“He one-hundred-percent thinks we’re doing a drug deal,” I say.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says. “He at least fifty-percent thinks we’re having an illicit affair.”

We both smile at our feet. “So where do you want to go,” he asks. “Back to the table, or out the front door?”

“Table.” I tip my head toward the open bathroom door. “Just give me a minute.”

“I’d give the bathroom a minute,” he says. “That guy had the face of someone who just did something ungodly.”

I catch our server on my way through the restaurant to the deck. “Could you make sure you put the shared plates on my tab?” I ask.

“Wish I could.” She’s holding her hands up in surrender. “The older gentleman already picked everything up.”

“Really?” I say. “You’re sure?”

“He was adamant the bill not make it to the table,” she replies.

I thank her and walk back to my seat, slightly dazed. As soon as I’ve sunk back into my chair, a crowd of servers files through the restaurant’s back door onto the deck, carrying a chocolate cake lit with a sparkler.

“Happy late birthday, honey,” Dad says, right before the staff begins to sing.

“Thanks, Dad,” I say, voice disappearing into the chorus of voices.

“It’s nothing,” he murmurs, squeezing my arm atop the table. But he looks relieved, or maybe pleased.

Like my happiness has made him happy. And suddenly my eyes are stinging and heat is rushing up the back of my nose. I focus on the blue-gold sparks shooting off the cake so I won’t crack.

After dessert, we pick our way down the deck stairs to the beach. Miles brought towels in a backpack, and we stretch out, waiting as the sky darkens, stars gradually pricking through it. Out on the water, someone has decided to shoot off fireworks from their boat.

A hum, a gasp, a sigh, ripple through the beach’s stragglers. One streak of light pops, explodes into a shivering purple blossom. Two more quickly follow, on either side, pink and gold.

Kids shriek and squeal and run circles around their adults, Popsicles and ice cream cones melting down their wrists. Dad and Starfire strike up a conversation with a couple around their age standing near us, and Julia is down on the ground, taking selfies with a shaggy Great Pyrenees sprawling in the sand. Even with the sulfuric smell hanging in the air, I can still pick out the gingery kick of Miles beside me.

“Good night?” he asks, a fresh wave of fireworks making his face shimmer with greens and oranges.

“Great night.”

He smiles and faces forward, the back of his hand brushing mine. My heart feels like a present unwrapped, my body relaxing.

For the first time, I let myself really imagine this lasting.

All of it.

Dad and Starfire. Ashleigh and Julia. Waning Bay.

Miles.

I could be happy here. I could belong.

26

I plan on saying good night to Dad and Starfire at our apartment and sending them on their way. Then I make the mistake of Googling their motel.

“Dad!” I say. “This is forty minutes away, and the first three reviews mention bedbugs.”

“Everything closer to the water books up a year out, apparently,” he tells me.

I scroll down. The reviews that don’t mention bedbugs focus instead on cockroaches. Yet another reviewer complains that their room didn’t have a bed. “Just a rust-colored outline where the bed should’ve been,” I read aloud to them.

“I’m sure if they give us a room without a bed, they’ll let us move for free,” Starfire volunteers.

I shoot Miles a frantic look.

“Anyone want water?” he chimes in. “Daphne—wanna help me?”

We beeline for the kitchen, ignoring their protestations that they’re fine, it’s been hours since they drank that wine, they should get on the road, etc.

While Miles pulls glasses down, he says under his breath, “What do you want to do?”

“We can’t let them stay in that place,” I whisper back.

“We can,” he says. “But we don’t have to. It’s up to you.”

“What other option do we have?” I say.

“I could let them use the air mattress, and I take the couch?” Julia says, making me jump as she walks into the room. “Not ‘getting water,’ then?”

“Working on it,” Miles says; then, more quietly, “Just trying to figure out what to do about this. I don’t think we can ask two sixty-something-year-olds to sleep on an air mattress.”

“I’ll take the couch, Julia can stick with the inflatable, and they can take my room,” I say.

“No, don’t be ridiculous,” he says. “They can take my room, and I’ll take the couch.”

“How is that any less ridiculous?” I say. “They’re my parents. Or . . . my dad and my . . . Starfire.”

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” he asks.

“For tonight,” I say. “Tomorrow we can look for a hotel that’s less . . .”

“Infested?” Julia finishes.

“That,” I agree.