Float, page 24
He was already grounded until New Year’s, after all.
In any case, I was suddenly terrified of rolling up to the Fletchers’ in my usual oversized T-shirt and sloppy ponytail. The fact that Rachel had noticed my sudden burst of caring about what I looked like was somewhat reassuring.
“We’re taking the pie, right?” I asked.
“Yes, ma’am. Second shelf, next to the eggs. Oh, and remember to grab the ketchup from the back. Gummer’s allergic.”
I frowned.
“Gummer?”
“Yeah. Lena and Jesse’s dad. Gummer.”
“His parents named him that?”
Rachel gave me a look that said Don’t be silly.
“It’s short for Montgomery,” she explained.
His parents named him that? I wanted to ask again.
I decided to hold my tongue, tucked the ketchup under my arm, and grabbed the key lime pie Aunt Rachel had baked the night before while we watched three consecutive hours of Meg Ryan movies and I marinated in aloe vera.
“All right, I’m just going to soak these brushes in some turpentine all day while we’re gone,” Rachel announced. She stood and patted down the front of her long-sleeved denim dress—another of the fancy staples she kept at the very back of her closet. “Gosh, I’m hungry. I think I’d kill a man for a turkey burger right about now.”
I slipped my flip-flops on and hustled out the door before Rachel could get homicidal.
I was halfway onto the porch, my eyes straying to the Hamiltons’ empty driveway, when a gust of wind barreled down the street and nearly lifted the tinfoil covering off the pie. I let out an unattractive squawk and slapped my hand down on top of it just in time.
“I guess the storm’s really rolling in,” Rachel commented as she joined me, keys in hand and head tipped up as she squinted at the gloomy sky. “I hope it doesn’t ruin our barbecue.”
Rachel and I climbed into the neon-green Volkswagen together, key lime pie nestled safely in the backseat and ketchup bottle stowed by my feet. Rachel claimed it was too chilly to leave the windows of the car rolled down, what with the malevolent wind and all, so we bumped up the volume on the radio and sang along with songs I knew would be stuck in my head later, the way overplayed hit singles have a tendency to get.
The Fletchers lived about ten miles inland from Holden Point, where the palm trees and tall grass gave way to wetlands. Rachel didn’t know the route by memory, so I had to read her directions from her phone. When the GPS indicated our destination was on the left, I looked up and saw a wide driveway that trailed up to a big one-story house with an enormous front porch and a raspberry-red front door.
There was a lone, live oak tree in the front yard. Moss hung in threads from the upper branches, along with a tire swing and a pair of sneakers—Jesse’s, it looked like—that’d had their laces tied together before someone chucked them into the thick of the tree.
There were four cars in the driveway, including Jesse’s mud-splattered Jeep and the Hamiltons’ silver sedan. Rachel pulled her neon Volkswagen in behind them. Outside, the air smelled damp and green, somehow—like the produce aisle of a supermarket or the botanical garden I vaguely remembered visiting on a third-grade field trip.
It was significantly warmer inland than it was out by the ocean, warm enough that I could’ve run around in a bathing suit if I was really determined to cling to summer, but the sky was still decidedly overcast.
I gathered the key lime pie from the backseat of the car. Rachel discreetly pointed out a spot on my neck where I hadn’t rubbed the sunscreen in all the way.
We marched up the rest of the driveway side by side, the hem of Lena’s cobalt dress swinging around my thighs. The wind was gentler this far inland, but it still whispered across the front yard and made Aunt Rachel tug at the sleeves of her denim dress.
There were eight different sets of wind chimes suspended from the beams over the front porch. Rachel rang the doorbell, and I wondered if anybody would be able to hear us over the cacophony.
Lena was the one to open the door.
Her hair was loose around her shoulders, curls blown out in every direction with the humidity, and she had on an apron—one of those novelty ones, with a cartoonish depiction of a muscular man’s body in a red Speedo. She took one look at me before beaming and clasping her hands like a mother seeing her daughter off to prom.
“Do not say anything,” I warned.
“Not even hot damn?”
“No.”
“You’re no fun,” Lena whined, stepping back from the doorway so Aunt Rachel and I could step inside. From the foyer, I could see through to the living room and what appeared to be a library. Everything in the house was a cluttered mix of new and old—grand chaise lounges arranged around a fireplace with an enormous flat-screen television mounted over the mantle; framed prints of Miami and Orlando in the early twentieth century hung between photos of a young Jesse posing with a soccer ball tucked under one arm and a little Lena smiling, gap toothed, in an all-white uniform with a yellow belt around her waist. It was a full house, lived in and warm. I’d never been somewhere like it. I felt like an astronaut exploring an alien world, my spacesuit too bulky and restrictive to let me pretend this was my own home planet.
“Hi, Ms. Lyons,” Lena was saying behind me.
“Hi, dear.” Rachel greeted her. “I love the apron.”
Lena chuckled. “Thanks. Dad put Blake and me on grill duty.”
My stupid heart hiccupped at the sound of his name and I spun around a little too quickly. It was unbearably pathetic.
“Where should I put this?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even as I held up Aunt Rachel’s pie.
Lena, of course, saw right through me.
“Why don’t I take that,” she said, reaching her arms around her waist to untie the strings of the apron, “and you can go be on grill duty.”
We traded. Lena hustled off with the pie, Aunt Rachel at her heels, and me trailing a few steps behind as I looped the apron over my neck and tied the strings in a sloppy bow at my back.
The Fletchers’ kitchen was enormous.
They had two industrial-grade refrigerators and a marble-topped island surrounded by eight or nine mismatched bar stools. There was food everywhere—potato salad and fruit salad and actual salad and a two-gallon pitcher of what had to be sweet tea were scattered on the island. In the middle of it all was a tall woman who had long box braids and almost the exact same profile as Lena.
“Boss!” Lena singsonged, announcing us with a flourish.
Her mom looked up, spotted me, and clapped her hands.
“You. Must. Be. Waverly.”
“Hi, Mrs. Fletcher.”
Lena’s mom tossed two handfuls of lemon wedges into the pitcher of sweet tea, then rounded the island and came to a stop right in front of me so she could put a hand on each of my shoulders and give them a soft, tight squeeze. My face grew hot with what I could only describe as stage fright. How on earth had I earned such an affectionate greeting from a woman I’d never met? Had Lena and Jesse really said nice things about me to their parents?
I felt, all at once, like I might cry.
“It is so nice to meet you,” Mrs. Fletcher said, then stepped back and offered me her hand to shake. “I’m Amanda.”
“But we all call her Boss,” Lena chipped in from behind me.
Mrs. Fletcher—Amanda—Boss? had the kind of smile that made you feel like you were in on a joke together. It was the same kind of generous warmth Lena had shown me when I first met her at the bonfire party back at the beginning of the summer. I felt a terrible pang of jealousy. What must it be like to have a mother who welcomes you home with a hug and a laugh? Would I be a happier person, a better friend, if my parents weren’t so cold?
“You have a beautiful home, Boss,” I croaked.
Amanda Fletcher laughed and flicked her wrist.
“Oh, that’s too sweet of you,” she said. “This place is a pigsty. I can’t get any of my kids to pick up after themselves. Even the big one.”
I was about to ask what she meant when the tallest man I’d ever seen in my life ducked into the kitchen from a hallway off to the right, an enormous bag of ice tossed over one shoulder.
Amanda Fletcher groaned.
“Gummer, you’re trailing water on my hardwood floors.”
Montgomery Fletcher looked a lot like his son, except that his hair was shaved flat against his head. That, and he wore glasses and ankle-length socks with New Balance sneakers, which meant he definitely had more of a dad vibe going on than Jesse did. He had Jesse’s devil-may-are smile, though.
“Good thing we own a mop,” he teased.
“Your shirt’s getting soaked,” Boss said.
Gummer shrugged. “Nature’s air conditioning. George is hosing down the cooler in the garage. Someone spilled some Coke in there the last time we used it.”
“You’re the only one in this house who drinks Coke.”
“Someone spilled some Coke in there. Didn’t say it wasn’t me.”
Lena cleared her throat.
“Dad, this is Waverly. Rachel Lyons’s niece. And I’m going to go put her on grill duty, so if you’ll excuse us—” Lena grabbed my apron and tugged me toward the back door.
“Hi, Mr. Fletcher,” I said, waving.
“It’s nice to finally meet you, Waverly.”
Lena already had me halfway out the door.
“It’snicetomeetyoutoo—”
And we were gone.
“C’mon, you’ve got burgers to flip,” Lena told me, sounding far too proud of herself as she steered me across the back porch.
The Fletchers’ backyard was enormous. From up on the porch, I could see over the tall wood fence that encircled the slightly scraggly lawn; in the distance were cypress trees and murky green water. I remembered that, once, Jesse had joked about having recurring nightmares about finding alligators in his bathtub. I hadn’t realized he lived a hundred yards from a swamp.
The lawn was wet with dew that covered my flip-flops and soaked my toes as we marched toward an enormous stone patio centered around a bean-shaped swimming pool with a dinky little plastic slide and a diving board.
There were white plastic lounge chairs everywhere; Chloe Hamilton was sprawled out on one, looking entirely too pristine for a mother of a young child while wearing a stainfree white one-piece swimsuit. At the far end of the patio sat a few outdoor couches and a big built-in grill station with a mini fridge. But the mysterious allure of a mini fridge stocked with who knows what had almost no effect on me, because two feet to the right of it stood Blake Hamilton.
Shirtless.
Grilling.
I’d always kind of rolled my eyes at obnoxiously masculine things like screaming at the TV during a football game or pretending The Real Housewives of New York City wasn’t quality entertainment, or having construction site–scented body wash because apparently smelling like dirt was better than smelling like—gasp—an apricot.
But, you know.
Blake. No shirt. All that red meat. I was kind of into it.
And then, when Lena and I were rounding the pool, he turned—spatula in hand—and I caught sight of the apron he was wearing.
I glanced down at the Speedo-clad male torso on my own apron.
“I guess these are a matching set, huh?” I called out.
Blake squinted in the sun, one side of his mouth curling up in a lazy smile as he watched us approach, and ran his free hand over the front of his apron, right over one of the enormous, balloon-shaped boobs on the cartoon female body that was wearing a red bikini two sizes too small for her physically impossible proportions.
“I called dibs on this one,” he said. “I’m not trading.”
Lena huffed.
“Stop feeling yourself up,” she told him, releasing her hold on my apron and positioning me beside him at the grill, where eight perfectly round, still-pink patties were sizzling.
Blake glanced down at his chest.
“I feel like these would be really heavy,” he mused.
Lena’s hand shot out to smack his wrist.
“Cut it out, pervert.”
“Maybe they’re filled with air,” I suggested. “Like pool floaties. Or beach balls.”
Blake hummed thoughtfully. “Versatile.”
“I’m gonna help your dad with the cooler,” Lena said.
He flipped his spatula up in the air and caught it by the handle, pointing it at her with a flourish. “You got it, superstar.”
She turned to me. “Make sure he doesn’t burn the burgers.”
“Will do.”
Lena took off toward the house, and I was finally—finally—alone with Blake. Well, except for his stepmom, who was lounging on the other side of the pool. But she was on her stomach, her head tipped in the other direction, and she had headphones in.
I’d take what I could get.
“So,” I said, turning to survey the grill and setting my hands on my hips in a down to business fashion. “What are we—”
Blake caught my wrist in his free hand, gave me a little tug toward him, and ducked his head to press his lips to mine.
I was so surprised, I forgot to kiss him back for a half second.
Just as my brain came to terms with what was happening, he was pulling back. So I, being a complete dork, grunted and rolled up onto my tiptoes to follow him. I was pretty enthusiastic about it. I think my tongue touched one of his front teeth. Blake growled low in his throat.
I swayed back.
“Sorry,” I blurted.
Blake blinked down at me, looking stunned.
“Sorry,” he repeated. “You’re sorry.”
It was half a question, half a statement.
I didn’t know what to do with it.
“Yes?”
Blake tipped his eyes at the sky.
“Lord, give me strength,” he murmured. Then he hooked one arm over my shoulders and tugged me into his chest, his lips pressing into my hair at my temple.
“I didn’t mean to maul you,” I said, cringing.
“You can maul me anytime,” he said.
I flushed bright red and sent a nervous glance at Chloe.
Hopefully, she was the type to blast her music.
“Don’t worry about her,” Blake told me, bumping my hip with his and prodding a few of the patties with the tip of the spatula. “She’s out. Crashed the second she put her head down. Isabel had a nasty cold this week, so the two of them have slept, like, maybe four hours over the last three days.”
I shot the tired mom a sympathetic look.
“Don’t look at her like that,” Blake grumbled. “She’s been a complete bitch for the past seventy-two hours.”
I winced a little.
Blake and Chloe still weren’t on great terms. I couldn’t say I was surprised, but my heart sagged a little.
“How’s Isabel?” I asked.
“She bounced back fast,” Blake said. “Jesse’s on baby duty. He’s somewhere around here. Think he took her inside to see if he could find one of Lena’s old taekwondo outfits.”
It didn’t slip past me that there was a tiny note of resentment in Blake’s voice, and, if the way he scraped a patty up and bashed it back down on the grill was any indication, it was safe to say he was upset.
“How come you got grill duty?” I ventured.
“Because Jesse’s good with kids,” he said with a shrug. “And the last time I was on baby duty, I kind of fucked it up monumentally. You might remember it. You were there.”
He tapped his forehead, as if I needed reminding of the night I’d taken an elbow to the face and played the most sexually tense Scrabble game of my life.
“Jesse is a kid,” I said, deciding to ignore the second half of his explanation.
Blake snorted a little.
Still, he didn’t go any easier on the burgers.
I leaned my hip against the mini fridge and cast another glance over the backyard, trying to think of something to say—anything to say—that might make him feel better.
If I was being totally honest, then no, Blake wasn’t great with Isabel. I’d seen him interact with her a few times. He was awkward. Too stiff, too unsure. Kids usually picked up on that kind of stuff. But Isabel seemed to adore him, no matter how rigid and pissy he was with her; I’d seen her watch Sesame Street with him. She’d been giddy to have him there—her brother. She was too young to understand the difference between a brother and half brother.
But Blake was old enough. And maybe that was the problem.
I yawned loudly before I could catch myself.
“Am I boring you?” Blake asked.
“No. Just woke up superearly this morning. Some idiot thought it’d be nice to have a chat at six a.m.”
“Well, I’m sure he wouldn’t have to call you so early in the morning if you just had a cell phone, like the rest of the modern world.”
I leveled a glare at him. He smiled back at me, unfazed.
“We’re not having this argument again,” I grumbled.
Luckily, Lena and Blake’s dad chose that moment to march onto the back porch carrying a jumbo-sized cooler. Well, Lena was carrying it. George was walking behind her, eyeing her with something like wonder and acting as a (kind of unnecessary) spotter.
Lena set the cooler down beside the outdoor couches and smacked her hands together, looking quite proud of herself. George put his hands on his hips—God bless the dad uniform of khaki shorts, white tube socks, and polo shirts—and eyed her warily.
“What do you bench press?” he asked.
Lena just laughed.
“Oh, Mr. Hamilton,” she said, shaking her head and giving his arm a little pat. “I’ll go help Mom bring out the sweet tea.”
“I’ll get some napkins or something,” George offered.
