Beach Read

“AND THERE’S THE author herself!” Pete called when I stepped into the coffee shop. “A pink eye for you, hon?”

Probably she meant red-eye. Either way, I shook my head. “What else do you recommend?”

“Green tea’s good for you,” Pete mused.

“Well, sign me up.” My body could use some antioxidants. Or whatever was in green tea that made it “good for you.” Mom had told me, but the point had been pleasing her, not cleansing myself, so I didn’t totally remember.

Pete handed me the plastic cup, and this time she let me pay. I ignored the sinking in my stomach. How much money did I have left in my bank account? How long until I had to crawl back to my now-ruined childhood home with my tail between my knees?

I reminded myself that FAMILY_SECRETS.docx was rapidly growing into a book-like thing. Even one I’d be curious to read. Sandy Lowe might not end up wanting it, but surely, someone would.

Okay, not surely. But hopefully.

Pete took off the apron as she led the way into the bookstore.

“Maybe you should get a Clark Kent trench coat,” I said. “Seems like less hassle than bows and knots.”

“Yes, and who doesn’t want to buy their coffee from a gal in a trench coat,” Pete said.

“Touché.”

“So here we go.” Pete stopped at The Revelatories display, which was now only halfway a pyramid of Revelatories. The other half was comprised of bubblegum pink, bright yellow, and sky blue books. Pete beamed. “Thought it would be kinda neat to do this local-authors display. Showcase the whole spectrum of what we’ve got goin’ on here in North Bear. What do ya think? Grab a stack, by the way.” Pete was already carrying an armload over to the counter, where a roll of AUTOGRAPHED stickers and a couple of Sharpies awaited.

“It’s great,” I said, following her with another stack.

“And Everett?” she said.

“Great,” I answered, accepting the uncapped Sharpie she was pushing into my hand. She started flipping to title pages and sliding books across for me to sign, one at a time.

“Sounds like you two’ve been spending a lot of time together.”

I balked. “Sounds like?”

Pete threw her back into her guffaw. “You know, as private as that boy is, I have to pull a lot from context out of our conversations. But yes, I’ve gathered the clues that you two have formed a friendship.”

I tried to hide my surprise. “You talk often?”

“He probably answers about a third or so of my calls. Sure, I drive him batty calling as much as I do, but I worry. We’re the only family each other’s got here.”

“Family?” I looked up at her, no longer hiding my confusion.

Her own features seemed to snap upward on her face, surprised. She scratched the back of her head. “I thought you knew. I never can tell what he thinks is private and what isn’t. So much of it shows up in his books you’d think he’d be comfortable peeling off his skin and parading through Times Square. ’Course, that might just be me projecting. I know how you artist types are. He insists it’s fiction, so I should read it as such.”

I was barely tracking. Apparently my face revealed that, because Pete explained, “I’m his aunt. His mother was my sister.”

A wave of dizziness hit me. The shop seemed to rock. This didn’t make sense. Two and a half weeks of near-constant (albeit nontraditional) communication, and Gus hadn’t even shared the most basic parts of his life with me.

“But you call him Everett,” I said. “You’re his aunt and you don’t use his first name.”

She stared at me for a moment, confused. “Oh! That. An old habit. When he was a little guy, I coached his soccer team. Couldn’t show favoritism, called him by his last name like any other player, and it stuck. Half the time I forget he has a first name. Hell, I’ve introduced him as Everett to half the town by now.”

I felt like I’d just dropped a wooden doll only to watch six more fall out and discover it had been a matryoshka. There was the Gus I knew: funny, messy, sexy. And then there was the other Gus, who disappeared for days, who had played soccer as a kid and lived in the same town as his aunt, who said no more than he absolutely had to about himself, his family, his past while I spilled wine, tears, and my guts all over him.

I bent my head and went back to signing in silence. Pete kept sliding books across the counter to me, stacking the signed ones neatly on my other side. After a handful of seconds she said, “Be patient with him, January. He really likes you.”

I kept signing. “I think you’re misunderstanding the—”

“I’m not,” she said.

I looked into her fierce blue eyes, held her gaze. “He told me about the day you moved in. Not a wonderful first impression. It’s a recurring issue of his.”

“So I hear.”

“But of course you have to give him a break on that one,” she said. “His birthday’s really hard for him ever since the split.”

“Birthday?” I parroted, looking up. Split? I thought.

Pete looked surprised, then unsure. “She left him on it, you know. And every year since then, his friend Markham throws this huge party to try and keep his mind off it. And of course, Gus hates parties, but he doesn’t want Markham thinking he’s upset, so he lets the party happen.”

“Excuse me?” I choked out. Was this some kind of joke? Had Pete woken up this morning and thought, Hm, maybe today I shall release snippets of shocking information about Gus to January in a random yet cryptic order?

“She left him on his birthday?” I repeated.

“He didn’t tell you that was what had gotten a bee in his bonnet that night you moved in?” she said. “Now, that really does surprise me. If he’d told you he’d been thinking about his divorce, of course it would’ve explained how rude he was to you.”

“Divorce,” I said, my whole body going cold. “It was about … his divorce.”

Gus was divorced.

Gus had been married.

Pete shifted uncomfortably. “I’m surprised he didn’t tell you. He felt so bad about being rude.”

My brain felt like a top spinning in my skull. It didn’t make sense. None. Gus couldn’t have been married. He didn’t even date. The store seemed to wobble around me.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Pete said. “I only thought it might explain—”

“No, it’s fine,” I said, and then it was happening again: the word-spilling. The feeling that I’d held everything in a moment too long and now had no choice over how much I let out. “I’m probably overreacting. I just … This year’s been weird for me. Like, in my mind marriage has always been this sacred thing, you know? Like the epitome of love, the kind that can weather anything. And I hate thinking some bad experiences justify people shitting on the entire concept.”

Gus shitting on the concept. Calling relationships sadomasochistic without even telling me he’d been married. Almost making me feel stupid for wanting and believing in lasting love, just because his own attempt hadn’t worked. Hiding that attempt from me.

But even so, why did I care what he thought? I shouldn’t need everyone to believe in or want the things I believed in and wanted.

When it came down to it, I resented the fact that some part of him must think I was stupid for still believing in something my own father had disproven. And beyond that, I resented myself for not letting go of it. For still wanting that love I’d always pictured for myself.

And a small, stupid part of me even resented that Gus had secretly loved someone enough to marry her, while one brief make-out session with me had apparently been enough to make him relocate to Antarctica without so much as a See ya!

“I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head. “Does that make sense?”

“Of course it does.” Pete squeezed my arm.

I had a feeling she would have said that even if it didn’t. Like maybe she just knew it was what I needed to hear right then.