3. Dolphins Are Not Nice
Chapter 3
Dolphins Are Not Nice
Bonnie
My house is a fifteen-minute drive from Never Harbor proper. Technically, it’s Jasper’s old cottage, but when he and Wendy moved in town, they kept the property. Jasper let me and my best friend live here. Our college bachelorette pad comes at the discounted price of free babysitting whenever he and Wendy have their next kid. We’re just shortsighted enough to consider that an excellent exchange. It’s a future Bonnie and Lulu problem.
My tires crunch over gravel as I pull down the long path toward the lone house at the edge of the cliff. It’s a small one-story red cottage with a front porch and swinging bench seat. The hazy orange porch light illuminates the white picket fence separating the rocky driveway from a stairwell leading down to the pebbled ocean shore.
I like to drive slow along our private path with my windows rolled down. It’s a peaceful symphony of light breezes, restless grasshoppers, shushed waves, and, as I draw closer to our porch, the buzz of ritzy housewives bickering from our television inside.
I park next to Lulu’s BMW. My hand-me-down Jeep is a stark contrast to her luxury car, despite her nice rims being caked in dust and sand. The car was a gift from her parents before their cold war started. It’s funny how relationships with family can get strained when you take a different path from what your parents expect of you. That’s exactly why I didn’t stray from a more professional design degree and also why Lulu will always be infinitely cooler than me.
“Hey, best friend,” Lulu says as I close the front door behind me.
“Hey, best friend.”
Our greeting hasn’t changed since I was eleven and she was thirteen.
I hang my purse on the coat rack and walk back to my bedroom. Cracking open the door, I kick off my shoes into the darkness before shutting it back.
I fall down on the living room couch beside Lulu, shifting her scattered piles of paper along the length of our couch’s L-shape edge between Lulu’s outstretched legs. She leans forward and types on her laptop keyboard.
“How was dinner?” she asks.
“Good. Jasper and Cassidy were missing. Along with their little monsters. Just me, Wendy, Pete, and Milo. Oh, and The Twins. They all asked about you.”
Lulu twists her mouth to the side, as if disappointed. Even with that expression, my best friend is still drop-dead gorgeous. Smooth inky-black hair pools beside her waist. Sun-kissed skin is tanned evenly across her long limbs. Thick black lashes blink over brown eyes, as if in thought, before Lulu begins typing again.
“Next time, I’ll go,” she says absentmindedly.
I snort. “No, you won’t.”
She gives a smirking side-eye. “You don’t know me, Davies.”
“I know that you’re behind on work because you keep watching Real Housewives . Which is sad. You and Milo could have geeked out about books, like you usually do.”
“Ugh. I volunteered with him at the library for a year, and now he annoys me.”
“Milo is the least annoying brother I have. Unless you’re annoyed at the fact that he’s so boring.”
“He’s definitely boring,” Lulu groans. “So studious.”
“Uh-huh, and how’s studying, Miss Studious?” I ask, reaching out to shift a paper to the side.
“Funny,” she deadpans.
I pull my legs up on the couch and pretzel them. “Seriously, you look busy.”
Lulu tilts her head to the side. “Well, I’m still my father’s daughter.” She shivers. “If I don’t get an A, I get all itchy and gross.”
Lulu’s parents weren’t thrilled when she used her business degree to then get a master’s in library science instead of doing, well, business . There are a lot of other sciences they would have preferred, too, but she took their words and threw back an Uno reverse card, which is such a Lulu move that I’m not sure how they didn’t see it coming.
It’s easy to underestimate her though. Lulu is a study in contrasts. She wears glittery eye shadow, prefers her clothes in either electric pink or neon green, and will always be the first to establish a dance floor at The Hideaway. She also has stacks of musty, classic books lining the walls of her bedroom. Nobody expects the party girl to have an obsession with Jane Austen and George Orwell, but there’s also a lot of narrow-minded people in the world, aren’t there?
Her parents never saw how much Lulu read in her spare time, how she took every recommendation my brother Milo gave to her in earnest, and how her volunteer time at the library after graduating was a light-bulb moment that directed her toward the career of her dreams she hadn’t even known she wanted.
I’ve made small sacrifices to not disappoint my parents. Who hasn’t? I got a nose ring freshman year, then immediately took it out when my mom got upset. But if that’s the only real sacrifice I’ve made, then I’m lucky. I have parents who saw my ambition for art and allowed me to see it through. Except without an internship on my résumé, I might as well prepare for my portfolio to be crumbled in the trash after graduation, along with other hopeful, hack artists. A parent’s support doesn’t matter much if I can’t follow through.
I avert my gaze from Lulu’s work, but only find my reflection in the window. Our floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the ocean during the day, but at night, it’s a wall of black void. You only have your own shame staring back.
“You all right?” Lulu asks, reaching out a leg to touch me with her electric-blue-painted toes.
“I’m gonna go draw for a bit.”
Her bottom lip pokes out in a knowing hum. “Want company?”
“Nah,” I say.
“You’re forcing a smile.”
“Stop reading my mind.”
“What’s wrong?” she asks on a laughing whine, pushing against my knee with her foot.
“Just being moody. In my feelings.”
“Okay, and what’s new?”
“Now I’m definitely leaving.”
Lulu laughs. “I’ll give you ten minutes to mope, and then I’m coming out there. Ten only .”
“So generous.”
“I am. Thank you.”
I leave through the front door again, crossing through our barely surviving garden on bare feet. I pass under our empty clothesline and abandoned bags of soil, then journey out to our shed—Jasper’s old work shed and now my makeshift art studio.
A place once filled with a buzz saw, workhorse, and walls of tools is now lined with hanging plants, sticky notes, and rip-outs from design publications. Sheer white curtains frame the open window, swaying in the stiff summer nighttime breeze. Vines trail up a ladder propped beside it. The floor is littered with old receipts, half-melted candles, and various charging cables. In the far corner beside my sewing machine is a thick pile of pillows, blankets, and comforters. Lulu says it looks like a squatter is staying here, but what can I say? I prefer to doodle on the floor in my cozy bed pallet.
Plus, sure, I’m not the tidiest person. It’s best nobody else sees that.
I walk to my desktop and jam a finger on the space bar to start whatever playlist is preloaded. The Howling Ravens’ new album croons back. The rhythmic bass guitar would be comforting were it not for the tiny red bubble over my email icon.
A single email.
I tap to read it and regret the decision instantly.
Hi, Siobhan Davies! While we love your portfolio, unfortunately …
“Shit,” I hiss. “Shit, shit, shit.”
I jab my finger on the Delete key.
That’s my last rejection. The final nail in my unemployed, no-future coffin.
I officially have zero prospects this summer.
Zero.
I fall down onto the pile of pillows and blankets and curl into a ball.
This is bound to be my entire summer. Escaping to my art shed and wishing I were someone different. I’m hopeless. Aimless. And I’m doing exactly what Lulu spends half her best-friend energy trying to prevent me from doing—moping.
Sometimes, I just need to feel the emotion, but this time, I’m not sure what’s left to ruminate over.
I don’t know what happened. It’s as if the second I started my graphic design classes, somehow, everything fell apart. My professor—a typography legend, barely living on a prayer and one final dusty cough—would pass by my station, hum a disapproving acknowledgment, then shuffle on.
Graphic design is a tough major, and the problem solving required to succeed somehow isn’t sticking with me.
No awards. Barely a B in my classes.
I glance up at the wooden walls, tacked with art—my illustration of a squirrel perched on a branch with a tiny ribbon falling off the corner, my octopus curled around a treasure chest with a bigger ribbon, a skeleton dancing with a violin. That last one is my favorite. That is what represents who I am—not the design portfolio trashed by every prospective employer. But how would they know that?
On the opposite plywood wall is art I’ve collected over the years from local shows, thrift stores, and galleries. It’s inspiration in the form of digital illustrations, charcoal, and screen print.
More specifically, Rafe Cohen’s screen prints.
I’m a hoarder for his art. It’s embarrassing. Juvenile really. But cringier than that is the collection of art just below it—paintings of Rafe himself, done by yours truly.
I curl my knees closer to my chest. I romanticize too much in my life, and the artist with the hooded eyes and inky-black hair is my ultimate fantasy.
It’s not just the sultry gaze or the hot—okay, super-hot —tattoos. It’s that Rafe has life figured out. He’s the type of person who can commit a massive design—a permanent future—to his skin without a second thought.
This man knows exactly what he wants. He’s naturally confident. And this same man watched me walk away from his booth when he thought I wasn’t looking.
A shiver rolls up my spine.
I want what he has. A successful career. A shop in town.
I want those hooded brown eyes staring at me more.
Goose bumps scatter across my skin. I turn away from my girlish drawings. Sometimes, my brain feels stuffed full. Internships, grades, being the only daughter, being the only failure in my family. Spending a useless summer in Never Harbor is the final cotton ball, jamming it all inside my ears with no way out. I can barely hear anything anymore.
My phone gives a muffled buzz in the comforter next to me. It’s my sibling group chat, exploding as always.
Peter: Cass! You guys missed dinner for a babymoon?
Cassidy: If my woman wants a vacation, my woman gets a vacation!
Marina: I’m a barn, about to burst. Let me have this, Pete.
Wendy: How’s it been?
Cassidy: Tons of fun! You would have loved seeing the dolphins.
Bonnie: Ahhh! Dolphins?!
Marina: NO. Dolphins were NOT nice.
Bonnie: I thought you loved sea animals? You married a human seal.
Cassidy: Cute but annoying?
Bonnie: *GIF of Shaq shimmying*
Peter: Niceeee.
Jasper: why weren’t the dolphins nice
Marina: Jas digging for some teaaaaa!!!
Peter: You sound like you’re gonna kill the dolphins, Jas.
Wendy: Jas, aren’t you supposed to be out fishing?
Jasper: sam wants to know
Wendy: What a good dad. :)
Bonnie: Get a room!!!
The chat used to only house the Davies siblings, minus The Twins because we’d probably just get memes that either died ten years ago or that we wouldn’t understand. But once Wendy and Marina entered the picture, our group chat grew from five to seven. It’s a mess of notifications on nights when everyone is involved.
Milo: Wait, why weren’t the dolphins nice?
Marina: They laughed at me.
Peter: And you didn’t laugh back???
Jasper: logical conclusion
Cassidy: She DID though!
Marina: I DID. The dolphins were screeching at my preggo belly like JERKS.
Cassidy: So, she told them off.
Wendy: You told them off?
Marina: Yes.
Bonnie: …
Wendy: …
Milo: …
Jasper: …
Peter: You know what? Hell yeah, Marina.
Cassidy: RIGHT?! They didn’t understand they were dealing with Mother freaking Earth!!!
Marina: WAR CRYYYY
Cassidy: You tell them what’s what, Mama!
Marina: The captain almost threw us off the boat.
Cassidy: Melody thought it was funny though.
Bonnie: ummmm I need video ASAP
There are a few seconds where nobody seems to be typing, so I set my phone aside, only to have it buzz again.
Marina: Did we miss meeting Milo’s girlfriend tonight?
Wendy: No, Milo won’t bring Harriett to dinner. :(
Cassidy: Miloooo!
Marina: WHY?
Bonnie: *side-eye emoji*
Milo: It’s not that I won’t. It’s that you people cannot handle her.
Peter: We’re perfectly reasonable.
Marina: Perfectly.
Cassidy: Definitely.
Bonnie: Absolutely.
Jasper: no they’re not
Wendy: Shh, Jas!
Peter: Bring her to Night Crawl tomorrow!
Milo: One hundred percent no.
Peter: We promise not to ambush her.
Bonnie: Promise!
Wendy: Milo, I swear we won’t.
Milo: I only believe Wendy.
Peter: Come on! We’re not that heartless!
Peter: Milo?
Peter: Milo???
Bonnie: He’s abandoned us.
Peter: So have Cass and Marina.
Wendy: Babymoon!
Bonnie: Gross.
Peter: At least you’re going tomorrow, right, Bon?
I twist my lips to the side in thought and eventually toss my phone to the side.
I wanted to go to the Night Crawl tomorrow.
I still do—kinda.
But what is there to celebrate now that I’ve got no prospects?
Moping would be better.
I should mope instead.
My phone buzzes again.
Milo: I’ll go if you go.
Bonnie: Can I finally meet Harriett?
Milo: Still no.
Bonnie: Boooooo.
Milo: You seemed off tonight. You should get out of the cottage.
Bonnie: Thanks, Dad.
Milo: Anytime.
Milo: Get out of the house, or I’ll tell Pete you’re volunteering instead.
I open my text thread with Lulu.
Bonnie: Okay, I only needed ten minutes to mope this time.
Lulu: We call that growth. What changed?
Bonnie: Nothing. I got my last rejection.
Lulu: Oh my God, that’s total bullshit. I’m coming out there.
Bonnie: Milo is making me leave the house.
Lulu: I agree with him. Sadly.
Bonnie: How do you feel about spending the rest of my allocated moping time at the Crawl tomorrow?
Lulu: But you hate crowds?
Bonnie: But I like ice cream.
Lulu: Wait, is this a negotiation for extra hours of moping?
Bonnie: Hadn’t thought of that. Yes! It is.
Lulu: Sneaky.
Bonnie: But we get to be merry while I do it!
Lulu: I do love being merry.
Bonnie: So, you’re in?
Lulu: I can’t say no to you.
Bonnie: Apparently, you’re the only one.
The shed door opens, and Lulu stands in the threshold, gesturing to me with her phone. Our text conversation remains lit on the screen.
“Save the moping for tomorrow, girlie.”
“Can I negotiate for Sunday moping too?” I ask.
“No more negotiating.”
“Only until Sunday afternoon?”
She taps the phone to her lips and hums to herself, as if considering. “That’s a lot of time.”
I hold up a finger. “Sunday morning?”
Lulu grins. “I’ll allow it.” She makes a quick scan of my blanket fort and my fetal position, then sighs. “I’m sorry about the internships.”
“Me too.”
She strides across the hardwood and holds out her palm. “Let’s go, trash monster.”
I moan. She bends down and forces my limp hand in hers, pulling me up from my cushions. I rise like Nosferatu from his coffin, though a little less elegant and slightly more intact. Slightly.
“For now, we’ve got Real Housewives to binge.”