I start playing around with the composition, highlighting certain colors and creating more of a contrast with the plants.
“Beauty takes work to sustain,” Lottie used to say, so I write the phrase across the image. With a stylus, I add in some drawings of flowers wrapped around her wrists, climbing up her arms. The earth is rich and dark. It’s the kind of photo you can smell: sulfuric and metallic.
Only after I’m finished do I realize it looks like the earth is grabbing Lottie, pulling her under.
The next day—coincidentally on the nineteenth of June, Father’s Day, my least favorite holiday—Thomas and I meet again. We’re walking the bluff again, this time all the way to Sankaty lighthouse. It sits firmly in the distance, waiting: red-striped, like a lollipop planted by a child.
“I don’t know,” he says. “She seems happy. We shouldn’t get involved.”
In the last couple of days, it’s become obvious my mom is seeing someone, although she’s trying to hide it. She keeps leaving the house for “business dinners,” and I once saw her get into a red convertible that was parked on one of the small side streets near our cottage. What I don’t understand is why she’s hiding it from me.
Besides, she’s been too busy for the bucket list.
I spend so much of the year worried about my mom, out here on this island alone, and then when I’m finally able to be back, Rose is off with someone else. This is something people with siblings will never understand. There’s the stereotype of an only child being selfish because they never had to share, but they also never had anyone to share the burden of worry with either.
“I know my mom,” I say confidently, wondering if the sentiment is true. “She still cares about you.”
Thomas looks at me. “Do you really think I should be here? I feel like I’m trespassing.”
Behind us, I can hear the roar of the ocean, particularly angry today. As I stare at him, he reminds me, bizarrely and all at once, of my favorite history teacher. Mr. Meyers had scruffy gray hair and thick brown glasses and engaged in easy repartee with the students that never bordered on creepy or inappropriate like some of the younger male faculty. He never felt like our friend but everyone trusted him just the same. Maybe we trusted him more because of it, because of his clearly defined boundaries. I used to secretly wish he was my dad. Every parent-teacher night, I would pray for a connection to spark between him and Rose.
“You can’t give up,” I say to Thomas. “Remember what you said about my mom? Just give me one chance, please. I’ll get the two of you together in a room, you can talk, and if there’s nothing still there, I promise I won’t interfere again.”
“Fine,” he says, sounding exasperated. “One chance.”
We keep walking. A group of tourists pass by, forcing us into the bushes. The path is too narrow to accommodate all of us at once. I wonder if I should give them one of the flyers I made, offer my photography services.
“What are you doing next weekend?” I ask Thomas.
“I’m going to a wedding, actually,” he says. “My old friend from the Coast Guard extended a last-minute invite to his daughter’s ceremony. He told me to invite my sister, too. She’s arriving tonight for a few days.”
In the shade, Thomas looks years younger, the stress lines around his eyes disappearing.
“A wedding?” I repeat, smiling to myself. I have an idea. “That could be perfect.”
Thomas frowns at me. “Perfect for what?”
“Well, I told you about Lottie’s bucket list, right?”
“Yes?”
“Number nine says to ‘crash a wedding.’?” I smile mischievously, waiting for him to connect the dots. “Two birds, one stone.”
“Lily,” he says, sounding suddenly like a stern father. Again, the image of Mr. Meyers returns. “You cannot crash my friend’s daughter’s wedding.”
“We wouldn’t cause a scene or anything! I swear. It’s a perfect opportunity to get the two of you together in a romantic setting, and we’ll be super discreet about it.”
“I don’t know,” he says. “This sounds like a recipe for disaster.”
“Trust me,” I assure him again. “Please.”
He hesitates before responding. The tourists pass, their phones pointed to record the clapboard houses, flags whipping in the wind, and the ocean churning to our left. I can imagine their reactions—seeing the island in all its glory for the first time. A couple poses for astaged kiss. I imagine how quickly their trip is passing, the way summer always flashes forward for those in love.
“Fine,” he agrees reluctantly. “I’ll send you the information.”
I jump up and down. “Yes!” I yelp. “This is going to be so much fun.” A few of the tourists look back at us to check out the commotion. I shoot them a wave.
Thomas lets out a small smile. “Okay,” he says. “But remember: No drama.”
