Chapter 11 #2
“I understand your anger, son. I really do.” Dad’s voice cuts into my dark thoughts.
“But please…” His lips form a tight line.
“Can you keep it this to yourself for just a little bit longer? I’m really hoping that once these big deals are closed, I can get Mom to go to rehab.
I found a couple in Europe that would be private and discreet.
They’re more like spas than mental health treatment centers.
That’s why I suggested a trip to Italy.”
I take a shaky breath. “Do you think you can get her to go?”
“I can try. Can you help me?”
I hesitate, taking in his pinched face and the worry lines around his mouth. This might be the best chance we have. I nod slowly, hoping that this time, Dad will finally come through.
I find Josie on the dock, taking her evening break.
She looks up from her sketchbook and her eyes light up when she sees me.
All the painful emotions of the conversation with my dad disperse into the balmy sea air, and I feel light, euphoric.
Dropping down on the dock next to her, I peek at the sketch.
She’s using colored pencils again, blending deep shades of amber and gold at the horizon and adding feather-like clouds in dusky rose and indigo higher in the sky.
“Is this what you want to do after you graduate? Art?” I ask, turning my gaze from the drawing to where the colors of the sky are reflected in her eyes.
She nods. “I was accepted into Berkeley’s Arts program.”
“Really?” My pulse surges with a rush of excitement, and I lean back so I can take in her full expression. “You’re going to Berkeley?”
She nods.
I can’t help the slow grin tugging at the corners of my mouth.
I know we just met, and I don’t usually believe in fate and all that stuff, but I can’t help feeling like this is all happening for a reason.
“I’m going to Stanford.” We’ll only be an hour apart.
I was drawn to Josie the moment I saw her, but on some level, I knew that if we were to start dating this summer, our time would be limited.
We’d go our separate ways in the fall, and that would be it.
There was really no chance for it to be any other way. Except…
Now there’s a chance.
A world of possibilities opens up in front of me.
“Really?” Josie’s green eyes widen in sudden understanding.
“I guess I thought you’d be an East Coast Ivy kind of guy.
Maybe Princeton or Penn.” A hint of a smile plays on her lips.
“Who would have imagined that we’d both be going three thousand miles away to college and still end up in essentially the same place? ”
I applied and was accepted to those schools, too. But part of the appeal of Stanford was that it would be far away from Dad’s pressure to take over the family business. Now, though, I can’t help being even more grateful I made that decision.
“What do you plan to study at Stanford?” Josie asks.
“I’m thinking of Environmental Science. Don’t mention it to my dad, though,” I lean in and whisper in a mock-serious tone.
She blinks in surprise. “He doesn’t want you to be a scientist?”
I stare out at the horizon. “He wants me to study business and then come home and work with him.”
“And you don’t want to do that?”
I hesitate before answering. I haven’t even told my friends any of this, let alone a girl who is practically a stranger. But maybe the fact that she doesn’t know my family makes it easier to talk about it. Or maybe it’s that she doesn’t feel like a stranger.
“The thing is… Langley Capital started out as a small development company. My parents bought houses, fixed them up, and either sold or rented them to tourists. But now the company has grown so much, they’re snapping up property all over Sandy Harbor, knocking down the old cottages that give the island character, and building bigger and bigger beach houses that price out the families that have been coming for generations.
” Saying the words out loud feels like a weight rising from my chest. I realize just how much the work of Dad’s company upsets me, and how much I’ve been holding that in. “I don’t want to be a part of that.”
Josie nods in agreement. She grew up on this island and loves it enough to get a sandpiper tattoo to remember it when she goes away to school. “I’m always so sad when those cute little bungalows end up in a trash heap and someone builds a giant mansion in their place.”
I’m reassured she gets it. “That someone is my dad.”
“What do you want to do instead?”
I stare at the sunset bursting out over the water like a choreographed light show.
“Something meaningful,” I blurt out. “Something that helps islands like Sandy Harbor instead of contributing to their destruction. I did a project in school where I designed a restoration plan for the dunes damaged by the hurricanes and impacted by housing development. It had a component about how to protect endangered animal and plant life, and about what local businesses and developers could be doing to make a difference…” I feel my cheeks heat up as I trail off.
I never really talk about any of this stuff outside of school.
But Josie is leaning in, her brows knit together as if she’s absorbed in what I’m saying.
“I thought my dad would be the perfect person to get on board with it,” I continue. “He has the money and influence. But he didn’t appreciate my ideas.”
She rests her shoulder against mine. “Well, as someone who grew up here and loves Sandy Harbor, I appreciate your ideas.” A lock of her hair teases my arm, and the scent of vanilla drifts over to me.
I turn my head, and her face is so close, I could trace the constellation of freckles across her cheeks.
All I’d have to do is lean in a couple of inches to press my lips to hers.
I take a breath just as a speedboat zips past the dock, its wake rolling against the wood pilings and splashing up on our legs dangling over the side.
“Oh no.” Josie scrambles to her feet, brushing off the droplets from her uniform pants.
There’s a Hobie Cat to my left, and the owner left a rag on the seat, so I grab it and press it into her hands. “Here, use this.”
“Thanks,” she says, taking it with a laugh, but then her eyes widen as they focus on my watch. “Is that really the time?”
I glance at the hands pointing to five past the hour. “Did I make you late again? You’re not going to want to talk to me anymore.”
“Yes,” she says, and then shakes her head. “I mean, no. I mean, I’m late, but it’s my fault.” She stands up and holds out the rag to hand it back to me. “And I definitely want to talk to you again.”
And just as my heart dips and rolls like the wake of a speedboat, she gives me one last smile and takes off down the dock.