Between Us and the Moon - Rebecca Maizel Page 0,78
bunch of buggies from his grandparent’s place. There’s about ten of us, and five buggies, so you can ride with me.”
Curtis? Seriously? How can he want to spend time with Curtis? Especially after last night? And to be honest, how could he expect me to want to spend time with Curtis?
“How’s your wrist?”
“A little sore, but it’s better.”
I can’t put this together.
“You’re quiet,” he says.
“I was just thinking that some of the dunes are on conservation land and no one is allowed to ride on that sand,” I lie.
“Don’t worry, Miss Scientist, we’re heading to Provincetown beach. It’s not conservation land there.”
We drive and the music plays. It’s The Doors again, but I don’t know the song. I don’t ask, either, I just try to figure out what I am going to say to Curtis when I see him today. If we’re going to ride dune buggies with him then he and Andrew must have made up. A couple small cuts run across the knuckles on Andrew’s right hand. The scrape on his cheek is a faint red line.
We pull into the parking lot of Sandy Neck Beach and Andrew kills the motor. “I’m such an idiot! You don’t want to be around Curtis after last night. I’m used to him, but you’re not.”
My shoulders relax and I nod.
“I’ve been sitting here trying to figure out why you’re being so quiet. I’m a dumbass. Let’s go somewhere else. Anywhere,” he offers.
I shake my head and look out at the parking lot. It’s emptying out, but there are a few families packing their chairs and umbrellas in their cars. Mom, Dad, Scarlett, and I used to go to this beach. Dad liked to swim and I would hold on to his back. We haven’t done that in a long time. Years, actually.
“Why doesn’t anyone stop Curtis from drinking?” I ask.
“He’s got to make his own choices.”
We get out and stand by the side of Andrew’s truck.
“Let’s go,” he says. “Screw the buggies. Anywhere you want.”
“I’m not afraid of Curtis. I’m sad for him,” I explain.
“He probably won’t remember most of it today. The fight with me he will, but not what led up to it. He never mentioned you this morning.”
I would never be able to be best friends with someone who could just forget the violent events of the night before. Not to mention that he got into a fistfight with his best friend. Ettie would never give someone a dirty look let alone hit a person. Tucker wouldn’t either. I have to ask. The question is going to drive me insane until I get it out.
“How can you be best friends with someone who would treat people like that?” I ask.
Andrew hugs a backpack. He considers his answer and his shoulders slump. He focuses on the group in the distance. Someone yells, “Andrew,” and it’s like the prince has arrived. That’s how it always feels to me, anyway.
“Because he’s been my best friend since we were nine. Mike was like our brother.”
“But he’s an alcoholic,” I say. “I’m not saying get rid of him because he drinks too much. But whoever he was before, he’s not now. He’s dangerous.”
There’s a kind of sadness in Andrew’s gaze I can’t quite figure out. He seems to stare at nothing.
“Yes,” Andrew finally says. “Yes, he’s dangerous now.”
My cheeks warm from the drop in Andrew’s voice.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” I say, unable to meet his eyes. “I can be too pushy sometimes.”
“Nah,” he interrupts me with a quick shake of his head. “You just said what I haven’t been able to.”
Across the asphalt are five neon-colored dune buggies, which really look like matchbox cars with huge wheels. Imminent death should be their name. Not dune buggies—deathmobiles.
We walk toward the group and I wonder if everyone will be talking about last night. I avoid Curtis’s eyes and he seems to be doing the same. Whenever I check, his back is to me.
Andrew slaps the hands of his friends and they do a kind of handshake I’ve seen them do before. I want to know this handshake too. I watch, and Tate, the bartender from the Lobster Pot, catches me. I look away and when I do, Shelby, the girl with the dreadlocks, smiles at me. Smile = good sign. No need to break that down and test it.
“Sarah. You need a nickname,” Tate says.
“I do?” I say, and Andrew hands me a pair of leather gloves with the fingertips missing. I want