“Understood,” Jay says, following my cues. There’s distance between us again. “Trust me, I have Jordan’s best interests at heart. She knows all the fine print, and she’ll be completely satisfied with the results.”
“But what exactly is involved with this insurance of yours?”
“It’s a private policy. I promise I’ll explain it one day, but not now, not here. We need to get Cody back in the shade, and honestly, I could use some shade myself.”
While he swims back to the boat, I peer up at the sky. The sun feels good. Not oppressive at all. So why are these two so eager to escape it?
7
Jay and I exchange numbers before we part ways. It’s an awkward, tentative transaction, nothing like the goodbye between Nick and Cody, in which Cody buries his face in the curve of Nick’s neck and inhales, as if he wants to draw my cousin’s whole being into himself. It’s awkwardly hot to watch. Cody whispers something into Nick’s ear, and Jay’s mouth twitches as he types his number into my phone.
“What is it?” I ask.
“I guess I’ll be having your cousin as a houseguest tonight. Cody just invited him over.”
“How did you hear that from way over here? You must have really good ears.”
“You could say that.” His gaze flicks up to mine and there’s something sharp and dark in it, a thorn prodding my consciousness, a mental nudge from him to me. As if he is willing me to figure something out.
“What about the lunch stuff?” I nod toward the pavilion.
“I have people to clean that up. Don’t worry about it.” He hands back my phone. “Hopefully during our next get-together you won’t be quite so wet. Um…your clothes, I mean. With the rain, and the lake.” He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his pants. “Have a good afternoon.” And he walks away, his shoulders stiff. After a few steps he kicks a pebble abruptly, a wordless swear, and I smile.
***
Curled on the couch that night, rewatching Sherlock with my parents, I break the news.
“So…Jay moved here.”
“Hmm?” says Mom absently, playing with my hair.
“Jay Gatsby. Remember? My best friend Jay, from back in Easley.”
Dad pauses the episode. “Of course we remember Jay. Great kid. I always felt bad about splitting you two apart when we left.”
“That poor boy,” says Mom. “He had it so rough. I hope we made his life a little better, though. Gosh, he was like part of the family. How’s he doing, sweetie?”
“So much better. He has a new guardian, or he did until he turned eighteen. He’s got a big house now and lots of money.”
“A real Orphan Annie story, huh?” says my dad.
“Dad. Seriously. You need to watch something released in this decade.”
“Annie’s a classic,” he says. “And I love the new version as well as the original, so lay off the old-dad thing. I’ve got little enough time for TV. Don’t want to risk it on something I might not like.”
“So you just keep watching the same old stuff over and over, to infinity.”
“And beyond,” he says dramatically.
I roll my eyes, but I can’t help chuckling.
“Is that where you were today? With Jay?” Mom asks.
“And Nick, and another friend. I’m going to Jay’s house this weekend, too. He’s having a party.”
My parents exchange glances of suppressed delight.
“That’s wonderful, sweetie,” says Mom. “You’re getting out, making friends. This is good. This is really, really good. Isn’t it great, Liam?”
“It’s great,” Dad echoes.
It’s almost like they’re high-fiving each other with words. Look, Daisy is recovering! We’re such great parents.
Thing is, they really are. Sure, we’ve had our issues, but I never went through a phase where I truly hated them. Back in high school, my friends thought my parents were the coolest because they didn’t ever forbid me from drinking. Instead, they taught me restraint. And since I honestly hate the taste of every kind of alcohol I’ve ever tried, it’s not hard to keep myself in check.
Sure, I like the warm, buzzy feeling at the start, but I don’t like teetering around, grasping for balance and having to think hard to form my words correctly. That loss of control, that vulnerability scares me, right down to the pit of my stomach.
Maybe I have trust issues.
Maybe they started when Tom cheated on me, or when my so-called friends kept his secret for months. Or maybe they began earlier, when a certain best friend said he would stay in touch and then cut me out of his life.
Maybe I haven’t quite forgiven him.
The next morning, I text Jordan about the party, and she texts back a bunch of skull and vomit emojis.
Okay, I get it. I text back. Met Gala party, not your thing. Geez.
Her response pops up. Party = yes. If I’m feeling better by Saturday.
