Chapter 12
That night Gus and I wash the dinner dishes, and we don’t talk about his new friend or lifeguarding camp.
We tread in that uncharged space outside our own lives.
I tell him about the caller who wanted my medical opinion on her bone density, and we make pretend calls back and forth using bananas for phones.
For just a while it’s like when he was little and I could make him laugh by posing his Spider-Man action figure in the fridge like it was scaling a half gallon of milk.
Sometimes before I went to bed, I’d leave his tiny Aquaman sitting outside his bedroom door, chin on fist, like he was bored waiting for him to wake up.
It was nothing, but it was free and he’d smile and run into my arms every damn time.
“I signed the papers for the new roof today,” I tell him, drying the pasta pot.
“Should get started in about a month.” The third contractor, Izzy, was the obvious choice.
She gave a slightly better quote than the other two, and she’s backlogged with other projects so she can’t start until early August. This dovetails perfectly with my immediate need to tell the fire chief I have a plan while not having all the money to pay her until late August. I bought myself some time for free.
“Christopher’s going to hate it,” he says, which is true. But not as much as he’d hate having to move.
“For sure,” I say. “And guess what I’m doing tomorrow. I’m going out on Stewart Whitfield’s boat.”
Gus turns his whole body to me. “Not the giant one.”
“No, one of the others,” I say. “I don’t even know. We’re going to go over the particulars of our little ruse. He’s bringing a picnic from Eight Oaks and we’re going to sail around.”
“That’s the coolest thing I’ve ever heard,” he says.
“Right?” I flick him with a dishtowel. “I wish you could come.”
“Me. Too.” His eyes are huge. “I’d jump right off the side of the boat a hundred times.”
I am intoxicated by his happiness, which is why I say, “I’ll ask if you can come. Maybe you can invite Clay?”
“Seriously?” The smile on his face.
I grab my phone. “Can’t hurt to ask. He is my fake boyfriend, after all.” I make a crazy face.
Me: So are we on for tomorrow?
Stewart: Yes, picnic is being handled and I’ll get you at eleven?
I look up at Gus. “He’s picking me up at eleven. Here goes.” Me: Any chance I can bring Gus and his new friend Clay along? Would be an epic Saturday for them
Stewart doesn’t reply and I immediately regret asking. I’ve gotten too comfortable. I hold up my phone to Gus. “No reply.”
“That’s okay,” he says, just as Stewart texts: Sure. I just texted Gladys that we’d be two more. All set
There’s a little burning in my sinuses and I might have wet eyes when I look up at Gus.
Thirteen years of secondhand everything.
It’s not often that I get to do something extravagant for him.
“He said sure,” I say. “Text Clay.” Gus beams and I watch as he texts and gets a yes reply right away.
They text what look like yacht emojis back and forth for a bit, and I savor the full-on hug he gives me before he heads upstairs.
I pour myself a short glass of bourbon, then take it out to the sleeping porch and sit at the old Singer.
I text Naomi: So tomorrow I’m going on a yacht with Gus and his NEW FRIEND
Naomi: I’m going to save this text forever
I laugh. I’m not even sure what part of that sentence is the most implausible.
Me: I know. Can you believe Gus has a friend? He’s going to be doing the lifeguard camp with him too
My phone rings. “I’m sorry. What? Is this the Whitfield yacht? And are you somehow making this about Gus? I literally need to lie down.”
“I know.” I laugh. “Fun, right? But not the giant one in town. One of the others, I think.”
“Oh my God.” I can hear her walking around now. “I just. Wait, what are you going to wear? Is this what the yellow pants are for?”
“I think we’re picnicking and going swimming, like bathing suits. This one’s off the books. It’s just to get our stories straight.”
“Picnicking and swimming? Bathing suits?! He likes you,” she says.
“Oh my God, no. I’m not even in the right stratosphere. Do I need to text you a photo of Audrey Mills?”
“I think he likes you.”
“He doesn’t.”
“Does.”
“Doesn’t.”
“Does.” This could go on awhile.
I take a sip of my bourbon and say, “Remember when we drove to Vermont in that storm?”
“Because Brian Levy had a crush on you? See, this is what I’m talking about. You’re like a sneaky smoke show.”
“Remember we were almost out of gas, and we saw that Comfort Inn and we were so relieved?”
“There were free bags of chips and hot water for tea in the lobby.” Naomi sounds dreamy remembering it, and it was every bit that dreamy.
We were exhausted and in total adrenal collapse from having driven for hours in a snowstorm, our headlights illuminating the six inches in front of us that could very well have been the edge of a cliff. We were sixteen.
“That hotel was awesome, and a lifesaver,” I say.
“I’ll never love a hotel more. But Stewart Whitfield stays at the Four Seasons.
In case you’re not following, I’m the Comfort Inn.
I’m there in a pinch, right where you expect me to be, by the side of the highway.
I’ll take you in and give you tea. But Stewart Whitfield doesn’t stay at the Comfort Inn. ”
“Oh stop. You’re the Ritz-freakin’-Carlton. I saw you in that gown.”
“That’s a costume, and it’s important that we both remember this.” I can envision a reality where I get confused.
She lets out a breath. “Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot we were all given permanent hotel chain identities at birth. I’m probably Club Med, by the way. Hard to get to, but once you’re in, everything’s free.”
I laugh. “See, you understand.”
“You’re ridiculous. Listen to me. You’re going to need to hunt around in Patsy’s closet again.
I want you to find a dress, short, so your legs show, but casual, so it feels like a cover-up.
Do you have a bathing suit? I can actually meet you at the store right now if you don’t.
God, I am freaking out. A Whitfield yacht. ”
“I have a perfectly good bathing suit. Let’s not blow this out of proportion. It’s just going to be a really nice thing for Gus.”
“If you say one more thing about Gus, I swear I’m going to hang up. You are going to have a whole day of yacht fun. Champagne and really good cheese on those expensive crackers that have raisins and rosemary in them. You know the ones?”
“I do. They cost eight dollars.”
“Exactly. Send me a selfie in the morning and eat all the eight-dollar crackers. Comfort Inn, my ass. He likes you.”