says, “I…I guess I didn’t realize you were planning on hooking up this summer.”
“I’m kidding,” I say lamely, waving my hands around even though he can’t see me. “You know Macie. But what gives with the weird present?”
“I saw them on a sale rack. I thought you might need a lift.”
“No pun intended,” I add.
“Huh?”
“A lift? Bras…boobs…”
“Oh. Ha! Yeah. Funny.” Which settles it. Andrew has never even noticed I have boobs. Loneliness consumes me like a wave.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ve had kind of a strange day.” I get off the bed, walking as far as the phone cord will allow, and flip Calloway’s calendar girl from February to June.
“No worries,” he says through more static. “There are more presents coming. Try to have some fun.”
“I’ll try,” I say uncertainly.
“Just don— do an—thing I w—dn’t do.”
“A little late for that,” I say. “I mean, I am here, right?”
“Wh—sta—a—miser—lo—ba.”
“Um…you’re cutting out, Andrew.”
“I sa—goo—ta—bama.”
“Yeah, okay. I’m going to say good night now, all right?”
“—kay. Love ya.”
“Talk to you tomorrow?” I wait for his response, but it’s still a staticky jumble of sound, then silence, and the line goes dead.
I hang up the phone in defeat, then take each item of (normal) clothing from my suitcase, being careful to maintain the precise fold lines, and lay them into the drawers of the small wooden dresser. I set the framed Friends Forever photograph of me and Andrew on the bedside table, then lie down in the bed to make sure it’s angled just so. I want to be able to see Andrew’s face when I go to sleep. I make a quick adjustment.
The dog scratches at the door again, and I wonder if I could stay locked up in this room all summer. I’ve got Nutella and a box of granola bars in my suitcase, but after I’ve eaten those, how long could I survive on toothpaste? I mean, it’s made with baking soda so it’s practically food. Well, at least I have a bathroom…
By the time I’m done setting up my room, the sun is finally starting to set. All I want to do is curl up with a good book. I take my mangled copy of Pride and Prejudice out of my bag. I’m halfway done with it, and even though I’ve read it a hundred times, not finishing something has never sat right with me. Order requires closure.
That’s been Mom’s big complaint about Dad leaving—she keeps saying how she’s never had any “closure.” Consciously or subconsciously, I equate the state of being unfinished with credit card bills and collection notices. I will finish this book, then I will finish this summer job, then I will take my money, finish school, and get on with my life.
Chapter Nine
Bennet
We made our last run across the channel at nine thirty. Now Doyle and I are sitting at a gouged wooden table in the middle of the tiny ferry office. It’s still light out, but barely. All I can see through the one small window are the silhouetted masts of a dozen sailboats, hash marks against a purple sky.
We’re going through the day’s receipts, which have more than doubled since a month ago. With the warming weather come the summer tourists. Doyle mumbles and works the dull stub of a pencil across his books. I double-check his work with an old calculator that spits out a roll of paper from its back end.
Doyle doesn’t look up as he mutters, “Saw you checkin’ out the new summer girl.” He hawks up something thick and phlegmy, then spits into a Styrofoam cup.
I don’t answer right away, tapping out a few numbers before losing my place. “You saw wrong.”
“She’s somethin’ to look at,” he says. His head is still bent low over his papers. He owns a pair of those little reading glasses, but he refuses to wear them. Says they make him look old. I want to tell him that ship has sailed.
Dragging the back of my hand under my nose, I sniff loudly and sit back against my chair, watching him, waiting for him to say more. What’s he getting at? When he acts like it’s my turn to contribute to the conversation, I chime in. “If you say so.”
“So? What’s her name?” he asks with an exhale. He stands up and turns. The office is so small, he doesn’t even need to take a step; the coffeepot is on a narrow counter directly behind his chair. He pours a cup, swivels, then sits back down.