Thirty Sunsets (5 page)

Yeah, sugarlips, I’m the weird one
.

Then Olivia suddenly springs to her feet. “Restroom,” she says, her eyes widening.

Brian jumps up. “Do you need help?” he asks as she bolts past him, and my imagination would go into overdrive wondering how he might help her in the restroom except that I’m too busy counting “yeahs.”

Thirty
, I type into my phone.

Wrong. Twenty-nine. Twenty-nine “yeahs.”

“What’s the matter with her?” I ask absently, still staring at my phone.

“Nothing’s the matter with her,” Brian snaps, and don’t think it’s going unnoticed how much he snaps at me lately.

Then
my
eyes widen.

Maybe it’s true, that whole bulimia rumor.

I’m tempted to text Shelley—
Olivia just bolted to the bathroom after finishing her breakfast!
—but Mom’s always looking over my shoulder and besides, I really meant what I said about not liking to dish dirt, so it’s just as well that I continue my trivia game while Dad moves on to day four of the five-day forecast.

Let’s see: How many five-day forecasts will factor into our beach trip? My heart sinks at the answer (and this one I get right): six. Six five-day forecasts.

I used to love every minute of our trips to Spackle Beach, but that fruit-free parfait has wreaked serious havoc on my attitude.

It’s gonna be a long month.

seven

Salt.

I sniff deeper.

Yep. We’re here.

I open my eyes, groggily sit up straighter, and look out the window. Palm trees. Crepe myrtle. Sea gulls.

We’re on Spackle Beach.

I love this place … a tiny, perfect little slice of heaven. When we first started coming here when I was little, it was quiet and pristine. Now that the tourists have discovered it, it’s cramped and congested.

But still beautiful. The island enforces strict codes regulating things like architecture and signage. No billboards are allowed on Spackle Beach; even signs outside stores have to be discreet and downsized; unless you know the island like the back of your hand, you can’t tell where a restaurant or gas station is until you’re right in front of it. No towering golden arches on Spackle Beach. Everything that God himself hasn’t erected on the island is tucked into the background as unobtrusively as possible.

That’s why, even though a zillion floppy-hatted tourists now roam the island on car, foot, boat, and bicycle, it still looks lush and tropical. I feel a rush of exhilaration every time we cross the gleaming, mile-long bridge connecting the mainland to the island.

We’re crossing that bridge now.

Once we’re on the island, we ease unconsciously into tourist time. Dad slows the car to a crawl as sunburned people in bathing suits, shorts, and flip-flops ride bikes, jog on paths adjacent to the highway, or trot across the street lugging rafts, beach chairs, and coolers. Dad whistles along with the radio as Mom retrieves a to-do list from her purse, scanning it hastily. She’ll whip out her cleaning supplies within nanoseconds of pulling into the driveway of our house. Occasionally she’ll assign a few chores to the rest of us, but nobody can scrub a tub or mop a floor or dust a room like Mom, so, hey, what are you gonna do.

We turn onto a bougainvillea-lined street, then take another right, then pass one house, then another, then another …
and here we are. I can hear the ocean even from the driveway.

Dad parks the car, pops the trunk, and starts handing us luggage. Bri’s the first one to the front door. He fumbles with the key for a second, turns it, and lets the door swing open wide.

We pile in behind him, and I breathe in the two-month accumulation of mustiness that will soon be replaced with pine-scented disinfectant. I scan the house from the foyer. Even Mom on a budget makes things prettier than most interior decorators could manage with a blank check. Scarlet-
red and lemon-yellow pillows accent overstuffed sofas in the great room. Cozy afghans are draped casually over chairs. Gleaming utensils hang from the kitchen ceiling. And you know those hideous things people make with stuff from the beach, like seashell lampshades? Mom does that too, but with inexplicably classy, pretty results.

But the biggest draw is the floor-to-ceiling windows against the back of the house, revealing an OMG view of the Atlantic Ocean. The redwood cedar deck that runs the length of the house is a perfect place to sleep in the fall and spring.

I’d eat peanut butter sandwiches for the rest of my friggin’ life to be here.

We’re at Spackle Beach.

We’re home.

eight

“Top or bottom?”

Say
what
?

Why did it not occur to me that Olivia and I would be sharing a room? Up until this morning, the news that she would be joining us on our beach trip seemed kinda, I don’t know, conceptual. Like if you win a date with a movie star and spend so much time chewing over the very
idea
of it that you never give a thought to the details until there you are, sitting in a restaurant with a stranger, wondering what on God’s green earth to talk about.

Where did I
think
Olivia would sleep? I don’t know, I don’t know … I guess I just couldn’t envision her in a bunk bed. Yet here she is.

“Top, if you don’t mind,” I say.

She nods. “That’s fine.”

“I mean, if you
want
the top bunk … ”

“No, no, the bottom one’s fine. I’ll be able to get to the bathroom easier.”

I start transferring clothes from my suitcase into the dresser as I ponder her need for unfettered bathroom access.

“I love Brian, you know.”

Whoa. Where did
that
come from?

“What?” I ask, even though I’m clear on what Olivia just said.

“I love Brian. I want you to know that.”

As I face her, holding a pile of folded T-shirts, I try to read her expression. Is this a challenge, an
in your face
declaration of her territory? Is it a truce, a
we have nothing in common but we both love Brian so pass the sunscreen and let’s move on
kind of moment? I have no idea, and Olivia’s face is inscrutable. With her Bambi eyes and plump, moist lips, maybe she’s too pretty to look anything but bland.

Or maybe she likes being inscrutable. Maybe she loves that right now I’m wondering whether she’s offering an olive branch or a kick in the stomach.

“Okay then,” I tell her. “You love him. That’s … great.” I know I sound snotty, but really, what am I supposed to say?

She’s still standing there, still looking at me. “And he loves me too.”

Oh, no doubt. You don’t offer a McDonald’s employee a crash course on fruit-free parfait making for just
anyone
.

“You’ve only been dating a few months,” I say.

“Almost a
year
.”

I squeeze the T-shirts between my fingers. “If you loved him, wouldn’t you want the best for him?”

Olivia sets her jaw. “Of course I want the best for him.”

I open my mouth to respond when we hear the bedroom door creak open.

“Ready to hit the beach?” Brian asks Bambi.

“Um … ” She tugs on her ponytail. “Give me a minute?”

He winks at her. “I’ll be waiting.”

He shuts the door and I scowl. Whether
I’m
ready to “hit the beach” or not is apparently a non-issue.

Olivia and I hold our gaze for a tense moment. That whole “I love him” thread—were we in the middle of that? Just getting started? Are we done now? Neither of us seems to know.

“Well,” Olivia says, sounding resigned. “Guess I’ll change into my bathing suit.”

She plucks a tangerine-colored bikini from her suitcase and heads for the adjoining bathroom. I toss my T-shirts into a drawer, bite my lower lip, and bolt out of the room.

I follow the sound of Mom’s vacuum cleaner into the great room. Without breaking my stride, I unclench my fist long enough to grab the cord of the vacuum cleaner and yank it from the outlet. Mom looks up, startled, as her vacuum cleaner abruptly shuts off.

“Why is she here?”

I can see Mom trying to settle into her cavalier oh-just-get-over-it-for-heaven’s-sake mode, but I guess the steam emanating from my ears makes her think twice.

“Why. Is. She. Here?” I repeat.

“Shhh,” Mom hisses, nodding toward my closed bedroom door just down the hall. “She’ll hear you.”

“
Tell me!
It is not fair that you sprung this on me!” I say, and, crazily, even in the midst of my rage, I’m wondering whether the word is “sprung” or “sprang.” Dad’s an editor; we think about these things.

Mom’s knuckles blanch as she tightens her grip on the vacuum cleaner handle. “Not everything is about you, Forrest.”

“Yeah? Well,
this
is.
I’m
the one stuck in a room with her.”

“Oh, please. And will you keep your voice down!”

“Gladly. As soon as you answer the question: Why is she here?”

Mom tugs at her necklace. “Because I knew it would mean a lot to your brother.”

“
Duh
. Except I thought we both agreed that what Brian
wants
these days isn’t necessarily Brian
needs
.”

She looks at me evenly. “Maybe that isn’t for us to decide,” she says in a clipped voice.

I fling my hands in the air. “Since when?”

“Since … ”

Mom and I both glance toward the hall as we hear doors open—first the one from my bedroom, then the one from Brian’s. He and Olivia both emerge. Brian nods toward the beach. “Heading down,” he says.

Mom nods. “We’ll join you soon.”

Brian and Olivia clasp hands and head out the back door, where Dad is doing a crossword puzzle on the deck. Mom points to the electrical outlet, my cue that our conversation is over. Her vacuuming has been delayed as long as she can tolerate.

Whatever.

I plug it back in, give Mom a withering look as the vrooming resumes, and join Dad on the deck.

“Hi, Woodpecker,” he says without looking up from his puzzle. I offer a sulky peace sign.

“Garrulous,” Dad says.

“Too easy,” I reply. “Plus, I’m not feeling very garrulous right now.”

I plop in a deck chair next to his and peer at the ocean.
“What was Mom thinking inviting her here?” I say, mostly to myself since Dad is generally on a need-to-know basis as far as Mom’s affairs are concerned.

“It’s a good sign,” Dad says, still not looking up from his puzzle. “She’s adjusting.”

I eye him suspiciously. “Adjusting to what?”

He shrugs. “To letting you guys live your own lives. That’ll come in handy for you too, you know. Wimp, eleven letters, first letter
M
.”

“Milquetoast,” I respond.

Dad jots it down. “Impressive,” he murmurs under his breath. “I was assuming it would be some hip new colloquialism.”

“ ‘Hip,’ ” I repeat dryly. “Gee, Dad, you’re so with it.” I plant my chin in the palm of my hand. “She’s a total flake, you know,” I say, watching Brian and Olivia as they start splashing in the surf. “Just like her mom. You know her mom’s not in the picture, right? She split when Olivia was, like, two. ‘Split.’ That’s one of those hip new colloquialisms.”

I expect Dad to chuckle, but instead he tosses me a Significant Look. “Don’t judge people by their parents,” he says.

I turn to face him. “Geez. What’s up with
you
?”

“I mean it, Forrest,” he says. Uh-oh. My real name. I really struck a nerve.

“It’s true,” I say. “About her mother, I mean.”

“Even more reason to admire Olivia,” he says.

My jaw drops. “Even
more
? Like we’re tallying reasons to admire her? Hmmm: One, she looks smokin’ hot in a bikini. Two, she looks smokin’ hot in a bikini despite the fact that her mother ditched her when she was two.”

Dad raises an eyebrow. “Enough.”

I huff. It’s extremely difficult to piss Dad off. Leave it to Olivia to provoke this response. One more reason to admire her, right?

But I forge ahead anyway. “Why don’t we tally reasons
not
to admire her?” I say. “Like how she’s totally unsuited for Brian and how she derailed his lifelong dream of medical school. And how I’m stuck sharing a room with her for a month.”