“Thirty-two. Why? Trying to find yourself a sugar mama?”
“Ha ha,” I deadpan. “She’s single?”
Piper nods. “Newly.”
“My dad’s thirty-six. Also single.”
Her eyes flash with understanding. “Wait—are you thinking what Ithinkyou’re thinking?”
“Maybe.” I smile conspiratorially.
She considers, twisting a curl around her finger. “A setup… I’m not opposed. Not yet, anyway. What does your dad look like? Because Tati’s hot.”
If Piper and her sister resemble each other at all, then yeah, that’s likely true. Good thing Dad’s not a troll. In the last few days, I’ve noticed plenty of women giving him a second look. I bet he and Tati are playing in the same league.
“He looks kind of like me,” I say. “But, you know…old.”
Piper laughs, angling her head to study my face. “So, nothideous.”
“Definitely not hideous.”
“What’s he like? Other than the golf thing.”
“He’s into having fun. Likes to go out. Likes to meet new people. Extroverted.” Piper’s mouth is sinking into a frown. Her sister’s not super social, then. I reroute. “But he’s smart too. And driven. He owns a successful business.”
“So I’ve seen. Tati’s been to your dad’s restaurant, actually; her glowing review was why I went in earlier. But no one’s ever accused her of being a party animal. Other than sporadic dates and an occasional girls’ night with friends she’s had since grade school, she rarely goes out.”
“That’s not a bad thing, necessarily. They might balance each other.”
She nods, but haughtily, like I’m in for a surprise where her sister’s concerned. Still, she asks, “What’s your plan?”
“I guess we need to figure out a way for them to meet.”
“It has to seem organic, though. Tati will be pissed if she realizes I’m meddling.”
“For sure. Totally organic. What if they actually hit it off?”
She smiles, mirroring my enthusiasm. “What if they have a romance?”
“They’ll be busy. Dating. Courting. Whatever people in their thirties call it. Then they’ll stop caring so much about what you and I are up to.”
“Henry, I think you’re on to something.”
“I thinkwe’reon to something.”
She twirls, laughing, sending a fountain of water droplets into the air.
I grin. If Tati’s a hurricane, then Piper’s a sun-shower, bright and rejuvenating. I feel pretty damn lucky to bear witness.
Piper
The next day, I head to the park for a morning of cleaning tanks and feeding animals and assisting guests. It’s hot and stickyoutside, but Turtle smiles approvingly when he sees me sweeping the path leading to the tidal touch pools, which is all the encouragement I need.
It’s been a while since I’ve come here alone after closing. The pool at the Towers has proven to be a pretty effective escape lately, and I’m getting my fill of the park during work hours, which is a lot less risky. Still, I decided to check in on the rays and the sea turtles during my break; I miss my quiet nights with them.
I spend the better part of my shift thinking about Henry. Late last night, I searched for him online. I found a trove of information concerning Henry Walker, a retired NBA player born in the eighties, but it wasn’t until I launched into a real deep dive that I came across my Henry in a few local news articles about his cross-country achievements. I don’t know what sortof information I was hoping for, but long-distance running isn’t very juicy.
Hunting for him on socials was a bust. No Facebook (not surprising—Tati’s the only weirdo I know who uses Facebook) and no Snapchat (also unsurprising—Henry doesn’t seem like the type). He has an Instagram account, but it’s private. All I can see is his profile photo (George Washington’s illustrated face—unhelpful). He’s posted three photos, follows eighteen people, and has seventy-six followers.
