face falls a little and I notice CeCe’s does, too. We haven’t talked much about what’s happening to her dad. I know Tommy has talked to her about it, but I’ve been afraid to broach the subject since I royally blew it at the nail salon.
“Hard to pretend everything is normal when there are reminders all over the place, huh?”
“Tell me about it,” she says. And then she smiles at me. It’s just there for a second, but for one beautiful moment, it’s like we’re in this together.
I’m afraid to say anything to ruin the moment, so I stand up and get the bag of sugar from next to all the prescription bottles. Maybe I’ll talk to Tommy about keeping them in the cabinet so they aren’t always in our faces.
“This?” I ask, handing her the sugar.
“Yeah, and can you hand me the measuring cup?”
I get the measuring cup from the drawer to the left of the sink and set it on the table before wordlessly taking my seat. CeCe opens the bag of sugar, using the measuring cup like a scoop. She slides her pointer finger across the top, getting rid of excess granules before pouring it into a second bowl. I resist the urge to comment about how much sugar is in this recipe and smile instead.
She picks up a container of fresh herbs and pops the lid open, releasing a familiar scent. I recognize the minty flavor, but there’s something else there, too.
“Is that mint?”
Judging by CeCe’s smile, I know I’m not right. But she’s so happy to correct me that I’d take being wrong all day if every interaction between us could be like this.
“Nope.” CeCe rips a leaf from the stem and hands it to me. “Smell.”
As soon as the fuzzy green leaf is beneath my nose, I recognize it as basil, but I’m not going to let her know that I know. At least not yet. “It’s on the tip of my tongue.”
“It’s basil,” CeCe says, beaming with pride.
“Basil?” I give it one more deep smell. “Of course. And you’re putting it in the lemonade?” I smile to let her know I’m not being critical.
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