Chapter 8: I knew it
The bathroom door clicked shut, sealing Laurel and Adam in the salty, humid silence. The cracked mirror seemed to fracture his reflection into a dozen distorted pieces.
“I’m staying away because she told me to,” Adam said, his voice a low rasp. He leaned against the sink, the porcelain cool through his shirt. “I thought you knew that.”
Laurel stood her ground, arms crossed. The nautical print on the wall—a faded schooner—seemed to list in the awkward light. “Why doesn’t she want you around? What did you do?”
He looked at his own fragmented face in the glass. A muscle in his jaw twitched. “I fucked up.”
“How?” The word was a bullet.
He didn’t answer. He just pushed off the sink, brushed past her, and unlocked the door. He walked out, leaving it swinging on its hinges, leaving her alone with the schooner and the shells and the echo of his failure.
Belly balanced two slushy margaritas, the condensation slick on her palms. The house had developed a strange, post-party hollow. Laughter and music had evaporated, leaving behind sticky rings on tables and the ghost of smoke in the air.
She took a fortifying sip from the left-hand cup. The tequila was a warm, familiar bloom in her chest.
From the side of the house came the sound of water hitting concrete, a steady, rhythmic splash. Hearing the outside shower running, she walked towards the sound of it.
“Oh, sea creature, where are you?” She said, her voice carrying over the spray.
“I’m in the shower.” Conrad said, washing his chest, scrubbing the sand away, black board shorts on. The door was open so she stepped just outside of it, looking at him. Water sluiced down the defined planes of his shoulders, darkening his blonde hair to gold.
“Everyone left, but we still got margaritas to drink.” She said, lifting a cup as proof.
“Okay, well I can’t drink it in the shower. Can you put it down and I’ll get it after?” He said, not turning around, his voice slightly raised over the water.
She brought a drink to her lips, the cold glass against her teeth. “I’ve always liked you with wet hair. It’s so romantic.” She says.
He turns around, water spraying from his movement. His expression was unreadable, guarded. “What’s so romantic about wet hair?” He asked.
She looked at him for a moment, at the droplets clinging to his eyelashes. “You just don’t get it.” She said. She takes another sip, longer this time, her eyes not leaving his.
“How many of those have you had?” He asks, his gaze dropping to the near-empty cup.
“Four. Seven. It’s not important.” She says, shrugging.
He laughs, a short, soft exhale more than a sound. He reached behind him and turned the shower knob. The sudden silence was loud, broken only by the drip of water from his hair onto the wooden slats. “Let me just ask you one thing, okay?” She says, the words rushing out in the quiet.
He looks at her, grabbing a towel from a hook and running it roughly over his head. “Did you buy me that infinity necklace for my birthday?” She says.
He stopped. The towel hung in his hands. He looked at her for a long moment, his blue eyes clear and complicated in the dusk. He didn’t say yes. He didn’t say no. The absence of denial was its own kind of answer.
“I knew it.” She said, the triumph in her voice fragile and sharp.
“Can I have some privacy, please.” Conrad said, his voice even, final.
She walked away, mumbling I knew it under her breath, the gravel drive crunching under her sandals. The two cups were still in her hands, ice melted into vague green water. She walked inside, the screen door slapping behind her, and nearly collided with her mother in the dim hallway.
“Who said you could have a margarita?” Laurel said, her eyes scanning Belly’s face, then the cups.
“I made them,” Belly said, defensively. “It’s basically limeade.”
Laurel went upstairs. The wooden steps creaked under her weight.
Upstairs, a solid thud came from behind Susannah’s door. Laurel stopped, her hand on the banister. She listened, hearing only the frantic pulse in her own ears. She pushed the door open without knocking.
Susannah was standing by her dresser, a fallen hairbrush at her feet. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” Susannah’s voice was airy, practiced. She didn’t bend to pick up the brush.
Laurel’s eyes caught the bareness of Susannah’s left hand in the lamplight. The pale stripe of skin was a tiny, shocking absence. “I see you’re not wearing your ring. Wanna tell me what’s going on with you and Adam? I’m sorry, how was I supposed to know you weren’t getting along.”
Susannah smiled, a slow, weary unfolding. “He cheated on me two years ago. With his secretary.”
“What?”
“While I was going through chemo.” Susannah said it like she was commenting on the weather, this monstrous fact rendered flat by repetition.
Laurel’s stomach dropped. The room seemed to tilt. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you would have told me to leave him.” Susannah finally looked at her, her eyes glittering with a hard, clear light. “And I didn’t want to. But now I do.”
“Why now?”
“I don’t want him next to me at the end.” The statement was simple, absolute, and it sucked all the air from the room.
Laurel’s hands clenched into fists at her sides. “I’m gonna kill him.”
“Laurel, I’ve handled it.”
“Adam’s a dick, but you’re gonna need him.” Laurel’s voice was rising, practical and frantic. “Who’s gonna drive you to your appointments? Who’s gonna help the boys?”
“I’m doing my best.” A tremor entered Susannah’s perfected composure.
“I know you are.” Laurel’s anger cracked, revealing the sheer, terrifying weight of what was coming. “But I’m gonna be the one to clean all this up.”
Susannah looked at her oldest friend, a sad, knowing smile touching her lips. “Nothing will make you happier.”
“Fuck you.” The words were out, sharp and final. Laurel turned and walked out, shutting the door with a quiet, precise click.
Downstairs, the cleanup had begun. Conrad, Jeremiah, and Steven cleaned the backyard under the bruised purple sky. There were five hours until the Fourth was over, but the party wasn’t over just yet.
Conrad grabbed the pool skimmer and guided it through the dark water, snagging a soggy napkin and an empty cup. The chlorine bit his nostrils. “Dumb and Dumber, you guys go set up the fireworks. I’ll clean up.” He grabbed the trash bag from Jeremiah’s loose grip.
“Yeah, sure,” Jeremiah said, relieved to have a task that involved explosives. He and Steven headed toward the shed, their footsteps quiet on the damp grass.
Conrad walked over to the littered table, his movements efficient. He grabbed empty bottles, clinking them into the black bag. The glass was slick with condensation. He saw Adam come out, standing on the steps in his crisp shirt, watching.
He looked at him and decided to take on what Jere had said. “Hey, Dad.” The word felt foreign.
“Oh, hey. You get everything cleaned up?” Adam asked, his voice carrying a false, casual warmth.
“Yeah. Belly’s upstairs with her dad.” Conrad said, not looking up, crushing a red cup in his fist.
“Why’d you let her get so drunk?” Adam’s tone shifted, taking on a familiar, lecturing edge. “You’re lucky she didn’t get hurt.”
“I didn’t know she was drinking that much.” Conrad’s jaw tightened. He flung a handful of bottle caps into the bag.
“You’re the oldest. You’re supposed to look out for the youngest.” Adam took a step down, his shadow stretching across the patio.
Conrad stopped. He finally looked at his father, the man’s face half in shadow. The weight of the day—the missed catch, the tequila, the infinity necklace hanging unacknowledged between him and Belly—pressed down. “I don’t know why, but I thought I could talk to you.” He said it more to himself.
He turned and walked away, the bag rustling against his leg. Stupid idea to even talk to him in the first place, Conrad thought.
“Hey, Connie, come on.” Adam’s voice chased him, a mix of irritation and perfunctory placation. “I’ve got a lot going on right now.”
“Just leave.” Conrad said, the words quiet and final. He walked into the house, letting the screen door slam.
The interior was too bright, too silent. He leaned against the closed door, hearing only the frantic drum of his own heart. From upstairs, he could hear the low murmur of Belly’s voice talking to her father, a soft, comforting sound that somehow made the hollow in his chest ache more.
He looked down at his hands, smelling of chlorine and sticky sugar. He thought of her standing outside the shower, her eyes too bright, saying you just don’t get it.
Down on the beach, a sudden crack split the night, followed by a fountain of silver sparks that hissed as they died in the wet sand. Jeremiah whooped, the sound carrying up to the house. Steven just stared at the dying embers, his hands shoved deep in his pockets.
“What’s wrong?” Jere asked, loading another cylindrical firework into a makeshift launcher made from a piece of PVC pipe.
“Shayla. She knows about Taylor.” Steven’s voice was flat, robbed of all its usual confidence.
“Oh, shit.” Jeremiah paused, the lighter flickering in his hand.
“She didn’t even seem mad. She didn’t seem to care.” Steven kicked at a mound of sand, sending a plume into the dark. “Said we weren’t anything serious anyway.”
Jeremiah laughed, a single, sharp burst. “Dude. She was wanting you to say you wanted to be exclusive.”
“What? No.” Steven’s denial was automatic, hollow.
“Yes, dummy.” Jere lit the fuse and stepped back. A whistling comet shot skyward and exploded in a dome of green. “That’s, like, girl code for ‘fight for me.’”
The green light washed over Steven’s face, highlighting his confusion. “Oh, fuck. I don’t know, man. I’m just crazy about her, swear I’ve just never felt this way about anyone else.”
“Well quit your fucking moping and go tell her.” Jeremiah clapped him on the shoulder, the gesture sending a slight stagger through Steven’s frame.
Upstairs, the light in the guest room felt assaultive. Belly lay on the bed, one arm thrown over her eyes. “Oh, my head.”
The door eased open and her father came in, holding a plate with two cold slices of pizza. He sat on the edge of the bed, the springs groaning. “I remember one Fourth when Susannah rented a margarita machine that looked like a spaceship. The thing never stopped.”
He whistled, low and nostalgic. They laughed, the shared memory a brief balm.
“Do you still love her?” Belly asked, peeking out from under her arm before taking a slice. The grease tasted like comfort.
John chewed slowly, considering. “Umm, I think I’ll always be a little in love with your mum.”
“But she stopped being in love with you.” The words were blunt, weighted with tequila and a naive sense of justice.
He smiled, a sad, knowing thing. “It’s not that simple, Belly. Sometimes people change. It doesn’t mean they stop loving each other.” He looked at the water stain on the ceiling. “It just means the shape of the love changes. It becomes something quieter. Maybe something a little sadder.”
Downstairs, Jeremiah walked through the silent living room, headed for the kitchen and water. He stopped in the dim hallway.
Adam was there, at the foot of the stairs, with his bags. A sleek leather duffel and a hanging garment bag were placed neatly by the front door, final and out of place.
“You’re leaving?” Jeremiah’s voice cracked on the second word.
He didn’t turn around, just zipped the duffel with a sharp sound. “Yeah, a deal’s falling apart. I’m getting the next flight to London.”
Jeremiah stared at the back of his father’s head. The remnants of fireworks still seemed to pop behind his eyes. “It’s Fourth of July weekend. I thought you were going to teach me curl routes.”
Adam finally faced him, his smile tight and transactional. “Promise, when I get back, we’ve gotta talk about varsity football next year.”
“Oh, I’m not that good, Dad.” The words tumbled out, laden with a lifetime of comparisons. “I’m not Conrad.”
Adam stepped forward, gripping Jeremiah’s shoulders. The gesture felt like a performance. “You’re faster than he ever was. But I gotta go. Love you, son.”
He pulled Jeremiah into a brief, hard hug that smelled of airport and ambition. “Love you too, Dad,” Jeremiah mumbled into his shoulder.
Then Adam was out the door, the click of the latch impossibly final. Jeremiah stood in the silent foyer, listening to the rental car’s engine grind to life. He watched the headlights sweep across the wall and disappear. His chest hurt, a deep, blunt ache that had nothing to do with asthma.
The gravel of Shayla’s driveway crunched under Steven’s sneakers. A single porch light cut through the maritime dark, illuminating her curled in a wicker chair, a book facedown on her lap.
“Hi,” he said, his voice sounding too loud in the quiet.
She looked up, her expression unreadable. “What’s up?”
“Can we revisit the whole me and you being casual thing?” The question hung between them, awkward and hopeful.
She studied him for a long moment. “Sure.”
He sat on the top step, not too close. The damp night air seeped through his jeans. “I know I fucked up. Twice, actually.” He took a breath. “First, hooking up with Taylor. It was the dumbest mistake. And earlier, when you said we weren’t anything serious… I agreed. I didn’t mean that.”
“Then why’d you say it?” Her voice was soft, curious.
“I choked. You just make me nervous.”
“Why?”
He looked directly at her, all his bravado stripped away. “I don’t want to be with anybody else. Do you?”
“No.” The word was a quiet exhale.
She leaned forward and kissed him. It was slow, and sweet, and tasted like mint and forgiveness.