“Excited about their trip?”
“I guess.”
He cleared his throat, his nervous tic. “I’m sorry I had to come over earlier than you.”
“It’s fine. I wanted to stay anyway, for all the graduation parties.” Dad had stayed home through my high school graduation on June eighth before peacing out for Nantucket. I’d stayed for another week at my best friend Grace’s house so I could attend my friends’ parties.
When had it become so hard to talk to him? We used to talk abouteverything. We’d never stopped talking.
But that had been before he started preferring Nantucket to me.
I knew I wasn’t being fair. Dad loved me, and we FaceTimed and texted when he was gone during the summers. But it wasn’t the same. Sometimes, to be perfectly honest, it felt like he’d given up. Like he’d been presented with a choice, job or daughter, and he’d decided…Eh, job.
And I kind of got it. Teens were a lot of work. And, as myaunt liked to tell me, every year I looked more and more like my mother. Maybe Dad didn’t want the reminder. Maybe it hurt to look at me. If so—couldn’t blame him for trying to find something else to look at.
But I would blame Ethan Barbanel for being the something else.
The first time I’d heard of Ethan had been my father’s first summer here. I’d been fourteen years old and desperately missing my dad.
Have you heard of Mitski?Dad had texted one day.She is a singer with a folky/rock type of music I think you would enjoy.
I’d blinked at this text several times before responding.Yes Dad I’ve heard of Mitski. How did YOU hear of her??
I have a new research assistant, Dad had said.He played one of her songs for me.
A new research assistant with good taste in music? I’d been warily prepared for this to be a good thing—Dad could certainly use someone to organize his notes—but the more I learned about Ethan Barbanel, the less he seemed like a research assistant and more like my father’s replacement child. In the last three years, my father’s preference of Ethan over me had become more and more clear, as proven by the amount Ethan showed up in texts. A few excerpts:
I know you’re not sure about which summer reading book to choose—I showed Ethan the list from your teacher and he recommends Wise Blood or Native Son
Here is a link for an app Ethan says is great for managing time
Wasn’t able to get many good pictures from the Arborids meteor shower, but here’s one Ethan took
Every time Ethan Barbanel’s name came up, hot jealousy flared in me, painful and tight, making heat prick behind my eyes. Sometimes I wondered where Ethan had even come from. I mean, I knew, technically. He belonged to a wealthy family on Nantucket, and he’d been introduced to Dad through a friend of his family’s. But for so long, it had just been me and Dad. Two peas in a pod, living our best life, going to local maker festivals and the library and watching Star Trek marathons.
And then four summers ago, Dad had gone to Nantucket to research his book on maritime cartography and arranged for me to stay with Aunt Lou. Which had been fun, at first. Aunt Lou and Uncle Jerry were great, and their house in Medford—filled with three older cousins and located on a Boston subway line—allotted me far more freedom than my home thirty minutes deeper into the suburbs. But I’d rather have Dad.
This summer, Aunt Lou and Uncle Jerry were visiting my cousin Lauren, who was spending the year on an organic farm in Costa Rica. Since I’d be eighteen in September, I’d argued I should be allowed to stay home alone, but my case fell on uninterested ears. So now, my final summer before college, I’d been shunted off to Nantucket. Now I had Dad, but in a place that belonged to him and Ethan Barbanel, not to Dad and me.
I’d just have to reclaim my place in Dad’s life, even if it washard. Hopefully, this summerIcould be Dad’s assistant. I could help him with his research, spend time with him, and show him both that he didn’t need Ethanandthat I was totally competent and not messy at all.
As we drove up the road, the homes and grounds became more expansive and set further back from the road. Beyond them, the sea wrapped around us in an endless line, more ocean than I was used to seeing. At this hour, the line between sea and sky was distinct; the water was a deep rippling navy, the sky a yellowish parchment along the horizon before transitioning into translucent blue. A few long flat clouds lay low.
I’d refused to google the Barbanels or their house, Golden Doors, for the past few years. First out of resentment, and then sheer perversity; Dad might go into raptures about Ethan Barbanel, but I refused to give him a single extra neuron in my brain. Still, I thought I’d be prepared for Ethan Barbanel’s house. I knew his family had money; his house had a name, for goodness’ sake. And who but a family with a big house would be willing to take in a historian’s daughter when she was foisted on him for the summer?
But I had not been prepared for this.
My jaw dropped as we pulled up to a giant mansion, with wings and a cul-de-sac lined with crushed shells and about one million windows. This was a bad idea. This was a horrible, stomach-eating, soul-shriveling idea. “I mean it, Dad,” I said, a continuation of an argument we’d been having since it’d been decided I would come to Nantucket for the summer. “I can sleep on your floor.”
“You’ll be fine,” Dad said calmly, parking to the side of the house next to several other exceedingly shiny cars. “You’ll like it here.”
Ha. I climbed out of the car, craning my head to take in the dormer windows and widow’s walk encircling the third story. “You didn’t tell me Ethan’s family wasrichrich.”
Dad sounded wry. “They are the Barbanels.”
“Huh?”
“Of Barbanel accounting?” Now he looked confused. “Youhaveheard of Barbanel?”
