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Getting married?
That’s crazy.
I mean, I imagine they probably will eventually. Eventually. Vivien is seventeen. Nic just turned eighteen last month. . . .
Mom and Dad were seventeen and eighteen when they got married. But look how that turned out. And that was years ago. A whole different time. Nic and Viv . . . now?
“Not that crazy. It happens,” Pam comments quietly. I didn’t realize I’d spoken out loud. “Dom married Stace right out of SBH.”
Yeah, and Stacy took their one-year-old and moved to Florida two years ago.
What about senior year? What about the Coast Guard?
Is Vivien pregnant? No, impossible, she’s on the Pill and Nic is hyper-responsible.
I lie back on the blanket, rest my arm across my eyes, listen to the general blur of conversation. It’s still warm, but the angle of the sun has that flat, end-of day slant. When I peer through the canopy of my arm, I can see that Vivien has temporarily disentangled herself and is toasting a marshmallow, carefully turning it to the perfect puff of brown on each side, just the way Nic likes it. At cookouts this summer, I know he’ll nearly burn her hot dog—Viv likes it charcoal-briquet style—and load it down with ketchup, mustard, mayo, relish. After the Fourth of July parade on Seashell, when everyone eats Hoodsie Cups, she’ll snag two but eat the chocolate half of both, swapping with Nic so he gets both vanillas.
Now he’s watching her lazily, sifting through the sand next to him, probably in search of another flat skipping stone.
But . . . an engagement ring?
Hooper is attempting to get Gi
Ma
I shield my eyes and peer over at the newcomer.
Great.
I mean come on. Three times in one day!
“Sure I did,” Cass says easily, lifting a hand to greet Pam. He gives me a quick glance, then looks down, lashes shielding his eyes. “I’m an island guy now, right?”
“You are not,” I practically growl, “an island guy.”
Ma
“Course he is, Gwe
“Ah, it’ll be okay,” Cass says, “once I figure out the whole horizontal thing.”
That’s it. I feel suddenly exhausted. Cass. Nic, Viv, engagement ring. The Robinsons. The lobsters. I clamber to my feet, feeling as though I weigh about a thousand pounds—and, let’s face it, probably looking like it in my baggy, so-attractive clothes. I walk over to Nic and Viv, nudge Nic sharply with my toe, jerk my thumb toward the pier. “Let’s head out.”
Like Pam and Ma
“Check that out,” Vivien says in a hushed voice, pointing out across the water. It’s low tide, shoals of rippling sand peeking up out of the sea-glass-green water, ancient-looking gray-brown rocks, the sun burning low and pale orange in the sky. “This is the most beautiful place in the world, isn’t it? I never want to leave. Everything I love is right here.” She rests her head on Nic’s shoulder.
I look at our legs lined up together. Viv’s ski
Nic scrounges in his pocket for the skipping stones from earlier, hands me one, nods at the ocean. I squint, slant the stone to what seems the perfect angle, fling it out. One. Two. Three . . . sort of a sinking four. Nic edges Vivien off his lap, cocks his head to the side and throws.
Six.
“Still the champion.” He hauls Vivien to her feet, swoops her in for six kisses.
“It’s not as though Gwen is after what you are,” Vivien points out, a little breathless after kiss number four.
No, it isn’t. But . . . God, I wish, for the millionth time, that I could be like her and Nic, so sure of what they have, what they want. That I didn’t always feel jangly, restless, primed to jump off a bridge and let the current carry me away. I glance over my shoulder at the distant blond figure standing by the bonfire.
Especially tonight.
Chapter Eight
Dark’s just starting to glow into light the next morning when I bike down to the beach. I can barely make out the figure standing at the end of the pier, hands on hips, surveying the water. Only that familiar stance tells me it’s Dad. As I get closer, I see his tackle box open, a big bag of frozen squid beside him. He called last night, told me to meet him at Sandy Claw early.
I’d expected him to get on me for bailing on him at Castle’s this summer. But when I’d said on the phone “Hey Dad, I’m sorry that I—” he’d cut me off.
“You gotta do what you gotta do, Gwen. But, since you’re not go
“What’d you bring me, Guinevere?”
He takes the loaf of zucchini bread with a grunt of satisfaction, motioning to me to pour coffee from the thermos. I stayed up late last night, following the directions in Vovó’s stained old copy of The Joy of Cooking, and turning that engagement ring over and over in my head. When she’s worried, Vivien gives herself pedicures and facials. Nic lifts weights. I bake. So, Vivien ends up looking more glamorous. Nic gets fitter. And I just get fat.
“Damn good thing you can cook. Not like your mom. A woman who can’t cook . . .” He trails off, clearly unable to think of a terrible enough comparison.
“Is like a fish without a bicycle.” I was on debate team last year and we used that quote from Gloria Steinem as a topic.
“What does that mean?” Dad asks absently, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. I guess you could say he’s handsome. Not stop-you-dead-in-your-tracks gorgeous, but good-looking enough that I can squint and understand what Mom was thinking. He’s still fit and muscular in his mid-thirties, his hair thick. Nothing soft about Dad. He wears fla
“No, I did not, because cream cheese on zucchini bread is disgusting.” I hand him a tub of butter and a plastic knife.
“Sorry I haven’t seen much of you lately, pal. I’ve been doing the grunt work, gettin’ set up for the summer crowd. Sysco trucks coming and going to restock—they never tell you what time, keep you hanging all damn day—and I’ve got the new summer bunch for training—you know what that’s like.” Even though it’s been twenty years since Dad moved here from Massachusetts, his er’s are still a’s and his ar’s are ah’s. In fact, his accent gets stronger every year.
I refill the cup of coffee he’s already gulped down and pour one for myself.
“Start cuttin’ up the bait,” he directs, mouth full, handing me a box cutter and jerking his chin at the bucket of squid.