Текст книги "What I Thought Was True"

Автор книги: Huntley Fitzpatrick

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Chapter Thirty-three

Spence and Cass are on their way over to Sandy Claw, and Nic’s already swimming drills. He’s working on the one that helps your elbow-bending at the start of the pull, which involves swimming with his fingers closed into a fist. His eyes are tightly shut too, giving him this look of total absorption, complete intensity.

The sky’s sharply blue, summer at its shiniest, sun glinting off the waves, horizon bright with spinnakers, schooners, every size of boat at home on an ocean big enough to contain them all. As I’m squinting out at Nic, Viv slides into place next to me, her dark hair wind-blown and loose today, none of her usual contained styles. Our legs swing side by side over the edge, like old times. “He never forgets,” she says, touching the pile of flat stones next to the piling. “That Nic.”

“He was looking around to claim his kisses before he got started.”

She casts a quick look out at the water, then starts chipping at her nail, flicking at one of the little flowers painted on her ring finger. “Has Nic seemed . . . okay to you lately?”

I’ve never needed to be Switzerland, respecting boundaries and borders with Nic and Viv. When we were younger, we all told one another everything. When they became a couple, there were different retellings, from Nic to me, from Viv, but it was all the same story. Now . . .

I didn’t think, ever, that I’d have to scramble about which truth to tell. I never thought “other people’s stories” would apply to the three of us. We are one another’s stories.

“Tense,” I finally say. “With you too? I thought maybe he was being weird with me, because of . . . well, because of me being with Cass. Has he talked about that with you?”

She shrugs, chews her lip. I recognize the look on her face, the “torn between loyalties” one.

“He’s sort of macho-macho with Cass, giving him these ‘don’t lay a finger on my cousin’ looks . . .” I say, trailing off so she’ll talk.

“Yeah.” Viv sighs. “He’s pretty testosterone-heavy lately.”

I wait for her to make a joke about not minding that, but instead she asks, “You don’t think he’s . . . on anything, do you?”

“On . . . you mean drugs? Like steroids? God no. This is Nic, he would never . . .”

I know that’s not it. But . . . Nic’s moodiness, his darkness, his obsession with weight lifting, the tension with Dad . . . No. He wouldn’t.

Vivien doesn’t look at me, her eyes fixed on the water, on Nic. He’s now rolled over and is doing the backstroke, his form so perfect, it’s almost mechanical, like the wind-up scuba Superman who swims doggedly in Em’s baths.

“He would never,” I repeat again. “You know that, right? You know him. Better than anyone.”

I pull on her hand, bringing her gaze back to me. Then I realize it’s like I’m asking her for reassurance when I should be the one giving it. I put my arm around her, give her a little shake. “Nico doesn’t even take aspirin.”

She’s picked up one of the rocks, studies it, turning it over and over. Dark orange, worn smooth by countless waves, marked by holes. A brick. Probably from the steps of one of the houses on Sandy Claw, unwisely built on the beach, long ago swept out to sea in some forgotten hurricane. “You’re right. Ugh. Don’t pay attention to me. Al got the contract to some big political thing and was spazzing out all over me today. I kept calling Nic to talk and getting bounced to his voicemail. I thought maybe he was . . . I don’t know. Doing the same thing with me that he does with your dad. Mike was calling him the other day when Nico was helping me pack up for a clambake and he kept checking his phone but not picking up. I’m just being paranoid.”

“Yeah, Dad . . .” I shake my head. “Do you guys talk about that?”

Viv’s pretty green eyes are sad. “Not much.”

I reach out my pinkie, hook it around hers. “At least we’re good. Right?”

She knots her pinkie with mine, pulls, still staring out at the water. “Yeah . . .”

“Viv. Look at me.”

She turns immediately, gives a reasonably accurate version of her glowing smile. “We’re golden.”

I pick up one of the skipping stones, spiraling it over and over in my hand. The mica in it flashes bright in the sun. I slant it and skip it out to sea.

Once, twice . . . It goes all the way to seven, touching down lightly, glancing up, winging out hard, far, far, far, the farthest I’ve ever skipped.

Viv nudges me with her thin brown shoulder. “You gonna grant some kisses now? Come on, babe. I want to see how much you’ve picked up from Cass Somers.”

I roll my eyes. “Ever think maybe he’s learning from me?”

Someone clears his throat, and—fantastic—there are Cass and Spence. Cass has his game face on, and Spence a similarly untranslatable expression. How the hell did they walk this close on the dock without us hearing? Nic climbs up the ladder from the water, scattering droplets as he shakes his head like Fabio after a bath.

Spence: “Getting a jump on us, Cruz? Hear you like to do that. Shave a few seconds off your time. Any way that works for you.”

Nic (deadpan): “Just more dedicated, I guess.”

Cass (neutral): “How many drills did you do already?”

Nic (shrugs, like he’s so fit it doesn’t matter): “Some.”

Cass: “A few more, then.” (Glancing at Spence) “What do you think, Chan, crossovers? Or single-arm drill?”

Spence: “Single-arm, since Cruz has this entering too early problem . . . so he’ll wind up driving down instead of extending forward and that’ll increase his drag and slow the whole team down.”

Impressive the way they can make drill techniques into insults.

“Boys,” Vivien says to me, loudly enough for the three of them to hear. “We’re so lucky we’re not male, Gwen.”

“At least two out of three of us agree with you, Vivien,” Spence says smoothly, then winks at her.

Viv looks at Nic’s somewhat thunderous face, makes a shooing motion toward the water, then claps her hands together briskly. “Get on with it, guys. I think you all need to cool off.”

“Hang on,” Cass says to the other two. He takes my hand and pulls me over to the corner of the pier, out of earshot of the others. Bends to my ear. “Let’s declare the ‘who’s teaching and who’s learning’ thing a tie. You can one-up me in other ways.”

“Hedge clipping?” I ask.

“Not my first choice.”

“Come on, Romeo,” Spence calls. “Vivien’s got it. We all need to relax here and do this.”

“Speak for yourself,” offers Nic.

“I do, Cruz,” he says flatly. “Always.”

Viv clambers to her feet and I’m right there with her. At least we can still read each other’s minds. She puts a comforting hand on Nic’s back and I place mine on Spence’s, and then Cass comes up next to us, and Viv and I shove all three of them into the water at once. I laugh. But Viv is pinwheeling, too close to the edge, eyes wide. She grabs at me—I flinch back—and we both go over in a tangle of arms and legs, until all of us are splashing and spluttering in the water, and it’s almost impossible to tell which slippery body is whose until you see their laughing face.

Chapter Thirty-four

“Far too beautiful to go back indoors,” Avis King says determinedly. “I propose we have our reading session on the beach instead of some stuffy porch.

A chorus of agreement from the ladies, although “stuffy” is the last thing anyone could call the Ellington porch.

“I personally am in favor of being rebellious and forgoing my nap today. My word, Henry is becoming fussier than any old woman. He called last night to make sure I was going to rest from one to three. I dislike being nagged,” Mrs. Ellington says crossly.

But, since we didn’t bring any reading material to the beach, I’m dispatched back to the house to fetch The Sensuous Sins of Lady Sarah.

When I get there, I am not at all surprised to see Henry’s car parked in the driveway.

As I push open the screen door, I have a wave of weariness, then near fury. Other people’s stories, I repeat to myself.

The door slams behind me and I shout, “Hello!” The way I learned to make noise coming home when Nic and Viv might be there alone. Hello. I’m here. A witness. Don’t let me catch you.

Henry Ellington turns, startled, from the kitchen sink, where he’s standing, drinking a glass of water. He doesn’t look well. His skin’s pale, almost gray, and a sheen of sweat marks his forehead.

Spread out all over the kitchen table are silver bowls and all those complicated pieces of the tea set and these little cups with handles and engraved initials and silver bears climbing up them. Over the summer, they’ve become more than things to polish and wash. I know their stories. The powdered sugar sifter Mrs. Ellington’s father used, “on Cook’s day off,” to top off the French toast, the only thing he knew how to make for Mrs. E. and her brothers. The ashtrays she and the captain bought at the London Silver Vaults. “They were so lovely. Neither of us smoked, but look at them.” The grape shears. “We got five of these as wedding presents, dear Gwen. I enjoyed thinking that everyone, so proper, who danced at our wedding, imagined us dangling grapes over each other’s mouths, like some debauched Greek gods.”

So many moments of Mrs. E.’s are laid out on the table, like silver fish resting on ice at Fillerman’s. I wonder if Henry even knows the stories. And if he does . . . how can he possibly sell them?

“Guinevere? Where’s Mother?” His brow draws together. He straightens, somehow seeming to make himself taller. “I’d assumed she was napping, but there was no sign of either her or you.”

“At Abenaki with the ladies,” I say flatly. God, I’m suddenly so tired. I could sit at the blue enamel painted chair, rest my head on my arms, just go to sleep. Except that I’d have to move aside the silver first.

“You left my nearly ninety-year-old mother on the beach. With a bunch of eighty-year-olds to watch over her. This seemed like a responsible choice to you?”

He’s peering over his reading glasses, literally looking down at me.

It isn’t until I shove my hand into the pocket of my jean skirt and hear the crackle of paper that I remember what it is. Dad’s had extra loads of laundry lately. This was my one clean skirt. I didn’t think twice when I put it on this morning.

I pull out the check that Henry Ellington gave me, holding it out of sight.

I took it, that day Henry offered it. I don’t need to open it again to see the amount, scrawled firmly in blue ballpoint pen. I haven’t deposited it. But I didn’t tear it up either. I never threw it away.

“Do you have an answer for me, Guinevere?” he asks.

Last night, I finally asked Mom why she named me Guinevere, after a woman no one admired. We were eating ice cream on the porch, passing the spoon back and forth, nearly over our heads to avoid the hopeful, slightly toothless leaps of Fabio.

“Really, Gwen, honey? I always liked her. She wasn’t a wimp or a simp like that Elaine. Not helpless, asking someone to rescue her. Knew she loved them both. Mr. Honorable and Mr. Heroic. Arthur and Lancelot. I always thought she was the star of her own story. At least she knew what was really going on.”

Which, of course I do.

So yes, I do, in fact, have an answer.

I smooth the check out on the kitchen table. Next to the fish knives. The silver ashtrays. All the stories. Henry Ellington looks down at it, his face showing nothing at all.

The day Dad gave me his “she’s loaded and she’s losing it” advice, I never thought it would actually apply to me, and definitely not like this.

I take a breath.

“Mr. Ellington,” I say. “You told me you were giving me this because I deserved a little extra. I don’t think you meant that. I don’t think you admire my work ethic. I don’t think you like me or value my service. I think you expect my silence.”

His face crumples for a moment, the lines of his cheeks, his eyes, all contracting, freezing. Then he holds out a hand, palm outraised, like my words are traffic he’s stopping. “I don’t think you understand my position here, Guinevere. I’m protecting my mother. A helpless old woman.”

Helpless old woman, my ass.

“Mr. Ellington.” I close my eyes. Another deep breath. Open them. “Does she really want . . . does she really need . . . your”—I raise my fingers to form air quotes—“protection?”

Henry’s face flushes crimson. “It’s my job,” he says. “My mother is . . . elderly. Not in full possession of her . . .” He darts a look out the window, as though making sure we won’t be overheard, even as his own voice rises. “Damn it, why am I explaining this to you? Mother’s getting older, times have changed, and she just won’t make allowances for reality. When she goes, I’m going to have this entire estate to deal with, all of her promises, her debts of honor that don’t matter anymore. Her special bequests to schools she hasn’t been to for seventy years, to people like Beth McHenry, who cleaned the house—cleaned the house, scrubbed the toilets, and changed the sheets, while I was spending all my time working in a job to support this summer home”—he says “summer home” as though it’s an expletive—“a place I barely get the chance to visit, a lifestyle that’s run its course. Yard boys and night nurses and summer help, cooks and cleaners, you, and that damned expensive end-of-the-summer party she always has. Her finances, all of our finances, have taken a hit in the market. But try telling my mother that! She’s never even had to balance a checkbook!”

He crosses over to the bar, splashes some amber liquid into a glass, goes to the freezer for ice. Instead of taking the time to smash the pieces with his little hammer thing, he just drops them into the sink, hard, then picks up the shattered bits and dumps them into the glass, tips it back, swallows.

“All this . . . drama . . . would upset her,” he mutters.

Don’t upset your mother. Dad’s refrain from that summer with Vovó.

“I can’t tell her,” he repeats.

Can’t. Won’t. Are afraid to?

I know all about all three.

“Have . . . have you tried?” The words seem to catch in my throat, it’s so hard to say them. Just a job. Not my place. But . . .

He doesn’t answer. Takes another sip.

There’s a very long silence.

He watches me over the rim of his glass. And I stare back down at the check. Set my finger down on it, deliberately, slipping it across the table as though I’m passing him a napkin, just doing my job.

“Am I fired, Mr. Ellington? Because if I’m not, I’d better get back to the beach.”

* * *

Mrs. E. has survived my neglect. She and the ladies are quite happily ensconced in their beach chairs, watching with a frightening level of appreciation as Cass rakes the sand.

They’re in a circle, towels swooped around their shoulders, bobbed gray hair, permed white hair, long braids meant to be coiled up into buns, styles that went away generations ago.

“If I were thirty years younger . . .” Avis King says, nodding approvingly as Cass flicks seaweed into the tall grass.

Big Mrs. McCloud shoots her a look.

“Fine. Forty,” she concedes. “Is this your boy, Gwen? He’s adorable.”

Adorable seems like a fluffy-kitten word, defanged, declawed—not Cass and all these feelings at all. He glances over at me, catches me looking, grins knowingly, then keeps raking.

“Ad-or-able.” Mrs. Cole sighs. “Good lordy lord lord.”

“Beach bonfire tonight, I’m hearing,” Avis King says. “Isn’t it nice that those still go on? Remember ours? Oh, that Ben Cruz. With his lovely shoulders. Always so tanned. Those cut-offs.”

Okay, disturbing. I think she just referenced my grandfather as the hot yard guy.

“He’d get the lobsters. Who was it who brought the bread from that Portuguese bakery in town? Sweet bread and regular? Ten loaves each. We’d toast them on sticks, dip them in butter.”

“Glaucia,” Beth McHenry says. “She got her license first of all of us. Remember? She used to whip around town in that old gray truck, bring potatoes and linguica and malassadas from Pedrinho’s out to the island.”

Mrs. Cole nods. “I was always partial to the meringues.”

“Remember when the captain brought the volleyball net down from the court and we decorated it with those tiny white Christmas lights?”

“Labor Day . . .” Mrs. E. says. “The final summer party. We all decided to dress in white because in those days you weren’t supposed to wear it after Labor Day. It was our last hurrah. Our big rebellion.”

“The boys wore their white jackets. If they had them,” Big Mrs. McCloud reflects. “Arthur had too many, he loaned them out to Ben and Matthias and whoever needed one. He’d lend his tan bucks too. But then a lot of them went barefoot. That seemed so rebellious.”

“We played volleyball in our long skirts,” Avis King says. “I beat the pants off Malcolm. He proposed later that night.”

“Was it easier then?” Mrs. Ellington asks. “I do believe so. Our revolts were so much smaller. Our questions so much easier to answer. There were rules to it all. May I call on you after your European tour? That was how I knew the captain cared for me. I don’t believe that translates into texting.”

They debate back and forth about it. Whether it should be one of those island rituals that sticks, the Labor Day party. Or whether its time has come and gone.

“We could do it again,” Mrs. Cole says. “We’re the entertainment committee on the board now. No rules to say we can’t. Well, none like the rules we used to have, anyway.”

From a distance, from the movies, I know these rules too—white bucks and blazers, don’t wear white after Labor Day, wear this with that, go with that good girl, not this one. Strictly controlled social calendars, when all of that seemed as though it mattered . . .

We still have those, though. Not so much what we wear, but how we act and what we do.

Other customs, rituals, rules. New important things unspoken.

Will Henry say anything to his mother? More importantly . . . will I?

Chapter Thirty-five

Beach bonfire tonight.

As Cass drives us down the hill, I can see sparks crackling upward, flicking and fading into the darkening summer sky. Dom D’Ofrio is always overenthusiastic with the lighter fluid. The tower of flames shoots nearly ten feet high.

“That looks like something you’d use to sacrifice to the Druids, not toast marshmallows,” Cass says as we near the beach, the sun sliding purple-orange against the deep green sea.

To my surprise, when Cass picked me up, Spence was slumped in the backseat of the old BMW, scowling.

“He had a bad day. Thought this might cheer him up. You mind?” Cass whispered.

“Yo Castle,” Spence says now, a listless version of his usual cocky self. “Sundance stormed you yet?”

“Don’t be a dick,” Cass returns evenly.

“S’what I do best,” Spence returns, then sticks his head out the window, taking in the scene.

This bonfire is a lot more crowded than the first of the summer. The summer people’s kids have discovered it and are milling around, mostly in clumps, but sometimes venturing over to other clots of people, sitting down, feeling out the possibilities. Pam and Shaunee have parked themselves next to Audrey Partridge, Old Mrs. P.’s great-granddaughter. Manny’s flicking his lighter for Sophie Tucker, a pretty blond cousin from the house the Robinsons rented. Somebody’s dragged out a grill, and now Dom is enthusiastically pouring lighter fluid onto those charcoal briquettes too.

Cass backs the car into a spot with relatively low sand. We all get out.

Viv is standing near the water, arms hugging her chest, ponytail flipping in the wind, looking out at the distant islands. The sky’s clear enough tonight that it seems as though you could reach out and touch them. Viv doesn’t turn and see me. Manny comes up beside her, bumps her shoulder with his elbow, and hands her one of those generic “get smashed fast” red plastic cups. He walks back up the beach, catches sight of us, cocks his head a bit at the arm Cass has draped over my shoulder. “Nice shirt,” he mutters as he passes me.

It’s one of Cass’s oxfords, loose and knotted at my waist, a flash of stomach over my rolled-up jeans. Not a look I would have tried before.

If I remember right, Manny was the one who welcomed Cass to the island because of his yard boy status. Now the causeway can’t go both ways?

I head over to the cooler, pick up a beer I don’t care about. No sign of Nic or Hoop.

“Who’s the short fat dude, Sundance?”

“Manny. Good guy. Relax, Spence.” Cass grabs my hand, an aside to me. “Don’t let him get to you. He’s in douchebag mood today.”

“You two are sweet together,” Spence offers unexpectedly, sounding oddly sincere. “Nauseating as that is.”

I mouth, “Is he drunk?”

Cass shakes his head. “It’s not that.”

“Feelin’ sorry for myself, Castle. Just do it, Sundance. Cut me loose. Go back to Hodges.”

“I’m not that guy,” Cass says so firmly—convincing Spence? Or himself? “Forget it for tonight. Let’s just relax.”

For a while, relaxing works pretty well. Pam has the music cranking, good mix of old and new. It’s a warm night and the sky is filled with a gold that rims the corners of the clouds, and shafts of pinkish light that slant down to the water. The charcoal heats up, the sweet burnt smell singeing our noses.

Cass and I are adding ketchup and mustard to our hot dogs when I see Nic, standing on the pathway that runs from the parking lot to the beach, staring at us, hands balled in his pockets. Hoop stands behind him, a small, badly dressed, angry shadow.

Nic’s white-faced and stormy-looking, all his features frozen, angry, as though he’s watching a nightmare come true.

“Yo, trouble at high noon,” Spence tells Cass, scrolling mustard over his own hot dog so vigorously that the Gulden’s squirts all over the sand.

“Don’t make it worse,” Cass says, shoving a napkin at Spence.

But immediately, it’s worse.

It starts with Nic doing that slow clap-clap thing, guaranteed to annoy anyone. “Nice job, guys. Snagging both captain and cocaptain. What do they call that? A coup? Nice coup.”

Cass doesn’t say anything, focused on his hot dog. Spence is quiet too.

Nic walks over, chin raised. “Nice coup,” he says again.

“You don’t get it, man,” is all Cass says.

“No?” Nic asks.

“No. This is no preferential thing,” Cass starts. Vivie walks up then. Cass glances at her, back at Nic. “These last months . . . this whole last year . . . swim drills were all about you, Nicolas Cruz. Nothing about teamwork. You don’t seem to know what that means. If you deserved to be captain or cocaptain, you’d be lining up behind us. Not acting like this.”

“That’s bullshit,” Nic says. “We all know there’s a fucking I in team. You’re not swimming to make me look good. We’re all after I. So I’m just gonna say it. I need this, Somers. You don’t. Channing? Forget it.”

“You want us to feel sorry for you now? I do. Sundance does,” Spence offers. “Because this West Side Story, us-against-them crap and your shitty attitude is what keeps you stuck, Cruz. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“You’re lecturing me?” Nic shouts. “You’re telling me to be fucking satisfied with what I’ve got? That’s rich. You’re the one who has to take everything.”

Viv has her hand over her mouth. Spence steps forward, shoulders square. Cass grabs his arm.

Dom, Pam, Shaunee, Manny are moving away from the fire toward us now, attention snagged. Hooper assumes roughly the same stance behind Nic as Cass has behind Spence, but without the restraining hand. His is raised, placating. Or just unsure what’s going on.

“Be honest with yourself. At least. I haven’t taken a thing from you that you deserved to have,” Spence says calmly. Cass yanks him back a little, jerking him to the side.

“Stop talking, Spence,” he says.

Instead, Spence takes another step forward, pulling out of Cass’s grip. “You don’t deserve any of it,” he repeats to Nic. “None of it. And for sure, not her.”

Nic’s fist shoots out so fast it’s a blur and Spence’s head snaps to the left. He staggers back for a second. We watch him stumble—a surreal, slow-mo movie. Nic charges forward, eyes blazing. Ready to hit him again. Cass moves in between them, fending Nic off with a forearm to his chest and grabbing Spence’s arm tightly, yanking it back.

Vivien brushes past me. I try to clutch at her—don’t want her to get in the way of Nic. He doesn’t seem to be seeing straight. But instead of hurrying to him, she’s wiping at the blood gushing from Spence’s nose with one hand, the other cupped around the back of his head.

Nic stares at them, blinking as though he’s just woken up, then shakes off Cass’s arm, backing toward the parking lot.

“I’m good, don’t worry about me,” Spence assures Vivien.

Spence is assuring Vivien?

“You’re hurt,” she says, her voice cracking.

“Flesh wound,” Spence tells her. And he smiles at her in a way I’ve never seen Spence smile at anyone. “Don’t. God, Viv. Don’t cry. Please. You know that kills me.”

Hooper and I are gaping at them, as is pretty much everyone else.

“Yeah,” Nic says. “This is just . . . Just . . . well . . . fuck this.” He turns around, scrubs his eyes with the heels of his hands, starts to walk away.

“Holy shit,” Hoop says.

“Go after him, Gwen,” calls Vivien, still wiping away blood. She’s crying. For Nic? For Spence? Not knowing which makes me flash white-hot furious.

“Me? What about you? And you, Spence? What was that? It’s not enough to take his captain shot, you had to go for his girlfriend too?”

“This isn’t like that, Gwen,” Cass says. Spence just stares at the ground.

“This? There’s a this? And you knew? When were you going to tell me? Ever? What happened to ‘I’m not going to lie to you, Gwen’?”

He’s ruffling his hand through his hair with that same expression he had the night after the Bronco.

Guilt.

Viv’s still crying. Spence is wiping away the blood still running from his nose with the back of his hand. Hoop’s muttering, “I haven’t had enough beer to deal with this.” Pam and Manny and the other island kids are standing around helplessly, murmuring.

And I can’t stop my mouth. “So what did you two do to get this?” I ask.

“What did we do?” Cass asks, low and furious. “We swam. I deserve this. Spence does. This has nothing to do with money. It’s about teamwork. And you know it. Maybe Nic used to be able to do that. But he can’t anymore. I don’t know why, but you know it’s true. He’s a cheater.”

“Nice, Cass. You’ve taken this away from him. And now you take his integrity too? Classy.”

“I didn’t take anything, Gwen.”

I back up, move away from all this, everything, everyone.

“I didn’t take anything,” he repeats, turning away.

I scramble up to the parking lot. But there is no longer any sign of Nic.

* * *

“Come fly, come fly come fly with me,” sings Frank Sinatra loudly, in his seductively snappy alto. Emory is swaying to the beat, doing his version of finger snapping, which involves flicking his pointer fingers against his thumbs. He’s got the happy head-bobbing down, though. Grandpa Ben is cooking dinner, waggling his skinny old-man hips in time to the beat. I reach over to turn Frank’s exuberance down a few notches, but still have to bellow when I ask if he’s seen Nic.

Grandpa Ben shrugs.

“He didn’t come back here? Where the hell did he go? Where’s Mom?”

Ben clucks his tongue. “Language, Guinevere. He was not here when I got back from the farmer’s market. Your mother, she is on a date.”

A what?

Nic’s pulled a disappearing act. Viv’s consoling Spence. Cass knew. And I blew him off, even when I . . . I . . . And Mom’s on a date. Whose life is this???

Grandpa shrugs again, points to the note scrawled on the dry-erase board on the fridge. “Papi. On a walk around the island with a friend. If you see Nic, talk to him.”

“If you see him, keep him here,” I say. “I’m going to look for him.”

I grab Mom’s car keys, clatter down the stairs, and am throwing the Bronco into reverse before it occurs to me to wonder how Grandpa Ben managed to translate a “walk around the island with a friend” into a date.