20. Then
I wait for him as if he means everything to me.
I have no idea what we’re doing, but all that matters is the sight of him, ducking a little as he walks through the door, his eyes catching mine. There’s a secret knowledge resting there. It feels good to be known, to be seen, to be believed in.
We have our routine. I bring him what I can for free, and also a Danish, which I pay for myself because Charlie caught me. I put in his order and ask how the waves were, and he lies and tells me there wasn’t anything going on.
He walks in this morning, seeking me.
I grab a menu, not that he needs one, and start walking to a free table in my section. He follows.
I pour his coffee and his fingertips brush mine as he takes the cup. “You changed up that song you played last night. I like the new bridge.”
I smile, suddenly shy. “Thanks.”
I’ve stopped waiting for the house to empty to play my guitar. I have four songs now, songs I wrote mostly in my head before attempting them outside. I recorded them using the mic, too, though I haven’t quite summoned the courage to send them out.
Danny seems slightly irked by the guitar playing, as if it’s an embarrassing hobby he wishes I’d let go of. If he comes outside, it’s mostly to see if I’m ready to leave. But Luke is out there often, and I only realize it when I hear the shuffle of feet as he goes back inside.
He isn’t Donna, saying, “Doesn’t she sing like an angel?
” as if I’m a child who needs to be propped up because she has nothing else going for her.
Luke’s quiet words in the diner mean more than all the faint praise about my voice in church ever could.
He understands how much the songs mean to me, songs Danny doesn’t want to hear, and he’s listening more carefully than anyone else ever has.
He will never get a quiet pat on the back for who I’ve become.
He just wants me to know I’m seen, that I’m worth watching.
I want him to know he’s worth watching, too, but he’s probably already figured that much out. I can barely look away when he enters the room.
* * *
It’s raining when my shift ends. I walk outside to find Luke waiting in the Jeep. He tells me he just happened to be here.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I tell him. “I’m used to biking in the rain.”
He hands me a towel from the back seat to dry my damp head. “You shouldn’t have to get used to hard things, Jules.”
Except he won’t always be around. Whether I’m still in Rhodes or somewhere else, I’m going to have to fend for myself eventually.
He’s silent as we start down the road, and then he glances at me.
“My mom is like that.” His voice is quieter than it was.
“She was used to my dad being a drunk, and when she finally left, she married a guy who was worse, and I think it was mostly because he seemed so familiar. Another useless drunk.”
“There’s a pretty big difference between being someone who marries alcoholics and someone who’s willing to bike home in the rain.”
His mouth twitches. “I meant that she was used to hard things. I don’t want you thinking it has to be like that too.”
“Do you…still talk to them?” I bite my lip. “Sorry. You don’t have to discuss it if you don’t want.”
“I’m an open book.”
I laugh. “No one is less of an open book than you, Luke.”
A smile flickers over his face. “For you, I’m an open book. And no, I don’t still talk to them. But I have an older sister. I talk to her sometimes.”
“I can’t imagine you as anyone’s little brother.”
“Oh, believe me, I was. She still teases me about Mr. Maple, this stuffed animal I used to carry everywhere.”
He’s turned the heater on for me and the car is now cozy inside, the rhythmic back and forth of the wipers surprisingly soothing. “You named a stuffed animal Mr. Maple?”
His mouth twitches. “I’d spilled syrup on him.”
I picture a little Luke, carrying a stuffed animal around by the ear in footie pajamas. I hate that the tiny version of him had to suffer.
“Do you miss them?”
He shrugs. “My mom, yeah, though I don’t know why. You know what my last memory is of her? Her hunting under the couch for a tooth my stepfather knocked out. And then her taking his fucking side when I kicked his ass.”
My heart aches. I know exactly how alone he must have felt because I lived it.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, letting my hand rest over the top of his for a moment before I pull it back. “Believe me, I know what it’s like to have your mom take the wrong person’s side.”
He sighs. “Yeah, I figured. That’s why you allowed yourself to wind up with the Allens.”
We pull into the neighborhood—our ride is nearly over and I don’t want it to be.
“How’s the GoFundMe?” I ask, though I know. I check it every morning.
He slows as he turns onto the Allens’ street. “Forty dollars. And most of that’s from you.”
“Not enough to buy four professional quality surfboards then?”
He grins. “They’re like a grand apiece. So close, but not quite.”
We pull into the driveway. He tips his chin toward the house. “Go inside so you don’t get soaked. I’ll get your bike.”
“Then you’ll get soaked.”
“Better me than you.” He frowns. “ I’m not spending the next two hours cooking.”
I hesitate and then smile, hoping it conveys everything I cannot say: Thank you for taking my side, Luke. Thank you for putting me first. I wish I could do the same thing for you.
And then it occurs to me that maybe I can.
* * *
The guys we hang out with most nights are in a similar position to Luke and Danny: college kids, scraping by.
Liam works construction like Luke does. Ryan works at a bar.
But I suspect the prep school guys—Caleb, Harrison, and Beck—have loads of money.
They talk like kids with money—they golf, they compare Park City to Telluride for skiing, they argue over whether Kauai or Maui is a better island—and Harrison drives a new BMW.
It continually surprises me that I find them likable, but I do.
They’re kind to everyone, even Grady—ignoring him when he’s being an uptight prick—and they cheer Luke on like a brother.
They could definitely afford to help Luke out, so once they’re all gathered, I nervously, ostentatiously clear my throat. I’m glad Grady isn’t present to hear me begging and admitting defeat.
“Luke needs new boards,” I announce. “For the contest coming up.”
Everyone blinks at me in surprise. I don’t talk much, normally. “I thought you did a GoFundMe?” Caleb asks Luke.
“It wasn’t successful,” Luke replies, embarrassed. “Don’t worry about it.”
“You’re making good money doing construction, right?” Beck asks. “You ought to be able to swing a decent shortboard, at least.”
Luke gives a terse nod. “I have to use it to pay my living expenses during the school year. Seriously, it’s cool. I’ll be fine.”
“No, you won’t,” I reply before I can stop myself. “You’re at a disadvantage in every contest right now.” I’m pushing too hard, but I don’t give a shit; he needs those damn boards.
He glances at me, a look that asks me to let it go, and the other guys stare at us, perhaps surprised to see me lobbying on Luke’s behalf when I mostly act like he doesn’t exist.
I feel like an absolute idiot, but the next morning there’s three grand from an anonymous donor in Luke’s GoFundMe.
And I’m pretty sure I’d suffer any amount of feeling like an idiot to see the look of pride on Luke’s face a week later when he pulls the thousand-dollar Ghost he just bought out of the Jeep.
He runs a loving hand over the epoxy surface. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
“So she’s a she , huh?” I tease.
He grins. “The beautiful things always are.”
We all go out to watch him surf on Saturday, and the difference in his performance is shocking.
He’s so much better than he was a year ago, and better still on the new board.
He walks out of the water, grinning ear to ear, like a kid on Christmas morning with a toy that’s wound up being even cooler than he ever imagined.
I’m the one he smiles at first as he walks out of the water. “Your turn , ” that smile says. “Send your recordings out.”
Maybe he’s right. Maybe both of us can actually get out of here.
* * *
I’m alone in the backyard, trying to get a good recording of my new song, when Danny walks outside. He’s had more free time this summer because he’s getting in shape for football in the afternoons rather than surfing. I try not to be annoyed that he seems to think I should free up my time as well.
He takes a seat in the grass, listening, and there’s nothing impatient in his demeanor, but I sense it anyway. Given he’s never encouraged my music, it seems like a fair assumption. He’s never even asked me about the microphone or why I’m recording.
He rises when the song concludes. “Is that new?”
“Yeah.” I wonder if he hears, like I do, the note of challenge in my voice.
“It’s pretty,” he says mildly. “I just don’t know why all your stuff is so depressing. You’ve got a decent life.”
I think of Luke in the diner this morning, tanned and glowing, eyes crinkling at the corners as I approached his table, happy to see me. He said he’d been singing part of my new song in the line-up.
“Everyone heard me singing that line about snow,” he’d said . “They started calling me Father Christmas. I’m never gonna hear the end of it.”
“I didn’t know you could sing.”
“I can’t,” he’d replied . “That’s half what I won’t hear the end of.”
God, my heart felt so fucking full in that moment. So full I didn’t know if it would spill over as laughter or tears.
Danny’s words do the opposite. They make me empty. And that wants to spill over as tears too.
I sit up a little straighter. “Every life contains bad and good. It’s just the kind of music I like.”
He dismisses my explanation with an amiable shrug.
Danny doesn’t like to argue, but for the first time, I resent it—the way he’s choosing to let this discussion go as if he’s right and I’m wrong and he’s being big about it.
“Well, I’m home early. There are a few shows recorded. We ought to take advantage of it.”
I’d like to refuse, but I can’t, because this is his house, and I’m lucky to be here. It was implied simply in what he said, wasn’t it? If he wants to spend time with me, I should drop anything I’m doing the minute he shows up.
Will there ever come a time when I’m allowed to have my own preferences? When I’m not going to be the lucky one? When I get to pick the show, or get to choose not to pick any show at all?
“Let me just get through one more song,” I tell him. It’s rebellion on the most minor scale, yet I see a flicker of irritation in his eyes before he kisses my head and tells me he’ll be waiting inside.
I swallow hard as the door shuts behind him.
I didn’t actually have one more song in mind to play, and now everything I can think of is angry, written by others.
I launch into an old, pissed-off Smashing Pumpkins song, and when it’s done, I’m near tears.
What the fuck am I doing? How can I possibly be mad at Danny when he’s given me everything I have?
I set the guitar on the grass and bury my head in my hands, but it jerks up again at the sound of feet approaching. Luke steps into the light, freshly showered, glowing from a day spent outside.
“What’s wrong?” he demands. His tone leaves no room for the vague denial I’d probably have offered.
“Danny told me my songs are depressing and that he doesn’t get it because I’ve got a really good life.”
It was more than that, but I can’t put the rest into words. Or maybe I could but it would be too disloyal to the Allens to do so. To say, “I’m tired of feeling like I’m in debt. I’m tired of feeling like I don’t get a say.”
Luke steps closer. “He doesn’t understand you. It’s nothing against Danny. But his mind doesn’t work the way yours does.”
I rise, picking the guitar up with me. “What do you mean?”
His eyes fall to my lips, slow as a caress.
“He doesn’t want depth, Juliet, and he doesn’t need it.
Not everyone does. There are people who skim the surface their entire lives.
But you’re not one of them. That’s why you write a bittersweet song that’s full of fucking layers and he comes away with one word— sad , and Donna would use the same word.
It doesn’t mean they’d be right, and that’s why you’ve got to stop listening to them. ”
“I owe them a lot, though. I can’t just…not listen.”
“Something can be good for you once. That doesn’t mean it’s always good for you. You can’t let them hold you hostage.”
“Hostage?” I repeat, embarrassed and irritated at once. “Do I look like a hostage?”
He steps so close that I can feel the heat of his skin, smell his shampoo and the lingering hint of sunscreen beneath it.
“You look like something rare and wild,” he whispers, pushing the hair back from my cheek.
My breath catches at the feel of his fingers on my skin.
“Something they locked up in a cage. And I think you were so relieved to find a safe place to land you didn’t even realize it happened.
I thought I could save you if I came here this summer, but even if someone opens the cage, you’ve got to be willing to fly away, too, Jules. ”
He swallows and steps away from me, looking down as if he’s said too much.
And I’m pretty sure he did.