Chapter 2: Why are you acting so different
The air in the dining room, thick with the scent of grilled lemon shrimp and melted butter, seemed to crystallize. The clatter of forks ceased. They all sat at the table eating dinner; Jere and Steven had been laughing at something on their phones, the glow illuminating their grinning faces.
“Steven, I swear to God if you look at that phone one more time I’m putting it in the screen basket.” Laurel’s voice was a wire, tight and sharp.
He put it in his pocket, the smile wiped clean. A beat of silence pulsed.
“We just wanna see your beautiful faces,” Susannah said, her tone an attempt to smooth the ripple, but her eyes were darting, landing nowhere. She lifted her wine glass. “When do you leave for training camp?”
Steven looked at Conrad, who had been pushing a piece of asparagus around his plate with surgical focus. Conrad didn’t look up.
“I quit football,” he said. The words were flat, final.
Everyone—Belly, her family—looked at him. The only sound was the distant, relentless sigh of the ocean.
“Wait, really? You quit?” Steven’s voice was too loud.
“Yeah.” Conrad finally glanced up, meeting Steven’s gaze for a second before looking past him, out the dark window.
“He can always change his mind,” Susannah offered quickly, her smile strained at the edges.
“I’m not gonna change my mind.” Conrad’s voice was quiet, but it cut through the room like glass.
Another silence, heavier this time. Laurel cleared her throat, practical, steering into the skid. “If you’re not playing football, what are you gonna do this summer?’
“You could work at the club with me and Steven,” Jere said, his trademark grin back but edged with a nervous energy. He was trying to lift the mood, to be the buoy he always was.
“I’m not gonna work at a club.” Conrad’s rejection was swift, dismissive. Jeremiah’s smile flickered.
“Wait, you’re working this summer?” Belly asked, turning to Jere, desperate to anchor the conversation somewhere safe.
“Yeah, I’m lifeguarding and Steve’s working at the snack shack,” Jere said, gratitude for the subject change coloring his voice.
“Oh, Belly, I almost forgot!” Susannah exclaimed, the lightness in her voice a palpable effort. She got up, the chair scraping, and hurried to the sideboard. She returned with a creamy, thick envelope, handing it to Belly. “I have a surprise for you.”
“What is that?” Steven asked, leaning over.
Belly slid a card from the envelope. It was heavy stock, embossed with elegant script.
“I arranged for Belly to be a debutante,” Susannah announced, her hands clasped together under her chin, her eyes shining with delight.
Belly stared at the card. The words Honorable Order of the Maidens of the Summer Colony swam before her eyes. “Is this the thing where the girls wear white dresses and courtesy?" she asked, her voice small.
“It’s when a girl comes of age and presents to society,” Susannah said, her hands fluttering with excitement. “I know it sounds silly, but I swear it's fun. Girls come from all over New England to Cousins just to be a part of it.”
Belly looked at her, the embossed card feeling alien in her fingers.
“I cannot believe you are still holding onto this archaic dream,” Laurel said, getting up to clear plates with sharp, deliberate movements. The china clacked.
“It used to be about finding a husband, but now it’s about networking. They teach you leadership skills, and it benefits charity. Like a bat mitzvah,” Susannah countered, her voice bright and defensive.
“It’s not like a bar mitzvah,” Laurel said, laughing without humor as she disappeared into the kitchen.
“The whole debutante thing is bullshit,” Conrad said. His voice was low, but it landed like a stone in the center of the table.
“Yeah,” the boys agreed in a clumsy, overlapping mumble. Jere shrugged at Belly, an it’s true grimace.
“No, it’s when a girl has a coming out. It’s a formal recognition she’s reached maturity,” Susannah insisted, her gaze locked on Belly, pleading.
“I’m sorry, mature? Belly?” Steven snorted. “A couple months ago you had a cat funeral. You made us all wear black.”
Conrad smiled.
“Shut up, Steven. I saw you crying in your room,” she shot back, her face flushing hot.
“Don’t you wanna get all dressed up?” Susannah pressed, her eyes wide and imploring. “The gowns are exquisite.”
“It’s not just Belly’s kind of thing. She’s our little alley cat,” Laurel called from the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Her tone was final, a dismissal that felt like a slight shift in the universe.
Belly looked down at the formal script. She thought of a white dress, of being seen. She saw Susannah’s desperate hope.
“I’ll think about it,” Belly said, just to end the conversation, just to make Susannah’s face soften.
“She’ll think about it!” Susannah repeated, holding her glass up in a solitary, triumphant toast. The wine caught the light, a blood-red shimmer.
Eventually, Steven and Jeremiah escaped to the porch, their voices a low murmur accompanied by the flick of a lighter. Laurel and Susannah moved to the den, the soft murmur of their talk blending with the click of knitting needles. Belly stacked the plates, the clatter too loud in the quiet kitchen.
She rinsed her hands under cool water, watching the suds spiral down the drain. The house felt different tonight, the walls holding the echo of Conrad’s declaration and her own uncertain promise. She dried her hands on a towel.
Upstairs, the silence in her room was a physical pressure. She changed into her bathing suit, the black fabric familiar against her skin. A thin cotton shirt went over it, the hem brushing her thighs. The hall floorboards creaked under her bare feet as she passed the closed doors.
Downstairs, the only light came from the den. “Night swim?” Laurel asked, not looking up from her book.
“Yeah, night swim,” Belly said, pushing the screen door open. It sighed shut behind her.
The night air was cooler, carrying the dense perfume of night-blooming jasmine from Susannah’s garden. The pool glowed, a rectangle of electric blue in the dark. Conrad sat at the edge, his legs dangling in the water. A cigarette glowed between his fingers.
He heard the screen door and looked over. The light from the water cast his face in sharp planes of light and shadow. She stopped, her feet cold on the concrete.
“I thought you said smoking changes the way your brain processes information,” she said.
“So does your cell phone,” he replied, his voice flat.
She dropped her towel on a lounge chair and dove in. The water was a shock, silencing the world. She surfaced, pushing wet hair from her face. Conrad watched her, his expression unreadable.
“You said smoking messes with white matter,” she said, treading water.
He smiled, a faint, brittle curve of his lips. “Do you even know what white matter is?”
“You said our brains are still developing and that—” he cut her off.
“God, do you memorize every single thing that I’ve ever said?” He took a drag, the ember brightening.
She laughed, a short, sharp sound. “Get over yourself.”
She went underwater again, the chlorine stinging her eyes. When she came up, he was bringing the cigarette to his lips, inhaling deeply. The smoke left his mouth in a slow, careful stream.
“Conrad, you’re the one that said smoking is dumb, and real athletes don’t put shit in their bodies,” she said, her voice quieter now.
“I’ve said a lot of stuff. And I’m not an athlete anymore. So.” He flicked ash into the water, where it died with a hiss.
“Well, I still think you should quit.”
He exhaled, a long, weary breath, and looked at her for a moment that stretched. The pool light wavered on the surface between them.
“What will you give me if I do?” he said.
The question hung in the humid air. They looked at each other for a long moment. The only sound was the filter’s hum and the distant, rhythmic crash of waves. Something shifted in his ocean-blue eyes.
She didn’t look away. She couldn’t. Her heart was a frantic drum against her ribs.
“Nothing,” Belly said, the word coming out too soft. She forced her voice to firm. “I think you should quit for yourself.”
He took another drag, the ember flaring and illuminating the tight line of his jaw for an instant before fading. He watched the smoke dissipate into the dark air above the glowing water.
“Hey,” he said, his gaze shifting back to her. “Why are you considering the debutante thing?”
She paddled slowly, the water cool against her skin. “I don’t know,” she said, shrugging. “I mean, it’s not like I have anything else going on.”
“But it’s not you.” His voice was low, intense. “Don’t let my mum make you her little doll just because she never had a daughter.”
“I don’t mind it,” she said, defensive. “I mean, sometimes I wish I was her daughter.”
“You’re better off with Laurel, trust me.” He said it with a conviction that felt heavy, final. He took another drag.
She looked at him, at the new hollows under his cheekbones, the distance in his eyes that hadn’t been there last summer. “Why are you acting so different?” she asked.
He looked at her and shook his head, a sharp, dismissive motion. “I’m not,” he said, exhaling the smoke in a thin stream.
“I know you.” She swam closer to the edge, her hands on the cool concrete. “I mean, something’s going on. Just tell me.”
He looked at her, then down at the water, his reflection shattered by the pool light. His shoulders were rigid. “Belly—”
The screen door slammed open with a crash, shattering the fragile space between them. Light and noise spilled onto the patio.
“First bonfire of the summer!” Jere and Steven yelled in unison, their voices boisterous and overloud.
Conrad and Belly looked at each other for a suspended moment, a conversation unfinished, a door slammed shut. Conrad took one last, deep drag and flicked the cigarette into the dry hydrangea bushes beside the pool house.
“Come on, we’re leaving,” Steven said, jangling his car keys.
“Can I come too?” Belly asked, hoisting herself out of the water.
“Uh, no,” Steven said, already turning toward the driveway.
“The mums are getting everything ready for your movie night,” Jere said, his tone apologetic but his body already angled to follow Steven. He gave her a quick, sympathetic grimace.
Belly looked at Conrad.
“See you,” he said, the words casual and empty, as he brushed past her.
“Have fun with the mums!” Steven called over his shoulder as they disappeared into the shadowy path toward the front of the house.
She stood there alone, dripping onto the stone. The roar of Steven’s Jeep engine kicked to life, headlights slicing the dark, the sound fading down the coastal road toward the beach. The silence they left behind was absolute, and much colder than before.
She stood there until the shivering started, a deep tremble that had little to do with the night air. Belly went inside, the towel wrapped tight around herself like a shield. The house felt overly bright, too warm. The rich, chocolatey scent of baking filled the kitchen.
“Brownies are nearly ready,” Susannah sang out from the den, her voice muffled.
Laurel looked up from arranging DVDs. “Go put the DVD in,” she said.
Belly padded to the entertainment center, her hair dripping onto the rug. “Do we have to watch It Happened One Night?”
“But we always watch It Happened One Night on the first night,” Laurel said, her tone leaving no room for debate.
“We could watch The Philadelphia Story instead,” Susannah suggested from the doorway, a hopeful lilt in her voice.
Belly looked at the ceiling, a wave of exhaustion crashing over her. The thought of sitting through a movie, of pretending everything was normal, made her skin feel too tight.
“Everything okay?” Susannah asked.
“Yeah. No, I’m just kinda tired,” Belly said, the lie forming easily. “So I think I might skip movie night and head to bed.”
“Okay, hon. Yeah, sure,” Laurel said, already turning back to the television. Her quick acceptance stung more than an argument would have.
Upstairs, the quiet of her room was a relief. She peeled off the damp bathing suit, the towel falling in a heap on the floor. Pulling on dry sweats and a t-shirt, she felt the phantom chill of the pool conversation still on her skin.
She dug her phone from her duffel bag and hit Taylor’s number. It rang twice.
“Why am I hearing from you? You never call me on the first night,” Taylor said by way of greeting, music pulsing faintly in the background.
“Tonight… Conrad and I were talking by the pool. Just the two of us. And it felt different.” The words tumbled out in a rushed whisper.
“Good different?” Taylor asked, the music cutting off abruptly.
“I don’t know. Then Jere and Steven came down and they all just left and went to the beach.” Belly flopped back on the bed, staring at the seashells on the ceiling.
“Why didn’t you go with them?”
“Like I care about a beach bonfire.” She tried to sound bored, but it came out brittle.
“Go, girl. Go have fun. Conrad will be there,” Taylor said, her voice shifting into strategy mode. “Get all dressed up. Look in your duffel bag. I’ve gifted you my secret weapon.”
Belly sat up, eyeing the bag. “Alright. I’ll go.”
They hung up. She knelt on the floor and unzipped the main compartment, pushing past shorts and crumpled t-shirts. Her fingers touched something sleek and cool, wrapped in tissue paper.
It was a dress, a shade of pink so vibrant it seemed to glow in the dim room. The fabric was silk, slipping through her fingers like cool water, cut with a simplicity that promised everything.
She held it up against herself before the foggy mirror. The hem would hit mid-thigh. It was a Taylor dress, bold and unapologetic, a garment that declared an intention she wasn't sure she felt.
For a long minute, she just stared at her reflection, the familiar girl in sweatpants holding the alien, electric pink. Then she thought of Conrad by the pool, smoke leaving his lips, telling her not to be anyone's doll. She dropped her t-shirt to the floor.
The silk whispered as it slid over her skin, a shock of coolness that made her breath catch. It fit as if it had been made for her, the cut highlighting the new curves of the past year that her own clothes seemed designed to hide. She brushed her long brown hair until it shone, leaving it down around her shoulders.
She didn't look like the alley cat anymore.
Walking downstairs, each step was careful, deliberate. The floorboards knew her weight and threatened to betray her. Laurel and Susannah were on the couch, the blue light of the television flickering across their absorbed faces. A scene from It Happened One Night played silently; Claudette Colbert was pretending to snore.
Belly held her breath, moving like a ghost past the doorway, and slipped out the side door into the consuming dark.
The night swallowed her. The crunch of shells under her thin sandals was terribly loud. She followed the distant, pulsing beat of music she felt more than heard, a bass thump carried on the salt wind from the hidden cove. The path through the dunes was a tunnel of deeper shadow, the beach roses releasing their perfume as she brushed past.
She emerged onto the sand. The bonfire was a living, roaring beast further down the shore, figures silhouetted against the orange flames, their laughter shredding on the wind. She didn’t approach, just stood at the edge of the darkness, watching.
“Hey, where you coming from?”
A guy materialized next to her, smelling of cheap beer and coconut sunscreen. He held a red plastic cup, his smile wide and unfocused in the dim light.
She smiled, a practiced, social curve of her lips. “Another party,” she lied, her voice light.
“Sweet. Here, take my beer.” He thrust the cup toward her.
“No, no, no thanks, I’m okay,” she said, taking a half-step back. The sand shifted under her heel.
“So you got a boyfriend back home?” he asked, moving closer, his body crowding her space.
Her eyes scanned the firelit crowd, desperate for a familiar shape. She saw Steven then, walking away from the fire toward the tide line, alone. “Steven!” she called out, the relief sharp in her voice.
He turned, squinting into the dark. He walked over, his expression shifting from confusion to recognition to utter disbelief. “What’re you doing here?” he said. Then, his eyes sweeping over her, “Sorry, what’re you wearing?”
“Who the fuck are you?” the guy said, squaring his shoulders.
“I’m her brother,” Steven said, his voice dropping into a low, flat register that brooked no argument.
The guy held up his hands, backing away. “My bad.” He melted back into the gloom.
Steven grabbed her arm above the elbow, his grip firm. “We’re going. Now.”
He started walking, pulling her with him across the uneven sand. She stumbled, her sandal catching on a piece of driftwood. As she righted herself, she looked up directly into the firelight.
“Belly?” Conrad said.
He was sitting on a faded cooler, a bottle dangling from his fingers. A girl was perched next to him, her arm resting casually along the back of the cooler behind him. She had sleek dark hair and a curious, proprietary smile.
Belly looked at him, the silk dress suddenly feeling ridiculous, a costume. The girl next to him leaned forward.
“Who are you?” she asked, her tone politely bored.
“Who are you?” Belly shot back, the words coming out harder than she intended.
“Nicole. Conrad and I went to the Deb Ball last summer.” She said it casually, as if mentioning a shared class. Her gaze swept over Belly’s pink dress, her bare legs, and her smile deepened.
Belly’s eyes snapped to Conrad. The firelight danced in his blue eyes, unreadable. “It was after you guys left to take Steven to practice,” he added, his voice quiet.
The creamy invitation, the embossed script on Susannah’s table flashed in her mind. His voice in the dark: Deb balls are shit.
“I thought you said deb balls are shit?” The question hung in the salty air, sharp and challenging.
He blinked, his jaw tightening. A log collapsed in the fire, sending a whirl of sparks skyward. “I—you’re such a brat,” he said, the words tight.
“Well, you’re an asshole,” she fired back, her face burning.
Jeremiah appeared then, his cheerful expression dissolving as he took in the scene. “Belly! Hey, we can all hang out,” he said, stepping between them, his voice a forced calm.
“I’m about to take her home,” Steven said, his hand still clamped on her arm.
“What?” Jeremiah said, looking from his brother’s stony face to Belly’s furious one.
“Yeah,” Steven said, steering her firmly away from the fire, the light, their faces. “We’re leaving.”
“We’re leaving.”
Steven’s grip was a vice, propelling her through the soft, collapsing sand away from the fire’s crackling orbit. She yanked her arm back, the silk sleeve slipping in his grasp. “Stop manhandling me, I can walk.”
He spun to face her, his features sharp in the moonlight. “What was that? Seriously, what is this?” He gestured vaguely at her dress.
“It’s a dress, Steven. People wear them.”
“You’re acting crazy. And you’re my little sister. I’m responsible for you.”
“I’m twenty-two! You’re not responsible for anything except being a buzzkill.”
“Steven, chill out come on.” Jeremiah’s voice cut through their hissed argument as he jogged up, breathless. “Go hangout with Shayla or something.”
Shayla appeared beside him, a calm presence with a sympathetic glance at Belly. “Let’s go,” she said to Steven, touching his shoulder.
He shook her off, his anger a live wire. “Fine. Belly. Stay here and don’t talk to anybody.” He bit her name out like an accusation.
“Okay, alright, chill,” Jeremiah said, stepping physically between them, his palms out.
Steven stared at him, then at Belly, shook his head, and let Shayla lead him back toward the music. The silence they left was thick and uneasy.
“For one,“ Jeremiah said, turning to her, his usual grin absent, “I’m happy you’re here.”
“Jeremiah!” a girl’s voice called from near the fire. He turned around.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, his eyes apologizing before he loped off toward the voice.
Belly stood there. The pink silk felt absurd against her skin, a garish flag in the dark. She hugged her arms around herself, the ocean’s breeze suddenly cold. She watched the crowd, a shifting tableau of shadow and flame, and saw none of them.
Laurel and Susannah sat on the deck out back, a citronella candle painting their faces in warm, dancing light. The remains of their brownies sat between them on a plate.
“When the boys threw Belly in the pool I swear I almost saw a smile on Conrad’s face,” Susannah said, swirling the wine in her glass. “He was in a better mood today than since… well, awhile. He’s just in such a bad mood. So unlike himself.”
“Since when did he quit football?” Laurel asked, pulling her sweater tighter.
“A couple weeks ago. He only ever played football to please Adam. I told you they weren’t getting along.” Susannah’s voice grew thin. “I’m just gonna let him have his space, you know? Let him do his thing.”
Laurel reached over and squeezed her friend’s hand. The gesture was brief, solid. “Can we just have a really great summer like we said we would.”
They both laughed, a sound that held decades of compromise and hope. It hung in the salty air before dissolving into the crickets’ steady song.
Belly sat on the sand alone.
She dug her heels in, feeling the cool, firm layer beneath the sun-warmed grains. The party was a distant organism, its pulse fading into the white noise of the tide. She picked up a flat, gray stone and rubbed its smooth surface with her thumb.
Every laugh from the fire felt like a pinpoint of judgment. The silk dress, Taylor’s secret weapon, was a total failure. It had made her a spectacle, a joke. Conrad’s face—that mix of irritation and dismissal—replayed on a loop. You’re such a brat.
She threw the stone. It skidded across the wet sand and vanished into the dark wash of a receding wave.