Piper
Henry and I go to a movie Saturday night, a date that includes popcorn and a long kiss good night. He compliments my manicure even before I point it out and asks what kind of candy I want without assuming I’ll choose Twizzlers because they’re fat-free.
I pick chocolate-covered almonds, and they’re delectable.
I like this: the normalcy of an evening out with a boy. I like being treated as an equal, not a goalpost. I like coming home to a peaceful apartment where my sister isn’t grilling me, or shouting at me, or calling me slothful.
The following morning, the Fourth of July, Davis suckers Henry into horseback riding and Tati drives to Pensacola to have brunch with a couple of high school friends, so I stay in, celebrating the empty apartment and the rare opportunity to do whatever what I want.
Which is nothing.
After lunch, I meet Henry down on the sand in my favorite suit, a royal-blue T-back bikini with cheeky bottoms that my sister absolutely hates.
We read on loungers (me: Delphina and the Siren’s Secret, the second and angstiest book of the trilogy; Henry: Freedom Found, the autobiography of a famous skier named Warren Miller).
I ask him why he doesn’t invest in an e-reader; he tells me he has one but that he shipped a box of nonfiction to his dad’s before leaving Spokane because the feel of a physical book in his hands is far superior to an electricity-dependent device, a rationalization I can’t argue with.
We rub sunscreen into each other’s shoulders and share cans of seltzer.
When the sun gets too hot, we run down to splash in the surf, then buy a pair of snow cones from a beachside vendor.
That night, we skip the annual Independence Day poolside potluck hosted by the Towers’ board of directors (a group of power-hungry senior citizens Tati is constantly butting heads with) in favor of finding a quiet spot on the beach to watch the fireworks that explode in colorful starbursts over the ocean.
It’s the most perfect day.
When Monday morning rolls around, I’m refreshed and ready for my shift at the Marine Conservation Park.
It passes without incident until my lunch break.
I’ve just left Turtle’s office, where he spent a few minutes checking in with me, asking if I’m ready for more responsibility—yes, definitely—when I spot Damon in his grimy baseball hat.
My pulse cranks into overdrive.
How dare he show up at this most sacred place, my home away from home?
He’s with his brother, Cole, who’s in middle school, and they’re standing in line at the snack hut, where I was headed. They’re roughhousing: Cole rises up on his toes to flick Damon’s ear, and Damon hauls off and sucker punches Cole’s arm.
God. As much as Tati and I fight, it’s never as savage as this.
Heart hammering, I duck into the souvenir shop before Damon spots me.
I hang out for a few minutes, letting Candice—a University of West Florida student who’s spending her summer working the register—chatter about the facial she’s going to get later.
Unknowingly, she talks me off a very high ledge.
I could hug her. Instead, I wave and step back outside, scanning my surroundings for that gross hat.
It’s nowhere to be seen.
I fill my lungs to capacity, then exhale slowly.
I still have twenty minutes of my break left to burn, so I take my place in line at the snack hut, then order a sweet tea and a hot dog. I’ve pocketed my change and am drizzling mustard over my lunch when a low voice says my name.
I whirl around, my hot dog falling from my hand and somersaulting to the pavement. Mustard splatters across my Vans.
Damon is standing in front of me.
“Whoops,” he says.
I stoop down, dizzy, sick, and pick up the mess. I toss it into a nearby trash bin, then retrieve my sweet tea from the counter, careful not to spill because we don’t do lids or straws at the park. Feigning indifference, I meet Damon’s gaze and say, “Excuse me.”
He doesn’t move.
His brother sits on a bench across the path, apparently bored. There’s a snack hut bag and a pair of drinks beside him. Damon must’ve caught sight of me when I got in line and told Cole to stay with their food.
I try to step around him. He shuffles to the right, blocking my escape without drawing the attention of the dozens of people milling around.
There’s a nasty gleam in his eye.
His father relocated the boys to Sugar Bay from Crestview, a small town near the Alabama border.
I’ve never met the man, but I’ve heard he’s scary.
According to Gabi, Damon’s parents’ marriage was tumultuous.
A year before the move, there was a physical altercation that left his mom hospitalized but unwilling to press charges against his dad.
Instead, she cut ties and moved to Charlotte.
I’d never judge a woman for seeking safety, but it’s hard to make sense of a mother who flees a dangerous situation and leaves her children behind.
I used to feel bad for Damon.
I don’t anymore.
“Where are you running off to?” he asks.
“I need to get to my post.” I gesture to my T-shirt. “I’m at work.”
“You can spare a minute. Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“I wonder why,” I say caustically.
He drops the pleasant veneer, sliding a step closer. The hairs on my arms prickle as I try to convince myself that he won’t touch me in front of witnesses.
“Talk to Gabi lately?” he asks.
“You know I haven’t.”
“She said she ran into you at Publix. She said you told her I was a liar.”
Did he track me down to confront me about this? I wouldn’t put it past him.
I clutch my sweet tea with both hands to keep from slapping the shit out of him.
His eyes roam across my face, from the beads of sweat collecting on my forehead to my bottom lip, snagged between my teeth. His smile spreads. “I didn’t lie, Piper. I didn’t have to. Gabi saw what she saw. She drew the most logical conclusion. All I had to do was agree with her.”
“You’re such an asshole.” I hurl the accusation hard; it rings in my ears. The guests in listening range turn to stare. So do Travis and Adam, the guys working in the snack hut. Adam looks peeved by my unprofessionalism—as if I’m the problem—but Travis seems concerned.
I want to sink into the sidewalk.
I give Travis a nod to let him know I’m fine, though I’m very much not fine.
Damon tips his chin at the guys like, It’s cool; we’re pals, then reaches out.
I don’t know if he aims to pat my arm or squeeze my shoulder or ram his fist into my biceps like he did to his brother, but I can’t stomach the thought of him touching me, even for decorum’s sake.
I spring back.
I let my cup fly.
Its contents splashes all over him in a shower of crushed ice and sticky sweet tea.
“Fuck!” he shouts, throwing his arms wide, glaring at his soaked shirt, then me.
The bystanders gawk, tittering with curiosity. Over on his bench, Cole snickers.
“Whoops,” I say flatly.
Damon’s foaming at the mouth, eyes clouded with fury. “You’re a bitch. A bitch.”
“So I’ve been told. There are shirts for sale in the gift shop, should you want to pick up something dry. And please, have a sunny day.”
“God damn it, Piper—”
I spin around, escaping amid the sounds of low whistles and surprised cackles, the disordered racket of the strangers around us rehashing what they saw.
If you only knew, I think.
My chest hurts and my throat’s swollen because I’m about to burst into tears.
I duck into a nearby restroom, lock myself in a stall, and perch on the toilet, propping my elbows on my knees, letting my head fall into my hands.
I try to get my breathing under control, to keep my tears beneath the surface, but the sight of my shoes, stained with yellow mustard, does me in.
I give myself two minutes to cry.
Two minutes to sink into self-pity.
Two minutes to exorcize it from my system.
Then I get up, leave the stall, and splash cool water on my face.
I look my reflection hard in the eye: Get your shit together.
I leave the restroom, then continue on to the sea lions’ pool. It’s their lunchtime, and even though I’m hungry, I’ve got to help prep their blend of squid, capelin, mackerel, pompano, and herring.
All the while, I think about a Thoreau quote I read in English class last year: It’s not what you look at that matters. It’s what you see.
Those people at the snack hut—the guests, Adam, Travis, and even Cole—saw Damon standing close to me, talking vehemently, making me unbearably uncomfortable. Or maybe they saw me fumbling my hot dog, responding with snark, assaulting a guest with sweet tea.
Perception is a fickle bitch.
I know what happened in Gabi’s bedroom.
Damon does too, though he’ll maintain his innocence to the grave.
Gabi observed a moment, and then—like Damon said—drew a conclusion. Because didn’t I choose the attention of a boy over her a few months back? Haven’t I spent the last few years drinking abundantly and hooking up casually?
She made a two-second observation, generated context, and decided I was guilty, just as everyone who witnessed today’s confrontation will likely do.
It’s what you see.
When it comes to Damon, I wish there was a way to change what Gabi sees.