“That’s right,” I declare. “It’s now my mission to make you love it like I do. Lucky for you, I have a lot of free time this summer.”
“I don’t know if I’ll ever be at your level, but you’re welcome to try.”
“Challenge accepted.” I gently rub Fiona’s ears, and she presses into my hand. “What’s the verdict on Kingfisher Cove?”
“It’s… interesting,” he says. “It’s all green and white and blue. All the houses and buildings match, and it’s so, to use my mom’s words exactly, ‘cutesy and quaint.’ It feels like I’m on vacation, you know? I mean even the Dunkin’ Donuts looks nice. If you took the sign off the side, it could pass for my grandmother’s house. Sometimes I catch myself wondering when we’re gonna head back home.”
“Do you want to go back?”
“Sometimes. My mom loves it here, but changing schools right now would really suck.” I would have agreed with him two weeks ago, but if Kat’s experience is anything to go by, it’s not hard at all. “I’m working on her to just make this a summer spot for us.”
He might not stay? The stab of disappointment in my ribs catches me a little off guard, and I try to ignore it.
“On the other hand,” Gregory continues, “my hair looks way better in this climate.”
“You barely have hair,” I say.
He reaches up and runs a hand over his head. “It used to be long like the guys here wear it.”
“Really?” I bet that looked good on him. “Why’d you cut it?”
He sighs and drops his gaze to his lap. “People kept telling me how much I looked like my dad.”
“Oh.”
“Maybe I’ll grow it back out since no one here knows what he looked like.”
I wonder if he has a picture of his dad on his phone, but it feels invasive to ask.
A Ben Rector cover comes on, and a happy sigh drifts out of me. Covers and recordings from his live shows are my favorite. He likes to laugh and talk to the crowd, and his joy for performing is infectious.
“God, I love this song,” Gregory says, and I glance up quickly to see that he’s closed his eyes to better focus on the music.
I do the same. “Me too.”
We just sit and listen for its entirety. It’s quiet and comfortable, and it settles my soul. When I finally open my eyes, he’s looking at me.
“So what else?” he asks. “Any more questions?”
I take my time with this one, thinking about how I want to ask it.When did your dad die?just seems… harsh. “How long has your dad been gone?”
“Three years.”
Is that a long time? I’ve never lost anyone close to me. My mom says grief never really goes away but it changes over time. If I lost my dad, at what point would I be able to say his name without bawling my eyes out?
One year? Two?
The way my heart aches even thinking about it makes me feel like maybe never.
As if he can read my mind, Gregory says, “I don’t mind talking about him, usually. Some days are hard—like his birthday, or the anniversary of the day he died. But most of the time I’m okay. I get that it’s awkward for other people, but sometimes it sucks that people avoid talking about him so much. Sometimes I kind of want to.”
I think again how lonely Gregory must have been, moving across the country with stuff like this weighing on his mind. “What do you want people to know?”
His gaze drops to his lap, and he smiles a little. It’s a secret smile, almost. “He was left-handed, and so am I. He loved that we had it in common, because he said it usually skips a generation. He was pretty disappointed I didn’t want to play baseball like hedid, because apparently a left-handed pitcher is a hot commodity. I never really got into ball sports.”
I can’t help it, I burst out laughing. “Ball sports?”
“Yeah. Sports with balls.”
