CHAPTER THREE
My name is Penn.
Trying to count the number of times those words had replayed in my head over the past twenty-four hours was useless.
I tried to convince myself it wasn’t real but still changed my mind on keeping the watch close to me.
I shucked it off my wrist the moment I was alone, throwing it onto my bedside table, not to be touched again until I could sell it.
At lunch, Tía Vivian noticed my silence, but despite her prodding, I decided not to tell her about what I’d experienced. It would only worry her.
Yet as the next morning came, worry began to gnaw at me again.
I didn’t want it—him—to be real, but what did it mean if he wasn’t?
What did it mean about me and my mind? I needed to go back to Spines and Pines and ask a few questions about the origins of this watch.
And while in town, I needed to try to find some kind of job.
Selling the gold timepiece would pad my bank account, but it wouldn’t keep me occupied all summer or pad my résumé.
The tiny cabin kitchen was newly renovated with mallard-green paint and white marble counters.
I popped pain pills and toasted bread. Smeared Jif peanut butter all over it—my anti-LA vice.
In a world of chia pudding and overpriced smoothies, I secretly preferred this particular sugar-laced spread over the natural varieties my mother bought. Tía Viv knew.
Outside, one of her saws screeched like a feral bird. My childhood lullaby. She’d left two notes by the toaster, one with instructions on how to get into town and another with the most precious information of all:
Wi-Fi: BEARBERRYCREEK
Password: CascaraSagrada123
Sorry, it’s spotty. I’ll try to have it fixed. V
I blanched. I had totally forgotten to call or even text my parents back. I’d been more than distracted since I got here, but I needed to get back to them now. I prayed to the tech gods, entered the info, and paid my debt to FaceTime.
“Hello? Mom?” The FaceTime chime came through, but all sound cut out, and my screen froze. I switched rooms and tried again, but nothing made it better. I sent a text explaining the terrible service, promising to try later after I returned from town.
The Cedar Street shops had to be open by now. I ducked into my room to change into jean shorts and a long-sleeved cropped tee, then fastened my graduation gift onto my arm—Abuela Rojas’s heirloom Omega Constellation watch.
Trying to regain my post-concussive health, I was supposed to stay off my phone as much as possible (prime PCS offender).
In addition to the sentimental value, my parents had that in mind when they gifted me the stainless-steel watch.
I pulled my phone out now, just long enough to note that the time on the lock screen flashed two hours later than my watch face read.
Had my parents wrapped up the Omega without even checking if it was keeping the correct time?
I realized then that I had never actually checked to make sure it was right.
Mom told me she’d recently replaced the battery, so it probably needed a repair.
Fitting. My twelve-day-old present was already as broken as the graduation party where I had received it.
As I tucked the Omega back into my nightstand drawer, memory came fast and sharp of the celebration that had turned into an ode to my parents’ passive aggression and my disappointment.
My wife ordered strawberry cake even though she clearly knows my daughter prefers vanilla. I’d really appreciate it if you could fix it.
You weren’t supposed to invite them—and you accuse me of starting drama?
How perfect that you’re waiting until after the party to get a hair trim.
I’ll be doing the playlist this time. People were practically falling asleep at Vivian’s birthday party when you were in charge of the music.
And later, as Grier and Ana and all our guests watched me open presents, everyone saw my face fall as I opened my gift from my parents.
Abuela’s beautiful timepiece itself wasn’t the problem.
It was that I could have sworn I was getting the one thing I’d always wanted, the opportunity my parents had been dropping clues about all winter: my first plane ticket to Italy to board the Mercury.
After the party, when prodded, Mom and Dad blamed my post-concussion syndrome for the canceled ticket.
“Such a long trip could cause a relapse,” my mom had said over a sink full of dirty dishes.
“But Michail has never invited the crew’s families to stay on board!” I argued. “What if he doesn’t offer again?”
“You have made great progress in your recovery, but it’s not worth the risk,” my dad chimed. When I opened my mouth to say something—anything—to plead my case, he held up his palm. “I’m sorry, but this is no longer up for debate. We have made our decision.”
A final decision based on an offhand chance.
Even though long flights topped my doctor’s list of PCS triggers, I wouldn’t have let a possibility stop me.
I wanted a glimpse into the life my parents left me for so often—one where they got along with each other as well as they did with the Mediterranean Sea.
I shook the scene away and placed the gold watch into my belt bag.
Yesterday Vivian said the truck parked on the property was ours to use, and an automatic.
Unlike Viv’s manual-transmission Camaro—now covered with a protective tarp—which I’d never learned to drive.
I found the nineties-era white Ford Ranger on the other side of Viv’s temporary workshop.
A thick layer of pollen coated the hood, thanks to an overhanging tree.
When I climbed inside, it smelled of fake-vanilla air freshener and rust. Google Maps didn’t work out here, but Viv’s instructions helped me make the short but confounding journey from the isolated cabin into the town of Sacred.
I shut off the engine by the gas station on the eastern end of the village.
Cedar Street looked different in the midmorning sunlight.
Sacred’s main drag tried for an Americana feel, with antique lampposts, brick and white wood facades, and decorative signs—most of which featured some version of the group of three trees that greeted us on the welcome sign.
A fitting town logo, as trees were the running theme around here.
Spines and Pines stood a couple blocks down, but an anxious stir inside my stomach stopped me from returning right away. The store wasn’t going anywhere, and neither was the watch. Besides, I had more to do on this street than recon, and I hoped someone in this town needed a little summer help.
My first attempt at securing employment was at Sweet Maple, the candy shop with a sign offering cascara ice cream.
My sneakers stood in first position behind an indecisive middle-aged customer.
The lone, gray-haired clerk wore a pink-and-black apron with three triple-scoop cones arranged to look like the Sacred tree logo.
Clever—plus, I could deal with pink and black.
“Pardon,” I called as the customer stepped away to make an agonizing choice between milk-or dark-chocolate almonds. “Is there someone I can ask about a job?”
The clerk shook her head briskly. “Sorry, not now.”
That was everything but clear. Was the manager just out or . . . ?
“Peanut brittle,” the clerk said, and pushed a wrapped square in front of me.
I grabbed the sample as the customer inquired about the difference between fudge and regular chocolate. The clerk launched into a detailed explanation of candy varieties, then left to pack up the customer’s selections.
When she returned, I tried again. “Ma’am, are you hiring for any summer help, or—”
“We’re not right now. Sorry.” She placed a pink frosted truffle on the counter in front of me. “White chocolate raspberry.”
“Thanks,” I muttered, and grabbed the second sample. Free treats: two. Jobs: zero.
At the bank, dentist, and diner, employees offered little more than throwaway glances and said there were no positions available.
Shipley Foods won for the oddest experience. The manager rang up my bottled water (headache care also meant hydration) and listened to my job request as I fished out bills, only to broadcast over the intercom that Shipley was running a special on mushrooms and was definitely not hiring.
I finally gave up, dragging myself to Spines and Pines. I figured if I couldn’t get a job, maybe I could at least get confirmation that I wasn’t losing my mind. I pushed past a new display of antiques and lobbed a quick greeting and a plea for assistance to the man who had helped me before.
I waited a few beats. Nothing.
“Um, excuse me?” I called out. Again. The owner of Spines and Pines whooshed by, flashing an index finger for the third time.
Fine, except he’d been doing everything but coming right back to the front counter where I waited, elbow plunked on the glass display case, holding a questionable gold watch.
The owner breezed by again with a stack of books, a cell phone tucked between his ear and his shoulder, camouflaged by the bushy gray beard that spread across the lower half of his face.
“Corbin, my dude, you have a customer! Do you even care about Yelp reviews?”
I whipped around and saw a girl about my age with the best auburn-tinted hair I’d seen this far from the West Hollywood salon circuit.
Her jagged white cutoffs and green tank were standard Urban Outfitters summer stock, but the black ornamental birdcage she dangled from one hand was something else.
As was the way she was staring into the empty cage.
Tell me she didn’t believe there was a canary perched on the wooden peg?
I pushed a finger into my aching temple.
After one quick smile at the cage, the girl looked me over. “First time here?”
Second, but the sentiment was the same, so I nodded.
“Okay, well, that’s just Corbin. He’s . . . Let’s call it ‘easily distracted.’”