as if I spent all evening at a bonfire, drinking cheap beer from a plastic cup and ignoring the frat boys on the beach.
My mind moves slow and careful. I’m not sure I want the memory that happens next, but it comes anyway. Not a nightmare. Not a dream. I fell overboard last night.
And Christopher Bardot saved me.
That would be shocking, but not as shocking as the memory of him naked in the moonlight, climbing into bed, his warm skin flush against mine. He’s gone now, enough that I would think it really could have been a dream. Except for the faint scent of him that remains, something woodsy and male that managed to survive a dip in the Atlantic.
My phone rings from the nightstand, my mother’s picture flashing on the screen. It’s a photo I took when she was laughing at the beach and didn’t think I was watching her. Completely different than the beauty queen smile she uses when looking at a camera. There’s a bittersweet sensation whenever I think about her when I’m with Daddy, a feeling of betrayal I can’t shake for loving him even though he hates her so much.
“Hey, Mom.”
“You didn’t call to say you got there safely,” she says, a small pout in her voice.
“Shit. I’m sorry. I should have texted at least.”
“That’s okay. I’m sure you’re busy there.”
That’s my opening to tell her about Daddy’s new wife. She used to scoop every detail out of me like I was a melon, hollowed out and left dry. “Mostly I’ve been sleeping.”
“Are you still in bed?” she asks, laughing a little. “Me too.”
That makes me smile. “You should be relaxing. You’re a free woman. Stay out late. Go to a party. You don’t have a kid at home to take care of.”
“I don’t think I’ve had to take care of you since you were eight.”
That’s probably true. I was the one who brought her breakfast and her medicine in the morning. I signed my own permission slips and called the driver when my art club meeting ended.
“How is he?” she asks, her voice soft and a little sad.
“He’s good. Same old Daddy.”
“And his… family?”
“I’m not sure. His new wife seems okay. She mostly just ignores me, which is fine. She has a son, though. He’s… older.”
She must sense something in my words, because her tone changes. “How much older? He isn’t being a bully, is he? Or worse?”
“It’s nothing like that,” I promise her, because I wouldn’t put it past her to fly out to Logan International by tonight if I didn’t reassure her.
She felt terrible about the job-website man. He’d needed to get drunk to come into my bedroom, which means his reflexes were slow. I ran out and woke up Mom, who had us out of the mansion and in a motel room by morning.
“Christopher’s nice, actually. Nicer than I expected.”
A pause. “Don’t get too close, Harper. It’s only temporary.”
I can’t blame her for the warning. She knows all too well how temporary being the wife of Graham St. Claire can be. Theirs had been a whirlwind relationship, the kind that every man and woman envied. By all accounts, even their own, they had been in love.
And then something had happened. To this day I still don’t know what.
Now they hate each other. It scares me when I think about it, how two people can go from love to hate so quickly. It scares me enough that I try not to think about it. About the way Daddy could have given her enough money to be set for life, it would have been pennies to him, but he denied her everything that wasn’t court-ordered out of spite. The child support they negotiated was contingent on a third party auditing her bank account to make sure every cent of it goes to my care. If she eats a Snickers bar purchased from his check, he could sue.
If that’s what happens to people in love, I don’t want any part of it.
I find Daddy at the breakfast table, the newspaper propped open like I knew it would be. He’s not content without reading three newspapers every morning, even when we’re on a trip. It comes ferried to us via a speedboat at five a.m., along with fresh supplies because God knows what we would do without catch-of-the-day lobster for dinner every night.
“Morning,” he says without looking up.
I dig in the pile for the Art & Style section, like I always do. Other kids may