underneath all the gruff … right? All that talk about him evading child support and stuff is just gossip.”
“Of course.” Why is he questioning this? It’s making me uncomfortable. And he knows all this stuff, anyway. Mom didn’t ask for child support. She didn’t want him to have anything to do with me for years. I think the first time I met him was when I was three? But that doesn’t mean he’s a bad person.
I guess he realizes he’s being weird, because he backs off a little and says, “Hey, you gotta trust your gut. Don’t listen to me. I don’t know anything.”
“He’s my father,” I say.
“He’s your father,” he repeats with a shrug. “Bet you going out to LA will send your mom through the roof, though, right? Two birds, one stone.”
“That’s not the point,” I argue. “I’m not trying to stick it to my mom. This is just about me improving my craft. Photography is everything to me, and—” And of course it’s more than that, but I feel funny spilling my guts to Lucky about my yearning for a real family, so I change my mind and simply repeat, “It’s everything.”
He raises both hands in surrender. “Listen. If I had that opportunity and your talent, I would be dreaming up the same plan as you. A good teacher is important. There’s stuff you just can’t learn from watching videos online. I can tell you that from personal experience.”
“That’s all I want.”
“Then follow your dreams. Go big or go home. I mean it. All jokes aside. Even the bad ones.”
I don’t know what to say to that. He’s actually being nice to me? I don’t think I trust it.
There’s too much of a mess between us for niceness.
I can’t think about it too much, how good it makes me feel, so I don’t. I just zip up my portfolio and jump to safer subjects. “I want to help pay for the window.”
“Already told you—”
“You told me not to go to the police and turn myself in, but right now I’m talking about giving you money to help pay off the window faster. Two can pay it off faster than one, right? And I’ve got a subscription service online for my photos, and my patrons are a little down right now, but I’ll be getting some money from that in a few days. And I’m making money at the bookstore. I mean, it’s not boat-mechanic money, apparently,” I say, teasing.
He laughs and does an imitation of his father, using dramatic air quotes. “ ‘It’s good fucking money, Lucky. No matter what happens, people will always need their boats repaired, and none of these pretty boys want to get their hands dirty.’ ”
“ ‘There’s always money in the banana stand,’ ” I say using air quotes back at him.
We both laugh.
Then Lucky says, “Really. You don’t have to.”
“But I do,” I say, looking him straight in the eye so that he understands. He may have pride, but so do I. And I can’t let him do this for me. “I’m losing sleep. I’m not a good liar, as you keep pointing out, and I’m terrible at keeping secrets. It’s literally making me sick.”
He doesn’t say anything.
“We used to be friends,” I add. “I’m assuming that’s why you took the fall for me. So if you care anything at all for me, then let me help pay it off. For old time’s sake.”
He stares at me, watchful eyes slowly blinking as his fingers lightly trace the bottom of his empty coffee cup. My pulse speeds wildly, and for a moment, and I’m not sure if I can hold his intense gaze. A wary part of me wants to look away, as if he’s some sort of dark sorcerer, casting a wicked spell on me with the power of his mind.
My phone buzzes against my hip, breaking the spell. I dig it out of my pocket. It’s Evie.
“Hey,” I say, grateful for the distraction. “What’s up?”
“Aunt Winona isn’t answering,” she says, frazzled. “I need you to come get me.”
“What’s happened?”
“I’m at the hospital. I’ve been in a wreck.”
MEMORIAL COUNTY HEALTH CENTER: An ultra-boring white-and-blue sign is situated near the entrance of the main rural hospital in Beauty County, Rhode Island. The cookie-cutter building looks like every other new American hospital. (Personal photo/Josephine Saint-Martin)
Chapter 8
Panic spreads through my chest. Without thinking, I stand up before pulling out my chair and painfully bump my thighs on the underside of the coffeehouse café table. “Evie?” I say, massaging