“It’s a literal crime to drive an unregistered car,” Marla says.

“But you’re not driving a car right now. Do it when we get back on shore.”

“I’m a lawyer, Gary. I need to stay on the right side of the law. And I’m getting shockingly amazing service here in the middle of the sea.”

Gary looks down at his Vacation in a Cup. So does Phoebe. When she peeks, she meets Gary’s eyes. Gary raises his eyebrows and then they both smile. A big release that makes Phoebe feel giddy. Phoebe can’t help it—Marla is too much. But Phoebe doesn’t want to laugh at another woman for being too much, not even Marla. So she takes a big sip and she will admit: the drink is so fucking good. Because it’s so fucking terrible. Like Kraft mac & cheese. Like a Dunkin’ donut. The kinds of things Phoebe could never properly enjoy before, because she was too worried about her body, about sugar levels, about fructose. Even when she was drunk, she would binge by eating a bowl of flax berry cereal that would always make her shit at eight in the morning, give or take a few minutes.

“What’s actually in this drink?” Phoebe asks. She sits back against the side of the boat and the wind picks up her hair. “It’s so good.”

“A vacation,” Gary says.

“Right,” Phoebe says. “But what kind of vacation? Like a beachfront condo in St. Thomas?”

Gary takes another sip as if he’s a sommelier. “I’m getting more, RV visiting Civil War battlefields in the South for three days.”

Phoebe takes another sip. “Really? I don’t taste any battlefields.”

“No?” Gary says. “You clearly don’t have a complex palate. Or a father who once dragged you to all the Civil War battlefields as a child.”

She laughs. He laughs. Jim just watches them talk as if the conversation is too weird to join.

“No, he was more of the we-already-live-in-a-tiny-fishing-cabin-on-a-river-so-we-don’t-ever-have-to-go-on-vacation kind of a father,” Phoebe clarifies.

“Oh, I didn’t know about that father,” Gary says.

There are some people in this world who remind you of exactly how you like to speak. She hasn’t met a person like this in a long time, not since she met her husband, which was why it was so painful when she started to forget how to speak to her husband. When she looked at him, she was too often reminded of what not to say, what never to mention, like ovulation, or depression, or anything that might carry a hint of sadness. Perhaps that’s why she didn’t tell him that Harry died. She didn’t want to give him any more proof of her unlovability, of her failure. Perhaps that’s why she just put a blanket over Harry and ran away, too.

“That father is out there,” Phoebe says. “Well, not technically anymore. He’s dead.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Gary says. “So you’re a real orphan now.”

She blushes. The conversation.

“And surprise, surprise, being an orphan doesn’t feel like I imagined,” Phoebe says.

“The perks are even better than you thought?” Gary asks.

“What the hell are you guys talking about?” Jim asks.

They all laugh.

“Phoebe used to dream of being an orphan,” Gary explains.

“Gary wants someone to beat the crap out of him,” Phoebe adds.

“I’ll have you know this explains nothing,” Jim says.

Phoebe takes another sip of her drink. “Oh, okay, I think I am tasting the battlefields now.”

“See?” Gary says. “It’s like just the tiniest note at the very end.”

Jim gives up on them and turns to Juice. “So how are you doing, my beautiful niece?”

Marla puts down her phone with a deep sigh.

“You on the right side of the law now?” Gary asks Marla, putting his hand around her neck, giving her a faux massage. It looks like an apology for being short earlier. “Don’t want any fugitives on this boat.”

“I know you’re making fun of me, so I refuse to answer that,” Marla says.

Sitting side by side, Phoebe can see that Marla and Gary look very similar. They both have dark brown hair, dark eyes. Long, angular faces they have inherited from their father, whose face is so long, he looks somewhat like a pelican at the bow. But Gary is a little soft where Marla is hard. Phoebe wonders if this is what losing his wife has done to him. If it has rounded out his edges. Or maybe it’s just the beers over the years that Marla likely refused, filling out his shoulders and his face.

“You think you’ll get to an age where your brother stops making fun of you, but no,” Marla says to Phoebe, “it will never happen. I’m forty-two and I am ready to accept this now.”

Then she offers a long list of all the things Gary did over the years to ruin her life, and yet, Gary is still the Golden Boy in their father’s eyes.

“No,” Gary says. “Roy is the Golden Boy.”

“Is Roy your brother?” Phoebe asks.

“Cousin,” Marla says.

“You talking about Roy?” Gary’s father shouts through the wind.

“See?” Gary says. “It’s like catnip to him. He can’t get enough of Roy.”

“Roy’s a goddamned hero,” Gary’s father says to Phoebe. “The only hero we have in the Smith family.”

“Every time,” Gary and Marla say in unison and then laugh. Laughing changes Marla’s entire face. She becomes soft like Gary.

“What did Roy do?” Phoebe asks.

“He was a sniper in Iraq,” Gary’s father says.

“Then Roy wrote a memoir about it,” Gary says.

“And someone turned it into a movie,” Marla adds.

“Phenomenal film,” Gary’s father declares to Phoebe. “Jude Law.”

“It wasn’t Jude Law,” Marla corrects. “Jude Law is like fifty now.”

“You’re thinking of that movie where Jude Law played a Russian sniper,” Gary adds.

“I know who Jude Law is,” Gary’s father says.

“Okay, fine, whatever. The point is, Dad watches it at least once a year and then immediately calls us to say that Roy is the only true hero in the family,” Gary says.

“I mean, I went to law school for you, Dad!” Marla says.