Marcella follows me up, sets Pea’s crate down and opens the door. The cat stretches and then disappears.
“We probably won’t see her again all summer,” I say.
“That’ll thrill Grandma.” Marcella sticks her hands on her hips and surveys the room. “Can I get you anything?”
“I’m good,” I say. “I’m just going to unpack.”
She leaves, and I drop my suitcases and flop myself down on the bed. The springs creak—unused to weight.
I take out my phone and hit Leo’s number. It’s the third time I’ve called today, and I’m not expecting him to answer, so it’s a nice surprise when he does. He was kind and gentle when I got my period, but I feel the distance between us—all the things we can’t take back.
“Hey,” Leo says. “You make it out?”
“Just got here.”
I walk to the window and peel the curtain back. The sun is shining high overhead—it’s noon at the beach. I can feel the outside calling, practically mocking me to get out of the stuffy house.
Through the phone I hear the sounds of Manhattan traffic. “How’s your day been?” I ask.
“Just coming up for air. We’ve been location scouting since seven. Did you know there’s a private library uptown where the books have grown into the walls? It’s all outside; they’re covered in ivy. It’s apparently one of the wonders of Manhattan.”
He seems engaged, excited. I’m glad. That’s what he should feel if we’re spending this summer apart. That the job is worth it.
“No idea,” I say. “I didn’t even know there were wonders of Manhattan.”
“Apparently. It was incredible. We should do that in our house.”
Leo is always talking about this fictional home we will havesomeday. This three-million-dollar house in West Hollywood with a full backyard and a fireplace and now an outdoor library.
I hear a car honk loudly, and the sound of a siren going by. “Hang on,” he says. “Just waiting for them to pass.”
After another moment, the noise dies down.
“This place is a maniac,” Leo says.
I imagine him, jeans and a T-shirt, a week’s worth of stubble and sweat stains, lumbering through the streets of Manhattan. Leo belongs in the Pacific Northwest with a beer and sixty-two-degree temps.
“What are you going to do tonight?” I ask.
“A few of the crew are posting up at a bar in Midtown. Thought I’d join them for a pint.”
Leo’s British sneaks in sideways. He usesknackeredand the trash can is always thebin.
“That sounds fun,” I say. “Call me after.”
“Will do. Love ya.”
He hangs up before I can reciprocate.
I toss the duffel and suitcases into the closet without opening them, pull on a blue Nike one-piece bathing suit from where it lives in a drawer, and pad downstairs.
My mother is in the kitchen chopping lettuce leaves from the garden. The most cooking she does is the kind that doesn’t involve a stovetop or oven. She assembles. “Going for a swim?” she asks me. She doesn’t look up.
“We’ll see. I might just take a walk.”
I think about inviting her, but she looks busy.
“Do you want a wet suit? Your father has a million. The water is freezing right now.”
