“Okay.” I shrugged. “I can try that.”
She rolled her hand for me to continue. “Give me the rest of your problems. I want to rub my hands around in them and make a pretty picture.”
“I don’t love being here in the house and—essentially—not being able to leave. I know it’s temporary. I know it will get better. But I am fraying. Beck keeps suggesting we go to his place, and that’s great, but the dogs know this house and this yard, and—”
“And his little brother is there,” Beth said with a laugh. “He’s a sweetheart, don’t get me wrong, but that feels like a complication you don’t need.”
“And also,” I said, leaning in close, “Beck’s bedroom hasbunkbeds. From when he was a child. So, that’s not something that interests me.”
“Understandable.” She rested her head on the sofa cushions. “How’s Beck doing?”
“Beck is fried,” I said. “I mean, he’s been incredible and I owe him the world for putting some space between me and my parents, but he’s going to snap any minute now. I try not to pry because talking about it stresses him out, but the legal issues with his parents are still messy. He’d never admit it, but the whole thing has been emotionally exhausting for him.”
“Do you think he knows what it means to be emotionally exhausted?”
“That is a great question. Thank you for asking. No, I don’t think he has a clue. The boy lives in two modes: all hell has broken loose and only some of hell has broken loose.”
“And somehow he manages to hire angels to tailor his pants. Amazing, really.”
“That is true,” I said. “Also, Lance won’t talk to him, which is supremely shitty, even for my brother. There’s a bunch of not-great stuff happening with his brother Decker too. I’ve watched Beck leave a voicemail or text him, and then compulsively check his phone for the next hour, just waiting for the guy to acknowledge anything.”
“Now I’m offended on Beck’s behalf,” she said.
“Me too. He doesn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of all this. Like I said, he’s been the absolute best, but everything with the accident has hit him like a boulder. I know he’s not sleeping enough. He’s trying to balance managing the oyster company with keeping my parents off my back. He worries every time I blink a little too long. I swear, he’s in the fast lane to a meltdown. I can see it coming. He’s going to trip over some tiny, stupid thing and he’s going to crack right in half.”
“Oh, honey.” She laced her fingers under her chin. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
No. She couldn’t. And neither could I. We just had to let it happen. “If he comes into the café,” I started, “half-caf him. He does not need to be running around with a full dose of caffeine.”
“We’re fighting dirty, then?”
“We’re fighting the only way we know how.”
And that would have to be good enough to get us through.
chaptertwenty-seven
Beckett
Today’s Special:
An Assortment of Artisanal Tensions, Seasonal Anxiety, and Clusterfucks
The Firefliesand Fried Dough Festival was held at a large park that doubled as the town’s soccer and lacrosse fields, and was home to very few, if any, fireflies. This fact did not seem to trouble anyone at the festival, certainly not Sunny, who’d insisted we come to this illogical event despite her doctor’s orders for light activity only.
According to Sunny, two weeks of light activity was more than enough for her and she didn’t see how strolling around a soccer field while eating fried dough could be strenuous.
So, here we were, wandering through a maze of pop-up tents and folding tables with every bit of firefly kitsch imaginable while kids—and Agent Price—screamed their way through an obstacle course and the scents of cinnamon and sugar wafted into the air.
If I looked at it from a certain angle, I could see how this could be entertaining, especially for parents needing to burn some energy out of their kids. I could understand the local charm of it too. Vendors, food trucks, all of that stuff. It was great. I couldn’t even argue that.
There were many strange things about this—the lack of actual fireflies, for one—but the part that confused the hell out of me was how everyone stopped to say hello and they seemed authentically happy to see us. At first, I’d assumed it was all about Sunny and the dogs. Everyone loved Sunny and her accident was still the top story in town, so of course they wanted to visit with her. And they adored the dogs. But then they started talking to me too, asking about the oyster company and fretting over my parents and their present situations.
I didn’t understand it. More than that, I didn’t trust it. The people in this town liked my parents because they didn’t have to live with them, they liked Decker because he was famous and always donated valuable baseball items for fundraising auctions, and they liked Parker because he was a cartoon character. I was the one who didn’t stay in one foreign city long enough for it to be memorable, and with the job no one understood. They didn’t invite me to their barbeques, they didn’t send me Christmas cards, and they didn’t ask me to sign baseballs. I was the Loew they didn’t know.
After another uncomfortable pit stop with someone I didn’t recognize but who seemed to know everything about my family, Sunny bumped her shoulder into mine, saying, “Just think about all the Friendship festivals we can go to now that you’ve broken through your festival phobia.”
Without any finesse or forethought, I let slip the first—and worst—thing that came to my mind. “Yeah, but I’m not staying in Friendship much longer.”
