I shake my head. “Yeah, you can. Just tell him to go home.”
“This is sort of his home now.”
I prop myself up on my elbow and open my mouth, waiting for the words to pour out. But I’m too shocked. And horrified.
She loops a loose piece of hair behind my ear, trying to act like this is no big deal. “Dad said he could move in,” she whispers.
There are so many things I want to tell her in this moment. Our house is too small. Tyler is temporary. There will be even less room when the baby comes. I don’t need another body in this house to tell me that it’s too small and we’ve all outgrown this place. And yet I feel like I’m the only one of us who sees it. I’m the only one wondering where we go from here.
But with my legs dangling off the foot of my twin bed, I can’t help but feel that the problem is me. And that, somehow, I have outstayed my welcome here.
Internally, I am screaming, but on the exterior the only sign of life is the tears beading at the corners of my eyes. “Is it dumb that I’m really upset about the Olympics being over, too?”
She laughs. “It depends. Is that why you’re crying?”
“No... maybe a little bit.”
Hattie wraps her arms around me and pulls me to her like Mrs. Pearlman’s old Maine coon does with her kittenswhen they’re done feeding. It’s a momentary reminder that I’m the actual little sister. “I bet you could’ve been good enough for the Olympics if you’d ever even tried.”
“Shut up,” I tell her, fully aware that she’s being so nice to me because I’m a mess of a human being right now. I’ve always loved the Olympics. Most kids were obsessed with SpongeBob or Transformers or One Direction, but something about Team USA and the swim team in particular always felt magical to me. It was like every person on that team was the star of their own Cinderella story and the whole country was rooting for them to get the prince—or princess. In fact, sitting on my dresser is an old Michael Phelps Wheaties box with Missy Franklin’s face taped over his; she rules and he drools, obviously.
“You’re the best swimmer I know, Ramona Blue.”
I roll my eyes, but my lids feel heavier than they did a moment ago. “You don’t even know any swimmers. You’re the best amateur hairdresser I know and I don’t see you styling the rich and famous anytime soon.”
“I’m just saying.” She yawns. “You don’t have a tiny human in your body. You can still be whatever the hell you want.”
I roll my eyes again and yawn back at her. I wish it were that simple. “I need to get some rest before our shift.”
I close my eyes, waiting for her breathing to deepen. I will always love Hattie for her undying faith in me, but even from a very young age, I knew what it meant to be the kind of person with the time and resources to be something like a swimmer or a gymnast or a freaking speedwalker. (Yes, race walking is totally an Olympic sport.) My sport—the special skill I’ve developed my whole life—is surviving, and that doesn’t leave much room for following Cinderella dreams.
THREE
The oysters at Boucher’s are the best reason to come to Eulogy. The decor at Boucher’s is the second-best reason.
No, really. That’s what all the travel website reviews say. Year-round this place is dressed for Christmas, with multicolor lights dripping from the ceiling and artificial trees in every corner. Unless it’s pouring or unbearably hot, the patio doors roll up like the kind you see at an automotive shop. It’s the type of place where you can find locals and tourists coexisting, because it’s too hard to keep the food a secret.
I plop down at the bar in front of Saul, who slings his towel over his shoulder and chuckles. “Too young to serve, sweetheart.”
I groan, letting my head fall down on the counter. Hattie and I slept for a few hours before coming in a little early for second shift.
“Hey, Saul,” says Hattie as she walks in behind me. We both work here, mostly because it’s in walking distance of our house and our forms of transportation are limited toour feet, my bike, and whatever rides we’re offered from Saul or whoever Hattie is currently dating.
“What’s her problem?” he asks my sister.
She hops up onto the stool beside me. “Grace and her family went home this morning.”
“And Tyler is moving in,” I whisper. And then mouthHelp me.
He rolls his eyes—not at me, but at my sister—and shakes a hand through my hair. “I told you not to fall in love, didn’t I? We’re young. We’re supposed to have sex with stupid people and get high at public parks or something.”
I pick my head up enough to see him, and his ridiculous handlebar mustache is enough to make me smile again. Unlike Charlie’s, Saul’s mustache is thick and perfectly groomed. That, combined with his cutoff jorts and his Budweiser tank top, give him this dirty seventies porn-star look that would make anyone else seem like a pedophile, but not Saul. His look may age him a bit, but Saul is nineteen and fresh out of high school. The ’stache, shorts, and tank are all a part of what he calls hisbeach trash aesthetic. Saul treats his clothing like it’s a costume—or armor even.
“Staff meeting in five!” Tommy, our manager and the owner’s son, calls from the kitchen.
Saul pours me a glass of Diet Coke and, after checking to make sure no one is around, adds a splash of whiskey. He slides it over before leaning on the bar. “Sugar,” he says, “you broke my rules.”
Saul is the king of summer hookups. His rules arelaw. And I broke all two of them. 1. Don’t date a tourist. 2. Hook up in the closet all you want; just don’t date in it.
