Chapter 6: One last perfect summer at cousins
The kitchen was flooded with a stark, forgiving morning light that made last night feel like a bad dream. Belly padded in, her bare feet cool on the tile floor. Jeremiah was already at the island, dismantling a grapefruit with intense concentration.
“Morning,” she said, her voice still scratchy with sleep.
He looked up, a piece of pith on his thumb. “Good morning, Bells.”
She went to the cupboard, pulled out a box of sugary cereal, and carried it to the counter. She didn’t bother with a bowl, just tilted the box and poured a small cascade of colorful loops directly into her mouth.
Jeremiah laughed, a soft, familiar sound. “Classy.”
She crunched, the sweetness a bright shock. “It’s efficient.”
“I take it you and Tay-Tay haven’t made up?” he asked, resuming his surgery on the fruit.
“Nope.” She took another mouthful, the crunching loud in the quiet kitchen. “We haven’t talked since last night.”
“When does she leave?”
“Uh, in a couple hours.” Belly put the box down, the cardboard suddenly unappealing. The thought of a tense, silent car ride to the station curdled her stomach. “Did you wanna go on a muffin run? I need to get out of the house.”
Jeremiah’s face lit up. “I always wanna go on a muffin run. Do you mind grabbing the keys from Conrad’s room? They’re probably on his desk.”
“Sure,” she said, brushing cereal dust from her fingers. “Is he home?”
“No. He left early.”
She nodded, a mix of relief and disappointment sinking through her.
“Do you know where he keeps the keys?”
“Should be in his drawer,” Jere said, scooping out a grapefruit segment.
Belly went upstairs, the old steps groaning their familiar complaints under her weight. She paused outside Conrad’s door, her hand hovering over the knob. She pushed it open.
The room smelled like him—sun-dried cotton, salt, and something faintly sharp, like pencil lead. She breathed it in, a stolen moment. She went straight to his dresser, avoiding the temptation to look at his unmade bed or the books piled on his nightstand.
She yanked open the top drawer. Socks, rolled haphazardly. A tangle of charger cords. Her fingers pushed through the soft clutter, searching for cold metal.
Her knuckle brushed against something small and velvety. She nudged the socks aside. A little black bag, like something from a jeweler. She picked it up, its weight negligible in her palm.
She shouldn’t. She absolutely shouldn’t. The drawstring loosened with a soft sigh. She tipped the contents into her hand.
A silver necklace slid out, cool and delicate. The pendant was a simple, elegant infinity symbol. It lay in her palm, catching the thin morning light from the window. Infinity.
Her thumb traced the perfect, endless loop. The memory of the jellyfish, its hidden meaning, flashed behind her eyes. This was different. This was precise. This was a promise.
Her heart did something complicated and painful in her chest. She touched the silver once more, then carefully, guiltily, slid it back into its pouch. She buried it deep within the drawer, exactly as she’d found it. She grabbed the car keys from beside it and left, shutting the door on the secret.
“You good?” Jere asked, buckling his seatbelt. The car engine purmed to life, cool air beginning to seep from the vents.
Belly backed out of the driveway, the tires crunching over the crushed shells. “I just don’t get Conrad this summer.”
“Why?” Jeremiah stared out the window, his tone carefully neutral.
“He’s been acting weird since the first day I got here.” She focused on the road, the lush green blurring past. “One minute he’s giving me a jellyfish, the next he’s telling me to grow up. He’s hot, then he’s ice.”
Jeremiah let out a short, humorless laugh. “Trust me,” he said, picking at a thread on his shorts. “He’s been acting weird for a while. It’s not just you.”
The muffin run was a quiet, sugar-dusted truce. They ate blueberry muffins in the parking lot, the papers sticking to their fingers. The silence between them was comfortable, broken only by the distant cry of gulls.
Later, they dropped Taylor off at the station. The goodbye was stiff, performed under the harsh fluorescent lights of the bus bay.
“Have a safe trip,” Belly said, her hands shoved in her pockets.
“Thanks.” Taylor shifted her duffel bag. “About last night… it’ll never happen again. Steven said it was a mistake, so, it’s whatever.”
The casual dismissal of it, of her brother, sparked a flicker of anger. “I’m not mad,” Belly said, which was only half-true. “I’m just kind of weirded out.”
“Yeah.” Taylor’s smile was tight. “I better get going.”
“Bye.”
The drive back felt longer. The house was quiet when they returned, suspended in the heavy afternoon heat. Belly walked through the living room and out to the back deck.
Steven was slumped in a weathered Adirondack chair, glaring at his phone. He didn’t look up as she approached.
She stopped in front of him, blocking the sun, her arms crossed over her chest. She just stood there, waiting.
He finally sighed, not lifting his eyes from the screen. “What did Taylor leave?” he said, his voice flat.
“What did she leave?” she shot back, her voice sharper than she intended. “Why, wanna go make out with her some more?” she said.
He tossed his phone onto the small table beside him. It clattered against the wood. “Belly, don’t give me shit. I feel bad enough.”
“You should. She’s my friend and not to mention traumatizing me.” The image of them in that cluttered room flashed again, visceral and unwanted.
She sat down in the chair across from him, the wicker groaning. The ocean wind tugged at her hair. Steven just stared at his hands, his shoulders slumped.
“She really likes you,” Belly said, the anger bleeding out into something sadder.
“Yeah. I know.” He dragged a hand over his face, his voice muffled. “Can you please not tell anyone.”
“Who? Like Shayla?”
He nodded, his eyes meeting hers, pleading. “Yeah.”
Shayla was his serious girlfriend back home, a fact that made the whole thing even worse. Belly watched a sailboat tilt in the distance, a white triangle against the blue.
“Not that you deserve this right now, but she seems really into you,” she admitted, the truth of it sour on her tongue.
He picked at a splinter on the arm of his chair. “I feel like she’s used to being with guys who aren’t like me. Quieter. Smarter.”
The confession hung in the salt-heavy air. It was the most vulnerable thing she’d heard him say in years.“So you were feeling insecure and that’s why you hooked up with Taylor?” she asked.
He glanced away, his jaw working. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I guess.”
She got up without another word and went inside, leaving him to the sea and his regret. The kitchen was empty, the remains of the morning still on the counter. A plate of leftover pancakes sat covered in foil on the stove.
She took one, cold and soft, and put it on a saucer. She rummaged in the junk drawer for a birthday candle, finding a lone blue one. She stabbed it into the center of the pancake.It was stupid. But the need for the ritual was physical.
She lit the candle with a match from the stove. The tiny flame wavered, then held steady. She thought of the infinity necklace, hidden in his drawer like a sentence he couldn’t finish.
I’ve wished for Conrad on every birthday, every shooting star, every penny in a fountain. The familiar mantra played in her head, but it felt different now. The jellyfish, the necklace, his coldness, his heat. It was all a tangled net.
What if I have the power to make my wish come true? The thought was terrifying. Is he still my wish? The flame danced, distorting the air above it.
She closed her eyes, the scent of syrup and burnt match filling her nose. She took a shallow breath and blew. The flame vanished, leaving a thin gray curl of smoke that twisted once, then disappeared into the quiet kitchen air.
Susannah and Laurel sat at the tide line, their backs to the house, facing the endless pull of the ocean. They were close together, shoulders almost touching. The sound of Susannah’s laughter, clear and bright, carried on the salt wind.
“I was doing some research last night.” Laurel’s tone was different—softer, deliberate.
“For your next book?” Susannah asked, tracing a pattern in the wet sand with her finger.
“I was looking into alternative therapies.” A wave rushed up, erasing Laurel’s sand-drawing before she continued. “Apparently a lot has changed in the last three years.”
The pause that followed was filled only by the hiss of receding water. Susannah stopped tracing. “Have you been speaking to Adam?”
“I know you said you didn’t want to do chemo, but—” Laurel’s words were rushed, a plea wrapped in clinical terms.
“I’m not putting myself through treatment again.” Susannah’s voice was final, a flat stone dropped into the conversation. “I know how much time I have left. I’m at peace with it.”
Laurel looked at her. The wind lifted a strand of Susannah’s hair, and Laurel gently tucked it behind her friend’s ear, her hand lingering.
“I’m gonna tell the kids when the time’s right. I just want one perfect last summer at Cousins.”
Laurel smiled at her, a fragile curve of the lips that didn’t reach her eyes. “Okay.” She took Susannah’s hand, squeezing it between both of her own, holding on as if the tide might try to take her.
She took Susannah’s hand, squeezing it between both of her own, holding on as if the tide might try to take her.
The Fourth of July rolled around the same it always did, with a palpable, sugary anticipation in the air. Belly went downstairs, the scent of sunscreen and coffee already mixing, and slid into her usual chair at the table.
“If Belly doesn’t have a date to the ball, you could take her,” Susannah said, looking pointedly at Steven over the rim of her juice glass.
“Eww, no way,” Belly said, making a face at her brother across the table.
“No, I’m already going with Shayla,” Steven said, not looking up from his phone.
“To the debutante ball?” Laurel asked, pausing as she poured more coffee. Her eyebrow arched.
“Yes, wrap your head around it, Mum. Shayla’s coming today, so you’ll meet her.” He finally put the phone down, a defiant tilt to his chin.
“Don’t forget Mrs. Covington’s dance rehearsals are tomorrow, so tick-tock,” Susannah sang, tapping her wrist.
“I don’t know my kids anymore.” Laurel laughed, a real sound that made Susannah join in, their shared glance weaving a private thread through the morning chatter.
“So, the husband coming to the Fourth?” Jeremiah asked, reaching for the box of cereal.
“She’s not married anymore,” Belly corrected automatically, her mind still half on the ball, on the idea of a date she didn’t have.
“I still don’t understand why you invited Dad’s girlfriend,” Steven muttered into his bowl.
“Her name is Victoria, and your father wanted us all to meet her.” Laurel’s voice took on that firm, no-argument tone. “And Belly, I need you to make up the guest bed.”
“Wait, Dad and Victoria are staying here? In the room next to mine?” Belly’s spoon clattered against her bowl.
“Yeah,” Laurel said, simply.
The back door opened, letting in a gust of salty wind. Conrad walked through to the kitchen, his hair still damp from an early swim. He went straight for the coffee pot, his back to the room.
“Speaking of dads, yours called,” Susannah said, her voice carefully bright. “He’s closing a deal so he can’t come.”
“What?” Jeremiah’s head snapped up.
Conrad froze, the coffee carafe suspended above his mug. He slowly turned, his ocean-blue eyes fixing on his mother. “Did you say Dad’s not coming?” His voice was low, hollowed out.
“I got fireworks for the show,” Jere said, dropping a bulky cardboard box on the kitchen table with a thump. Roman candles and sparklers spilled from the top.
“We can take a video for your father,” Susannah offered, her voice gently optimistic as she arranged hot dog buns on a platter.
“It’s not the same.” Jeremiah mumbled, not looking at her as he sorted through his pyrotechnic haul.
From his spot by the sink, Conrad smiled to himself, a bitter, private twist of his lips. He was washing the same glass for the third time, his back to the room.
“What’re you smiling over there for?” Jeremiah said, finally glancing up, his tone challenging.
“No reason.” Conrad placed the spotless glass on the drying rack with exaggerated care. He dried his hands on a towel and left the room without another word.
Belly watched him go, that familiar ache settling behind her ribs. She needed a task. “I’m gonna go make up the guest bed,” she announced, mostly to the empty air.
Upstairs, the guest room was stuffy and still. She pulled a fitted sheet from the linen closet, its scent crisp and clean. She shook it out over the mattress, then grappled with the first elastic corner. It popped off as soon as she moved to the next.
She was wrestling with it, the sheet a stubborn, sloppy mess, when she felt a presence in the doorway.
Conrad leaned against the frame, arms crossed. He watched her struggle for a full ten seconds. “You gotta fold the bottom sheet at a forty-five degree angle if you want tight corners,” he said, his voice flat.
Belly looked at him, then tried to bunch and fold the excess fabric. It bulged uselessly.
“Yeah, not like that.” A faint, almost imperceptible hint of his old amusement colored his words.
She laughed, a short, frustrated puff of air. “Then help me.”
He walked over, his movements fluid. “You gotta pull this down first.” He demonstrated, yanking the sheet taut with a sharp, practiced motion. He cleared his throat. “Like this. Come here.”
She moved to the other side of the bed. He lifted the heavy mattress easily with one hand, his forearm corded with the effort. With the other, he folded the sheet under in one neat, hospital-perfect tuck. He did the same at the foot of the bed, then gestured for her to try the next corner.
She mimicked him, lifting and tucking. The fabric slid neatly into place. Is this what it would be like? The thought came unbidden, vivid and complete. Me and Conrad, together? Making a bed in some quiet, sunlit room of our own?
“See.” He let the mattress drop, his job done.
She smiled, smoothing her hand over the now-drum-tight sheet. “Thank you.” She grabbed a pillowcase, needing to busy her hands. “Don’t you think it’s weird that my dad is staying here with Victoria?”
“Well I’m sure they’re not gonna have loud sex.” Conrad deadpanned, leaning against the dresser.
Belly shook her head, fluffing a pillow too aggressively. “That’s foul. And why is my mum letting him bring his bitchy girlfriend anyway? It’s her house now.”
“Hey, how do you know she’s bitchy?” Conrad said, a real smirk touching his lips for the first time all morning. “What if she’s like, a really nice person or something.”
Belly laughed. “Uh, what if—and like, just hear me out—she’s a bitch.”
She laughed harder, and the sound pulled a genuine chuckle from him, rough and warm. He grabbed a pillow from the freshly made bed and threw it at her.
She caught it against her chest. “Stop,” she said, still laughing.
“It’ll work out, okay? Don’t worry about it.” He shrugged, his momentary lightness fading back into his usual guarded posture.
She placed the pillow carefully at the head of the bed. “I’m sorry your dad’s not coming.”
“Don’t be.” He looked out the window, toward the drive. “I’m not.”
“Belly!” Laurel’s voice floated up the stairs, sharp and summoning.
Conrad’s eyes met hers. He leaned in, his voice a low, conspiratorial whisper against her ear. “The bitch is here.”
She smiled despite herself, a quick, rebellious flash before schooling her face into something neutral.
Downstairs, the front door was wide open, letting in a rectangle of blinding noon light. Susannah and Laurel stood on the front porch, watching as a sedan crawled to a stop. The dust from the driveway swirled and settled.
John Conklin got out first, unfolding his long legs, squinting in the sun. He offered a hand back into the car. Victoria emerged, all sleek linen and oversized sunglasses that obscured half her face. She smoothed her clothes as she stood.
“You made it,” Susannah said, stepping forward with open arms.
“We did,” John said, accepting the hug stiffly. He smelled of car air freshener and dry-cleaner bags. “Traffic was a beast.”
“How was the trip?” Laurel asked, her hands tucked into the pockets of her shorts.
John let out a weary sigh, as if he’d crossed a desert. “I forgot how crazy it gets around the Fourth.”
Laurel’s gaze slid past him to Victoria, who was removing her sunglasses with a deliberate, elegant motion. Her eyes were a cool, assessing blue.
“Victoria-, her tone impeccably polite. Thank you so much for having me. I’m such a fan of your work.”
A practiced, pearly-white smile. “Oh! Thanks.”
Laurel laughed lightly, a hollow, social sound Belly had never heard from her before. It made the skin on Belly’s arms prickle.
Inside, clustered in the shadowy foyer, the four of them watched the scene through the sun-glazed glass of the front door. Jeremiah let out a low whistle.
“She’s hot.”
Steven elbowed him hard in the ribs. “Dude.”
“What?” Jeremiah rubbed his side, his eyes still fixed on Victoria. “I’m just saying what everyone else is thinking.”
“I wasn’t thinking that,” Belly murmured.
From behind them, leaning against the wall, Conrad’s voice cut through, dry and sharp as a razor. “That could be their future stepmom.”
Steven spun around, his face flushed. “Dude, what the hell?”
Steven shoved Conrad. Conrad stumbled back a step, catching himself against the wall.
“Don’t push me,” Conrad said, his voice low.
“Guys, they’re coming,” Jeremiah hissed, peering back through the glass.
They scrambled away from the door just as the handle turned. “Go, go, go,” Steven muttered, and they fled down the hall in a disordered pack. Belly glanced back as the front door swung open.
Laurel stepped inside first, her eyes finding her children’s retreating backs. “Be nice,” she mouthed silently, her expression a flat warning as she walked past them toward the kitchen.
John filled the doorway, a too-wide smile on his face. “Hey, come give your old man a hug.” He enveloped Steven and Belly in a simultaneous, breezy squeeze that smelled of airline peanuts and cologne. “And this is Victoria,” he said, gesturing beside him.
She offered a brilliant, teeth-on-display smile. “Hi guys, it’s really great to meet you. I’ve heard nothing but five-star reviews.”
They both forced smiles in return. “Let’s put this in the kitchen,” John said, hefting a weekend bag.
They walked toward the kitchen. When they were out of eyesight, Belly looked at Steven, her voice a bare whisper. “There’s no way she’s twenty-seven.”
They all went outside, standing around the deck in a loose, awkward circle. Paper plates sagged with burgers and potato salad. The ocean roared its indifferent soundtrack below.
“So, tell me about this Deb Ball,” John said to Belly around a mouthful of food.
Belly shrugged, poking at her coleslaw. “Yeah, so apparently it’s for girls like me. Girls who don’t know who they are.”
“My cousins did it in Chicago,” Victoria said, her voice smooth as the chardonnay in her glass. Her manicured fingers curled around the stem. “They raised a ton of money to build schools.”
“That’s great,” Laurel said. Her own smile was fixed, a perfect, polite replica of Victoria’s.
“Hey Belly, would you mind showing me where I can find a bathroom?” Victoria asked, setting her glass down on the railing.
“Sure,” Belly said, turning toward the house.