19
A few hours later I stood in the standby line for the first ferry out of Oak Bluffs, hands jammed into my pockets and my duffel slung across my back. The sky was bright white, the ground strewn with broken branches; the whole island had that dazed, post-storm feeling, sandblasted and raw.
The party had broken up more or less immediately after Meredith’s appearance, Eliza jumping to her feet and following Meredith up the front staircase, Holiday and Doc slipping out as quickly and unobtrusively as they could. “Hey,” I said to Doc as he was headed out onto the porch. “Listen. I just want to say—”
But Doc cut me off. “You’re a dumbass, Linden,” he announced, then turned, letting the screen door clatter shut behindhim.
“Well,” I said to no one in particular once he was gone. “I have to say, I do appreciate his lack of bullshit.”
“Yeah.” Jasper offered me a half smile, then jammed his hands awkwardly into his pockets. “Look, bro,” he started, but now it was my turn to interrupt.
“I’m going,” I promised. “First ferry out.”
Jasper nodded, the relief written all over his face. “Yeah,” he said again. “I think that’s probably a good idea.”
Clearly, I’d worn out my welcome at August House, on top of which I was more than ready to collapse face-first back into my bed at home and sleep until school started. Still, I couldn’t deny it stung that Jas was so ready to see the last of me. I’d spent the last three years trying to fit in with him and the rest of our friends at Bartley. And in the end I’d thrown it all away—for what, exactly?
I’d packed my stuff as quickly and quietly as I could manage, hesitating for a moment outside Eliza’s closed bedroom door. I lifted my hand to knock, then thought better of it. I told myself it was because she was probably too busy with Meredith to listen to my sorry excuses, but the truth was I knew there was nothing I could possibly say to make up for the way I’d treated her. She—and Holiday—had been right. I’d invented an imaginary version of Eliza for myself to fall for, swiftly and elegantly sidestepping every indication she’d tried to give me that that person didn’t actually exist. I’d been so focused on the idea of her as some beautiful, unattainable icon of the good life that I’d never stopped to consider the possibility that she actually cared about me and what I thought about her. And the minute she’d let her guard down, I’d turned around and punished her for it. Iwasa dumbass. Eliza deserved better.
Not that it mattered at this point. I would probably never see her again.
I shifted my weight on the sidewalk, trying not to shiver inside my hoodie. There was a damp, chilly post-hurricane breezeblowing in off the water, ruffling my hair and lifting goose bumps on the back of my neck—a reminder, as if I needed one, that the summer was just about over.
I was just about to show the attendant the ticket on my phone when I heard someone call my name; when I turned, I was surprised by the familiar sight of Holiday’s car idling in the parking lot. “Michael!” she called again, leaning out the driver’s side window, her mane of dark, curly hair blowing wildly around her face. “Wait!”
A handful of people turned to stare at the sound of the commotion, and even after everything, I felt my cheeks get red with the attention. “Sorry,” I said to the attendant. “I’ll, um, be right back.”
“Ferry’s leaving in five minutes,” she warned me.
I nodded, hitching my duffel up on my shoulder and jogging over to Holiday’s window. “Sneaking out without saying goodbye?” she asked.
I shrugged. “I mean, I kind of assumed that you, like everyone else on this island, were tired of looking at my fucking face.”
“Well, that’s a fact.” Holiday’s lips twisted. “But we’re friends, right? Besides,” she said, her expression keen as the eye of a hurricane, “I know who pushed Greg into the pool.”
Right away, I shook my head. “Enough,” I said. “It’s over, Holiday.”
“It’s not,” she insisted, and something about the look in her eyes made me think this time was different. “Get in the car.”
I glanced over my shoulder at the ferry. Every instinct in mybody was screaming at me to say goodbye and climb aboard—to go back to my mom’s house, to try to figure out what the hell I was going to do about the rest of my life.
Then I looked at Holiday, and I got in the car.
“Okay,” I said a few minutes later, snapping out of the dazed, obedient silence that had enveloped me since I slid into the passenger seat of the messy sedan. It felt like everything that was happening had taken on a hazy, inevitable quality—that all roads led to wherever we were headed, even though I still had no idea where that was. “Enough. Where are we going?”
Holiday grinned a Cheshire grin. “That’s a good question,” she allowed, “but the better one is: What do we know for sure?” She lifted one hand off the steering wheel, counting on her fingers. “One: Topher Leal, midlevel drug dealer from the not-so-mean streets of Southie, is hanging around the Vineyard looking for his money. Two: clearly, Greg didn’t pay him back before the party at August House. Three: it must have been a pretty big debt if Topher thought it was worth it to stay put—or was too scared to go home—even after Greg wound up in the hospital. And four: Topher’s the kind of guy who’s more than willing to apply a little pressure if need be. So—assuming he didn’t have a sudden attack of conscience and flush all the drugs down the toilet before vowing to live life on the straight and narrow, which I think is aprettysafesupposition at this point—why didn’t Greg just pay Topher what he owed and get it over with?”
“I…have no idea.” I was barely following. “He was secretly an addict and put it all up his nose instead of selling it? Gave the money to the Greater Boston Food Bank? Lost it all playing Skee-Ball at the penny arcade?”
“Maybe,” Holiday allowed. “Or: someone stole it.”
That got my attention. I turned to look at her, the pieces still not quite locking together in my mind. “Who?” I asked, and that was the moment I suddenly realized where we were heading. “Holiday—”
“I’m glad you asked,” Holiday interrupted, turning onto the long, winding road that led back to August House. “We’re about to find out.”
Meredith was waiting on the front porch when we pulled into the driveway. She was perched on a massive, monogrammed suitcase, flicking through her phone way too fast to actually be reading anything on the screen. She stood up when she saw us, then narrowed her eyes: “What are you doing back here?” she asked suspiciously. “I thought you were my Uber.”
“I’ve been thinking about picking up a side hustle, actually.” Holiday nodded at the suitcase as she climbed the rickety steps. “Are you taking off too?”
