in high school … who would have been reason enough to stop my mom from coming back to Beauty?
Now I’m remembering when we first came into town and how nervous she was, and I thought it was all the town gossip or possibly the Saint-Martin curse. But now I wonder if it’s something more.…
I ponder this while Evie asks her mom about Grandma Diedre, who refuses to participate in these calls—they have no Wi-Fi in their living quarters, and she hates having to walk down to a local internet café. And just when I’m thinking of leaving Evie’s room to give them some privacy, my phone buzzes inside the pocket of my shorts. A text from a local number. Not in my contacts.
Have you recovered from our excursion on the SS Too Big?
My heart skips as I smile at the screen. Well, then … Guess he wasn’t lying about memorizing numbers. I quickly add him to my contacts and make sure Evie can’t see my phone before typing a response.
Me: I see what you did there, funny man. Def should have used Sunset Charters. They promised champagne + smooth jazz.
Lucky: U would have yacked that up. I gave u old fish and sealant. Where’s the love?
Me: It’s at the bottom of my empty bank account.
Lucky: Told u a million times, you don’t need to pay me back
Me: Told you a million times, I do.
Lucky: Next time, I’ll bring smooth jazz and a barf bag.
Me: Next time, we sit on the dock.
Lucky: How about dinner, instead?
I stare at the screen, hot and cold chills running up and down my arms. Is he … asking me out on a date? That can’t be right. Can it? Smashing my hopes, he rapidly types another text before I can reply.
Lucky: Remember Sunday dinners? Cousins. Uncles and aunts. Neighbors. Backyard cookout? My mom asked me to invite u.
Oh. Not a date.
But that was silly of me, duh. He’s my friend.
Friends don’t date.
Regardless, dinner with his family might be … good. I used to love Sunday dinners at Lucky’s house. I looked forward to it all week, like a big nerd.
Me: Not sure how to respond to “my mom made me ask you.”
Lucky: Didn’t say she MADE me. Give me a little credit. I’m exercising free will.
Lucky: But if it’s too weird, I’ll tell her you’re busy.
Me: I’m not opposed to weird. Did you tell your mom I nearly upchucked in your boat?
Lucky: Again, not MY boat. And yes. *steeples fingers*
Me: Oh God.
Lucky: You work at the Nook tomorrow?
Me: Until 7.
Lucky: Meet me in the boatyard side alley at 7:15.
Me: I didn’t say yes yet.
Lucky: I hate begging.
Me: Knowing that is its own reward. See you at 7:15.
Okay, then. Sunday dinner. At the Karrases. I just agreed to that. Not intimating at all. I’m not feeling like my insides are melting. No sirree, Bob! Not me. Guess I’m gonna need to find another excuse to give Mom for tomorrow night, since I’m technically not supposed to be seeing Lucky, as Mom put her foot down—forbidden territory, stay away from that boy. He’s a vandal, Josie. Him. Not me. At this point, I’ll need a garbage truck to haul away all the lies I’ve been accumulating.
I also need to remind myself that I don’t want to get too attached, so I leave Evie, retreating to my room, where I pull out my father’s fashion photo book. And I lay on the rug, turning the slick, glossy pages, re-memorizing the details of each photograph, reminding myself that there are other things out there in the world. Brighter, shinier things. And if I want them badly enough, I can have them. I just have to stick to my plan.
Lucky 2.0 might be a mirage.
I should be careful with him.
I should be careful with my heart.
* * *
It’s easier than I expected to come up with a suitable lie for Sunday dinner. I just tell Mom that I ran into Bunny Perera at the doughnut shop—true—and that I’m meeting her at the Quarterdeck for coffee … not true.
See? Only a half lie. Half the guilt.
The Nook is having computer issues, and Mom is so consumed with trying to get the end-of-the-day totals to process that I could’ve told her I was going to have one of Evie’s taxidermy bat wings surgically attached to my back, and she would’ve said, Okay, babe. Be careful.
Leaving her and Evie to close the store, I take the long way past the Freedom Art Gallery