Chapter 18 Lili
Eighteen
Lili
Of all the days for Goldie to wake up sick this summer, today is the worst. And she knows it.
Mom presses the back of her hand against Goldie’s flushed forehead, her eyes squinting with worry as my sister does her best
to hold back tears. The thermometer beeps, and Mom lets out a soft hiss of air. Goldie’s chin quivers, and I can practically
hear her fighting the urge to sob.
“But I don’t want to miss the water fight!” she says, voice wobbling as she stares at Mom, pleading.
The Fourth of July Nantucket Water Fight started nearly fifty years after a local resident bought a 1927 American LaFrance
ladder antique fire truck and challenged the fire chief to a water duel using only a historic hand-pumper from the Gardner
Street Fire Hose Cart House. The whole town got involved and it’s been an annual event ever since, one that I’ve been hyping
Goldie up for all week.
The plan was to join the crowds, soak each other in the water fight, and then race down to the beach later for fireworks under the stars. I’d been looking forward to it from the second Mom agreed we could spend the summer here.
I hug myself around my stomach, feeling a knot form as I follow Mom out into the hall. “Is she really sick?” I ask, trying
to keep my voice light.
Mom shows me the thermometer. “She’s not going anywhere.”
The knot pulls taught. Goldie had been too little to come when Dad used to take me. She barely remembered what the water fight
was until I started telling her about it. Last night she’d been so excited she could barely fall asleep. “Maybe she’ll be
better by tonight?”
Mom looks doubtful. “Even if she’s better by tonight, I wouldn’t feel okay about taking her to the beach with other people.”
I know she’s right, but hearing Goldie sniffling in the bedroom is heartbreaking. “Then maybe just here, in the yard, picnic
style. I don’t want her to have to miss the fireworks too.”
Mom glances toward the bedroom door, like she’s weighing it. “We’ll see. Right now, I’m going to sit with her. Why don’t you
go into town and meet up with Wren and your friends? Maybe you can still have some fun today.”
Wren had surprised me when he said he’d have a water gun with my name on it if I wanted to try to find him. I think he meant
he intends to soak me with it, but I could try to get him first. The idea doesn’t stop me from feeling awful that Goldie has
to miss out. And Mom too.
“Go,” Mom says gently, nudging me toward the stairs with a subtle tilt of her head.
“Have fun for all of us. I’ll text you if she feels better and we can do anything at the house.
” When I still hesitate, she says, “Hurry, before I change my mind and make you watch a superhero movie marathon with us.”
For 364 days of the year, Nantucket feels like a place frozen in time. Gray-shingled buildings, the cobblestone streets, and
the salty ocean air are all as constant and unchanging as the tide. But today is different. History is alive, splashing through
the streets, turning the postcard-perfect town into a chaotic, joyful battleground. Red, white, and blue bunting hangs from
lampposts, while streams of water arc through the air, glistening like liquid rainbows.
The fire truck reigns supreme in Main Street Square, blasting its hose into the crowd. The old hand-pumper stands proud, with
volunteers working the handles as kids with squirt guns dart between them. A little girl in a pink tutu shrieks with laughter
as a bucket of water tips over her head, soaking her from curls to sneakers. No one is safe in the splash zone, not me, not
tourists, not the guy in a suit running barefoot down the street. The scent of melting ice cream, sunscreen, and soaked pavement
mingles with faint music, “Born in the U.S.A.” thumping in the background. The water fight isn’t about monuments or records,
it’s about the people who lived here, who laughed and fought and made it their home. It’s about taking something pristine
and letting it get a little messy, a little loud, and a little ridiculous.
And today, it’s perfect.
I spot Wren sooner than I expect, lying in wait by a refill cooler. It’s the only cobblestone-free area on the street, and
he’s staking out the territory like a predator, ready to target anyone who tries to cross. He and his white T-shirt are somehow
still remarkably dry.
Seems like something I should help him with.
Aiming my neon green water gun in his direction, I cross the street to approach from behind.
“Hey, Tour Guy!” I call out. I wait for his eyes to collide with mine and for him to take in my satisfied grin before I squeeze
the plastic trigger.
I’m still crowing my victory when he snakes an arm around my waist and swings me around in front of him like a human shield
just as a group of tweens comes spraying past us.
I laugh, plucking the damp fabric from my skin when he lets me go. “I still got you first.”
He shakes the water from his dark hair, grinning at me. It’s a good look on him. “I got you better.”
“So this is how you stay dry? Grab and hide behind unsuspecting people who get too close?”
“Nah, just the ones who should know better.”
There’s more than just a challenge in his eyes when he stares at me, but before I can decide what he means, he glances past
me.
“Where are your mom and sister?”
I tell him about Goldie.
His brows furrow. “Poor kid. You know, if you want to grab another T-shirt from McCleave’s for her later, I’ve got some extras
in my truck.”
“Thanks,” I say, taken aback by the kind offer. “She’d like that.”
But then he ruins the moment by shooting me again and making me laugh so hard I miss my shot when I try to retaliate.
That’s when Eryn calls out to us from across the street.
Wren immediately stops shooting. He doesn’t even point his water gun in her direction. But as soon as I lower mine, he takes one last cheap shot at me.
“Gotta stay alert, Tourist Girl,” he says under his breath, grinning as he nods at Eryn.
She takes his hand and holds it before turning to me. “Lili, hi!” She gives me a quick, wet, one-armed hug, and then pulls
back, looking sheepish. “Sorry! Elliot was waiting for me earlier like some psycho with a water bucket, so I’m absolutely
drenched.”
“I don’t know who Elliot is,” I tell her.
Wren looks at her like he doesn’t know either.
“He’s a new hire at the café that I’ve been training. He’s the one who made those maple bacon sticky buns that I brought for
lunch the other day,” she adds, sounding sort of proud. “Anyway, the water fight is already wrapping up—how are you two not
soaked yet?”
I got here late, but I’m not nearly as dry as Wren is, and I shoot him a mock glare. “He did his ‘grab a tourist and hide
behind them’ thing.”
Eryn looks between us. “His what?”
“You know, where he—”
“Where’s Tate?” Wren interrupts. “I lost him a while back.”
Eryn glances at me again before answering. “I think he’s still off hunting his little brothers on the one day of the year
he’s actually allowed to do that. He said he’d meet up with us in front of the museum after. I guess we could head over?”
I take a step back in the opposite direction. “I should probably get going too.”
“Where?” Wren asks quickly enough to surprise me. “Your mom told you to stay out, right? We’re going to get pizza at Steamboat Wharf and then Tate knows a spot on the beach that’s not too crowded. You should come.”
Eryn only hesitates for the briefest of moments before chiming in too. “Yeah, come.” She releases Wren’s hand to link her
arm through mine. “The pizza isn’t great so the company should be.”
After meeting up with Tate and drying off in the parking lot, we all pile into Wren’s truck. He doesn’t comment when Eryn
immediately changes his playlist, maybe because the drive is so short and we’re pulling up in front of the pizza place before
the first song is even over.
Steamboat Wharf Pizza is a cute little redwood paneled building near the beach, definitely a grab-and-go kind of place. There
aren’t any tables, just a long counter directly inside wide-open double doors, but the air is thick with the mouthwatering
scent of garlic and freshly baked dough.
The tourists are everywhere, spilling out from the entrance in long lines, their chatter a mix of excitement and impatience
as Eryn and I hop out of Wren’s truck. I catch Wren’s eye for a moment before he settles his attention back to her.
“You’re sure you don’t want me to wait?” he asks, handing her some cash and eyeing the crowd with a small frown.
She leans through the window to give him a quick kiss. “Somebody else will get our spot on the beach if you guys don’t hurry.”
Waving them off, she joins me in line, smiling into the warm breeze until my hair gets whipped directly in her face.
“Are you okay? Oh no, did I get your eye?”
She doesn’t look like she’s in pain exactly, just confused. “I’m fine. Um, your hair smells like strawberries.”
“Really? Still?” I grab a strand to check for myself. “Wow, that’s good stuff. My mom got me this shampoo and lotion set last Christmas and I’ve been using it since we got here. Nice to know it lasts even through a water-gun fight.”
Eryn’s smile is a little tight.
“Sorry, not a strawberry fan, huh?”
“I am, it’s just . . . nothing, never mind.” Then much quicker, she says, “It’s just that sometimes Wren smells like that
too lately.”
The bottom of my stomach starts to drop out when I think about how closely Wren and I have been working together recently,
literally. And if Eryn noticed, does that mean Wren did too?
Suddenly, she drops her head and laughs. “Tate’s probably been giving him some strawberry candy or something. Please can we
forget I said anything and talk about something else?”
I’m not eager to linger on it either. “Well, we had our first research breakthrough the other week. Or did Wren already tell
you?”
Eryn shakes her head and I start telling her about blackberries and the smuggler’s hole, but pause when I notice her eyes
glazing over.
“I guess maybe it doesn’t sound like much, but it’s actually kind of a big deal.”
“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice sincere. “History was my worst subject in school and I just haven’t gotten over that. But
if you’re excited, then I’m excited for you.”
I laugh lightly. “Thanks, but we don’t have to talk about history. I get enough of that during the day.” That’s a white lie.
I could talk about it all the time, but most people aren’t like me.
I push the thought of Wren out my mind as we step up to the counter to order.
We have to walk a little over a block to the beach once we have our pizza, and since I’m going to spare her more history talk, I ask her about baking instead.
Eryn beams like a lighthouse at sunset when she talks about the differences between sourdough and yeasted bread, how rough
puff saves time but lacks the delicate layers of traditional puff pastry, and why she prefers Italian buttercream over American
for its smooth texture. She’s got that perfect mix of knowledge and excitement, and it’s clear that baking isn’t just a job
for her, but a craft she’s always refining.
I’m kind of speechless when she’s done. “And why aren’t you in pastry school somewhere, or, I don’t know, off winning The Great British Baking Show?”
Her cheeks turn pink as she smiles. “I’ve thought about it, but pastry school doesn’t really fit in with everything else.
Wren would never want leave Nantucket and we’ve been through so much that I can’t imagine a future without him in it.”
I hesitate. “Does he know that you want to go? Maybe he’d be more open than you think.”
“Oh, no,” she says offhandedly. “It’s fine. I do love it here and the café is great, and I even like being a mermaid. I don’t
really need anything else.”
But I can’t help but notice that she seems a little less bright as we step out onto the sand.