Chapter 7: Fuck it
Outside, the conversation had shifted. Her father was leaning against the railing, a beer in hand, looking at Laurel. “Victoria really did read your book, you know.”
Laurel was scrubbing at an invisible spot on the table with her thumb. “I’m a novelist, John. I write fiction.”
“Tell that to Victoria,” John said, grinning.
Laurel didn’t smile back. She lifted her eyes to his. “How late can she stay? Wouldn’t want her parents getting upset.” She paused, letting the implication hang. “She can drink, right?”
John’s grin faltered. He took a sip of his beer. “I understand what you’re implying.”
“Do you?”
“God, I missed this,” John said, deliberately changing the subject, sweeping his arm out to encompass the house, the ocean, all of them. “All of us together for a good old Fisher Fourth.”
“Almost everyone,” Laurel said quietly, her gaze drifting to Susannah, who was staring at the horizon, her profile peaceful and sad.
John followed her look. His voice dropped. “So Adam couldn’t make it, huh?”
“Apparently not.” Laurel shook her head, a simple, tired motion.
Belly escaped to the kitchen’s familiar chaos.
Conrad was already there, pulling a bag of limes from the fridge. Jeremiah was on the counter, tearing open a sack of salt. The air smelled of anticipatory sugar and alcohol.
“What’re you guys making?” Conrad asked, his eyes glancing from the tequila bottle to Belly’s face.
“Margaritas. But with a twist,” Belly said, grabbing a cutting board. She didn’t know what the twist was.
“Well, you gotta use the good blender.” Conrad walked to a high cabinet, stretching to retrieve a heavy, dusty professional-grade appliance. He set it on the counter with a solid thunk.
“I haven’t used that thing in years,” Jeremiah said, hopping down to inspect it.
“I remember. The counters were sticky for two entire summers.” Conrad laughed, a real, unguarded sound that made Belly’s stomach flip.
“Yeah, just about,” Jeremiah admitted, grinning.
Belly sliced a lime, the juice stinging a tiny cut on her finger. “Won’t he be mad if he finds out?” she asked quietly, not needing to say Adam’s name.
Conrad’s smile didn’t fade, but it changed, turning edges. “He won’t find out.” He poured a generous stream of silver tequila into the blender’s glass pitcher. “He’s not coming.”
She believed him. The finality in his voice was a stone dropping into deep water. She smiled. “Okay.”
“Yeah.” He held her gaze for a second too long.
They poured in lime juice and triple sec. Belly added a cautious splash of simple syrup. Conrad tipped the tequila bottle again, doubling the pour. They all laughed, the sound bright and conspiratorial in the sunlit kitchen.
Conrad secured the lid, flipped the switch. The motor roared, pulverizing the ice into a slick, pale green vortex. He took his hands off the pitcher, leaning back to watch it spin.
“No, keep your hands on it!” Jeremiah yelled over the noise, laughing. “You know it walks!”
Conrad rolled his eyes but placed his palms firmly on the blender’s lid, his forearms tensing. He turned it off. The sudden silence rang in their ears.
“Man, you know what I miss?” Conrad said, dipping his finger into the mix for a taste. “Watching Laurel put Adam in his place. Remember? She’d walk in, see him being an idiot about some deal, and just drill into him.”
He pitched his voice into a shockingly good imitation of Laurel’s calm, sharp tone. “Adam.”
They all cracked up, the memory a warm, shared blanket. Conrad was shaking his head, still smiling. “She’s the only one he ever listened to.”
“Adam.”
The voice wasn’t Jeremiah’s. It came from the kitchen doorway, clear and real.
Their laughter died instantly. They turned their heads in unison.
Laurel stood there, but she wasn’t looking at them. Her gaze was fixed just beyond the doorway, her expression one of pure shock. Adam Fisher walked past her into the kitchen.
“You came,” Laurel said, her voice barely a whisper.
He was tan, dressed in crisp summer whites that seemed to repel the house’s casual dust. He held a leather folio. “Happy Fourth,” he said, his voice filling the quiet room.
“Dad!” Jeremiah slid off the counter, his excitement immediate and genuine.
“Hey, guys.” Adam’s smile was broad, practiced. His eyes landed on his older son. “Hey, Connie.”
Conrad looked down at the blender, his knuckles white where they still gripped the lid. He didn’t speak. Belly watched the muscle in his jaw tighten, a tiny, rhythmic pulse.
“I’ll have what you’re mixing up there,” Adam said, his tone breezy, ignoring the frozen silence his arrival had caused.
“Sure,” Belly said, her voice strangely loud. She grabbed a clean cup, her hands moving on autopilot, and poured the margarita.
“Thanks, Belly,” Adam said, taking the cup. He took a long sip, his eyes scanning the room over the rim. “Needs more lime,” he said, but he smiled when he said it.
“You’re gonna love the fireworks show this year,” Jeremiah said, leaning against the counter, trying to fill the hollow space his brother’s silence had created. “It’s gonna be the best one yet.”
“I believe it,” Adam said, laughing. The sound was too loud for the kitchen. He turned to Laurel. “Where is everyone?”
As if summoned, Susannah appeared in the doorway. She stopped, her hand flying to her chest. The color drained from her face, then rushed back in two bright spots on her cheeks. “Adam.”
“Hey.” He set his drink down, the glass clicking against the marble.
“You managed to get off work,” Susannah said. Her voice was thin, stretched tight.
“Yeah,” Adam said, stepping toward her. “Couldn’t miss the Fourth with my family.”
Everyone went silent. The only sound was the distant, lazy crash of waves. Conrad finally moved, unplugging the blender with a sharp yank. The cord slithered off the counter.
“Well,” Susannah said, clasping her hands together. Her knuckles were white. “Let’s get back to the party.”
“Okay,” Laurel said, her voice unusually gentle. “Let’s go, kids.” She touched Susannah’s elbow, a brief guiding press.
They all moved to walk outside, a clumsy herd. Adam hung back, his gaze finding his eldest son who was methodically wiping down the already-clean counter.
“Hey, Connie,” Adam said, blocking his path to the door. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
Conrad walked past him, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushed his father’s. He didn’t break stride. “I’m headed to the beach,” he said, leaving.
The screen door snapped shut behind him with a final, dry crack.
Adam watched him go, then turned to Susannah, who had lingered. “What’re you doing here, Adam?” she asked. The softness was gone from her voice.
“Laurel called me this morning,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Said, ‘Get your ass here.’ So I got my ass here.”
Susannah laughed, a short, airless sound. “She shouldn’t have done that.”
“You didn’t know?” He looked genuinely surprised.
“No, I didn’t.” She wrapped her arms around herself, though the evening was warm.
“I thought…” Adam started, then stopped. He adjusted the cuff of his shirt. “I thought you’d changed your mind.”
“Since you’re here,” Susannah said, turning toward the deck and the voices beyond, “we just need to get through it. I’m not ruining the Fourth for the boys.” She walked out, leaving him alone in the kitchen with the smell of limes and salt.
At the beach, Conrad, Jeremiah, Steven, and Shayla sat in a loose half-circle of faded canvas chairs dug into the cool sand.
At the beach, Conrad, Jeremiah, Steven, and Shayla sat in a loose half-circle of faded canvas chairs dug into the cool sand. The sun was a bloody orange yolk sinking into the water, staining the sky in violent pinks and purples. Nobody spoke.
Conrad’s gaze was locked on the horizon, his jaw working. He’d been silent since walking out.
The crunch of footsteps in the dry sand made them all turn. Belly approached, struggling under the weight of the heavy blender, a folded inflatable unicorn tucked under her other arm. She set her burden down on a low, scarred picnic table with a definitive thud.
“May I present… the Belly’s Special,” she announced, a little breathless.
She unfurled the unicorn, its plastic bright against the muted beach, and sat on it with a soft, airy sigh. The ridiculousness of it cut the tension. Jeremiah chuckled.
Another figure was walking up the beach from the direction of the boardwalk. He lifted a hand in greeting.
“Cameron?” Jeremiah said, squinting.
Everyone turned their heads. The recognition was a gentle shock.
“Cam,” Belly said, her voice warm with surprise.
Conrad watched him approach, his expression unreadable. He silently reached for the blender, poured a slushy green margarita into a red solo cup, and held it out toward the newcomer.
“I’m good, man. I don’t drink, thanks though,” Cam said, offering a friendly, closed-lipped smile.
“Yes. That’s right. More for me,” Conrad said, bringing the cup to his lips and draining half of it in one long, continuous pull.
Cam came and sat down on the sand next to Belly’s unicorn, the fading light catching the laugh lines around his eyes. “Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” she replied.
“What is that?” Cam asked, nodding toward her own drink.
“Uh, it’s a margarita,” she said, taking a small, self-conscious sip.
“Slow down, Conrad. It’s not a race,” Shayla said, laughing lightly from her chair.
Conrad just shrugged, his eyes sharp. He finished the cup.
“But what if it was a race?” Belly heard herself say, the tequila and the strange evening lending her courage. “Isn’t that the premise of every drinking game?”
“You wanna play a drinking game?” Steven asked, already perking up.
“Why not?” Belly said, her gaze flicking to Conrad, then away. “I mean, it’s the Fourth of July.”
“Fuck it,” Conrad said, standing up to pour himself another.
“Let’s do it,” Jeremiah agreed, already scavenging for coins.
They set up a wide, shallow bowl a few feet away on the packed sand. The rules were simple: three coins, three tosses per round. Anyone who missed the bowl drank. It was mindless, a perfect distraction from the unspoken currents pulling at them all.
They played for an hour as the sky deepened to navy. The plink of a coin landing in metal was followed by groans or cheers. The plunk of one hitting sand was met with laughter and the tilting of heads back.
Belly looked to Conrad after a successful toss, finding he was already looking at her. A faint, private smile touched his lips, different from the hollow one he’d given his father. It was a crack in the armor, a glimpse of the boy who’d taught her to tuck a fitted sheet.
Jeremiah pointed at her when his coin landed squarely in the center. “Drink,” he commanded.
She tore her gaze away from Conrad and drank, the lime and salt and burn a welcome shock.
After an hour, the blender was empty and the coins were glittering with condensation in the bowl. The world had a soft, blurred edge. They all packed up their chairs and the silly unicorn in a comfortable, shared silence.
They headed over to the dock in a loose procession, their footsteps thudding on the boards.
The night air was cooler now, smelling of wet wood and deep salt. Someone had strung fairy lights along the posts, their glow casting wobbling reflections on the blue water below.
They settled on blankets and coolers, a buffer of intentional space between them. Cam found a spot next to Belly, his shoulder warm against hers in the cooling air. They talked about meaningless things for a while—the best flavor of popsicle, whether you could train a seagull, the peculiar horror of sand in your bed.
Belly looked over her shoulder towards the grass seeing Conrad throwing a football with Jere. She smiled at the sight. The motion was so familiar, the arc of the ball against the indigo sky a perfect, comforting punctuation to the day.
Conrad threw the ball to Jere. He caught it with a solid thwack against his palms. “Easy with the velocity, Tom Brady,” Jere said, laughing.
Conrad smiled, a quick, effortless thing. Jere threw it back, a high, arcing spiral. Conrad was about to catch it when Adam ran up, intercepting it with a loud clap. Conrad’s arms dropped to his sides. He looked at the ground.
Adam threw it back to Jere. “Your spirals are looking pretty tight. Must be in the genes,” Adam said, clapping his hands together as if dusting off the play.
Conrad didn’t look at him. He watched a moth batter itself against the fairy light above his father’s head.
“I talked to Coach Walsh,” Adam said, his voice shifting. “He said there’s a spot in the summer sessions waiting for you. It’s not too late to get ahead.”
“I’m good here,” Conrad said, his voice flat.
Adam looked at him, the jovial coach facade slipping. “I wanna show you guys how to run a proper post route. Come on.”
“We got to dig the clam pit,” Conrad said, already walking toward the tools stacked near the porch.
“I’ll come help,” Adam offered, following a step.
Conrad stopped. He turned his head, just enough. “Why don’t you go spend some time with Mum.” It wasn’t a suggestion. The words were quiet, final, and hung in the air like the smell of sulfur before a match strikes.
Jere looked at his father, his own smile gone. He tossed the football onto the grass and walked away with Conrad, leaving Adam alone under the twinkling lights.
Back on the blanket, Shayla leaned toward Belly, her voice low. “I don’t get Conrad.”
She took a sip of her drink, the sweetness gone, just the burn left. “I know,” she said softly. “He’s really hard to read sometimes.”
She thought of the jellyfish, their argument. He was all contradiction, a locked book written in a language she’d spent lifetime trying to crack.
Cam came over, handing Belly a bottle of water. “Might wanna hydrate,” he said, his voice kind.
Belly took the water and sat it down next to her on the blanket. “He’s so sweet, isn’t he,” she said, pinching Cam’s cheek.
Shayla laughed, a bright, tinkling sound. “Belly, by the way, I love that dress.”
“Thank Taylor for it for me, actually,” Belly said, the tequila making her words a little loose at the seams.
“She has great taste,” Shayla said.
“I know right?” Belly leaned forward, her eyes wide with tipsy conviction. “You know what? You and Taylor are like twins. You’re both mega fashion-y, and you’re both, like, baddies, and you both like the same summer boys.”
“We do?” Shayla asked, her smile fading into something more curious.
“Come on, let’s go for a walk,” Cam said, suddenly grabbing Belly’s arm to pull her up.
“Wait,” she said, planting her hand on the rough wood of the dock. She looked back at Shayla, the words tumbling out in a rushed, messy heap. “Look, Shayla, don’t worry. My brother’s an idiot and it didn’t mean anything.”
“Wait, what didn’t mean anything?” Shayla asked, her body going very still.
“Them kissing. He loves you. He loves you,” Belly said, the secret finally airborne as Cam successfully dragged her to her feet and away from the blanket.
Shayla looked down at her hands, her long hair curtaining her face. The music from the phone seemed to grow louder, competing with the sudden roar in her own ears.
Down on the dark beach, near the tidal line, a solitary figure was working. Conrad drove a shovel into the sand, his movements sharp and rhythmic. Jeremiah stood nearby, arms crossed, watching him.
“Hey, can you be nice to Dad for one day? Seriously, he’s trying.” Jeremiah’s voice carried on the salt wind.
Conrad rested his hands on the shovel handle, catching his breath. He stared at the hole, a dark gash in the moon-washed sand. “Good for him.”
Jeremiah bent, scooped a handful of wet sand, and threw it. It spattered against Conrad’s leg. “Whatever you have with Dad, squash it, alright? Please?”
Conrad let out a long, controlled breath, his shoulders rising and falling. He said nothing. He just resumed digging, the shovel biting into the earth with a soft, punishing sound.
Shayla was in the guest room, folding a sweater into her suitcase with sharp, efficient motions. She didn’t look up.
“Hey, where are you going? Don’t leave,” Belly said, leaning in the doorway, her words slurry.
“I think I’ve had too much to drink. I’m not feeling well.” Shayla’s voice was polished smooth, a perfect, practiced lie. She placed the sweater in the case and reached for a bottle of sunscreen.
“Okay, well, you know what? Let’s do this again tomorrow.” Belly’s suggestion hung in the air, pathetic and hopeful.
Shayla finally looked at her, offering a thin, meaningless smile. “Sure.” She zipped the suitcase closed, the sound definitive. She wheeled it past Belly without another glance, her perfume a faint, expensive trace in the hallway.
Belly stood alone in the room, staring at the perfectly made bed she and Conrad had fixed.
Cam was waiting at the bottom of the steps, hands in his pockets. “I’m gonna head off, too.”
“Why?” The word came out plaintive, a child’s protest.
He shrugged, looking past her toward the ocean. “I’ll come back when you’re less… uh.” He didn’t finish.
“I’m not drunk,” she insisted, though the world had a soft, tilting quality.
“I’ll see you around,” he said. He gave her a small, apologetic smile and walked away, following the path Shayla had taken toward the front drive and the cars.
Conrad was coming up from the beach, heading toward the house. The shovel was slung over his shoulder like a rifle. Sand dusted his jeans. “Hello,” she called out, her voice too bright.
He turned, his face shadowed. He lifted a hand in a silent, weary wave. Then he walked up the steps, brushed past her, and disappeared into the house. The screen door sighed shut behind him.
Belly laughed, a single, hollow puff of sound. She grabbed her abandoned cup from the porch rail and took a long, bitter sip. The warm dregs of the margarita tasted like salt and regret. Belly stood alone on the porch, the party’s noise a dull hum behind her. She placed the empty cup down and walked inside, the screen door’s whine her only companion.
Steven was moving. He hit the front door at a near-jog, the humid night air enveloping him. His eyes scanned the driveway, finding Shayla’s silhouette beside a waiting car with its interior light on.
“Hey, are you leaving?” he called out, his voice tight.
She turned, her expression unreadable in the uneven light. “My Uber’s here.”
“Your Uber?” He closed the distance between them, the crushed shells loud under his shoes.
She walked over to him, hugging her arms against the coastal chill. “Can I come with?” he asked, the words bursting out of him.
Shayla shook her head, a small, pitying movement. “We don’t have to do everything together. It’s not like we’re a thing.”
Steven looked at her, genuinely confused.
“I was busy last week. You were hanging out with Taylor at a party.” Her voice was flat, stating a fact.
“Taylor? No, no, no, she’s Belly’s friend.” He ran a hand through his hair, the lie feeling flimsy even to him.
“I know you guys hooked up.” There was no anger in it, just a weary finality.
“Shayla, that doesn’t mean anything. She doesn’t mean anything.” The defense sounded hollow and cruel even as he said it.
A faint, almost elegant smile touched her lips. “You can relax. It’s not like we’re exclusive. Debs aren’t supposed to take their escorts seriously.” She shrugged a shoulder. “We were just having fun. Nothing serious.”
He stared at her, the neat, clinical dismissal carving something out of him. He shook his head slowly. “Yeah. Just having fun.”
“Glad we’re on the same page. See you round.” She offered the ghost of a wave, slid into the backseat of the car, and pulled the door shut.
The Uber’s tires crackled over the drive and disappeared. Steven watched the red taillights vanish into the dark, letting out a shaky breath that did nothing to steady him.
Inside, the laughter felt abrasive. Laurel watched Adam pour himself a whiskey at the sideboard, his back to the room. She moved without thinking.
She crossed the room, took his elbow with a firm grip, and steered him toward the hallway. “Laurel, what the hell?” he muttered, but he didn’t resist.
She pushed open the bathroom door, the one with the cracked mirror from Jeremiah’s childhood dare. “Just get in here,” she hissed, following him inside and locking the door.
The small space instantly felt smaller, thick with the scent of sea spray and his cologne. “This is all your fault,” Adam said, his voice low and furious. “You shouldn’t have called me like that. Not without asking her.”
“Your wife is dying of cancer and you can’t make it to her favorite holiday?” Laurel’s words were knives, perfectly aimed.