“Why? It’s the same as all the others.”
“No way. This one’s musical. It reminds me of your name.”
“That’s absurd.” She shook her head with a disdainful expression on her face. “Well, it’s your funeral. Have at it, I guess.”
I reached for the lever and pulled it down, then folded my arms. We stood side by side, waiting an eternity to see where it would land. A G clef came up. Then another.
Then, another.
Harmony gasped, as sirens blared atop the machine—like the kind that might go off if you were caught robbing a Walmart. I looked at Harmony, shocked. “You won!” she cried. Personnel—multiple!—came rushing over. Two men, both very tan and dressed in all black: one carrying a clipboard and one significantly larger guy whose purpose was unknown to me. Harmony was consulting the grid. “Holyshit,” she said. “If this thing’s right, you just won a thousand dollars!”
I was overwhelmed by a surprising mix of emotions: shock, obviously, but also immense relief, because I’d just dropped so much money on dinner. Also, with a little extra cash, I thought, maybe I could afford to take Harmony somewhere really special one night. She, meanwhile, was hysterical. “I can’t believe this!” she screeched. “It’s still going! Look at that number!” She pointed frantically at the digital balance counter, which was up around three hundred dollars now.
“Well, congratulations, sir! Looks like we have a winner.” The smaller man shook my hand. “I’m just going to need you to come with me to the cashier, and we’ll get this all taken care of for you. Just need your ID.”
“Of course,” I said.
“You must be the luckiest man on earth,” Harmony said, quieted now that the reality of the win was sinking in. She was beaming, still shaking her head from side to side.
I shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe I am.”
I set the book down on the nightstand, closing my eyes to let the memory fully form behind my lids. Beckett’s words described that moment exactly as it had happened. We were so excited, I remember. I’d never seen someone win a jackpot like that. The only part he left out—for dramatic buildup in later pages, I’m sure—was me throwing my arms around him and giving him a huge kiss.
I think back to his more recent words.Read the whole thing, and then call me.I really don’t see why this is necessary. Maybe he’s trying to torture me, to remind me of all the minutiae of our time together only to throw inmy face his immense success and impending nuptials with Analise Renda. I mean, he said it himself.
He’s lucky.
And I, clearly, am not.
Chapter 17
It was our third day in Aruba.
My mom was thrilled when I told her about Beckett’s big casino win over breakfast the next morning. “It’s a sign,” she insisted, sipping on a mimosa. “There’s something about him, Pretty Girl. I’m telling you.”
“Some people are just blessed with great fortune, I guess.”
“You’re blessed too.”
“I lost twenty bucks,” I replied.
“So what? Are you having fun?”
I stirred a long, skinny packet of fancy raw sugar into my coffee, smiling to myself. “I am. Thank you.”
Her eyes looked like they were filling with tears. “Good,” she said. She took a shaky breath, exhaled hard, and swallowed, chasing her emotions with a sip of the orange juice-tinted champagne.
“Are you okay?”
Mom nodded. “One day, when you’re a mom, you’ll understand.” It was a fairly typical, ambiguous response from her.
“I just hope I’ll be half the mom you are,” I replied.
“You’ll be even better,” she said. “I already know it.”
Not wanting to trigger her further, I changed the subject. We talked about the day’s plans—laying out on the adults-only side of the beach onthe private island followed by lunch at Papagayo’s Grill over there. The adults-only beach was particularly fun because it had a small flock of pink flamingos that lived there and were protecting a nest of eggs. But also, that side was bathing-suit-top-optional and Mom got the giggles judging the women who thought Aruba needed to see their “sacks of potatoes.” I reminded her that in today’s world, her jokes would be considered body shaming, and she reminded me that she was allowed to say whatever she damn well pleased because that’s what happens when you get old. She also told me that I should be thanking her because at least she was discreet about it. Shecouldbe writing songs about the potato sacks and singing them aloud to neighboring beachgoers.
“Or worse”—she warned me, as we polished off the last of our respective breakfasts—“I could be releasingmygozangas for the whole island to see.”
