Chapter 2
Holland
A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, and sometimes a girl’s gotta lie through her teeth.
For the record, I don’t consider myself a liar, pathological or otherwise. But Nana Lu would be absolutely horrified to hear the real reason I’m picking up more shifts and odd jobs everywhere I can. Her dentures would fall right out of her mouth. I can’t do that to her; I don’t think her soft, ancient heart could take it.
So I lie.
“I just want some extra spending money,” I say in a voice loud enough for her to hear, but not so loud she feels like I’m patronizing her in her old age. It’s a fine line. I sandwich the phone between my cheek and my shoulder, freeing my hands to straighten the stack of papers on the table in front of me before the morning breeze can ruffle them further. “So I can take myself out to dinner and get a new pair of shoes. That kind of thing.”
It’s a low blow, playing on her desire for her granddaughters to treat themselves, but I need her to buy my story.
And it seems to do the trick. “Oh, good,” she says in a bubblegum-sweet voice, feeble and trembling and full of love. “You deserve some new shoes.”
I actually deserve a swift kick in the rear for being such an idiot, but I force myself to respond. “Thanks, Nana,” I say, and despite the slither of guilt low in my gut, my smile is genuine. Somehow that makes me feel even worse. “I need to go, but I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
“That’s just fine,” she says. “Come by soon and show me your new shoes.”
“I will,” I say, swallowing and wondering where I’m going to get new shoes now that I’m officially living paycheck to paycheck. “Love you, Nana.”
“You too. Don’t forget to treat yourself to something nice, sweetie. Bye bye.”
My own farewell comes out as nothing more than a miserable whisper. Once I hang up and shove my phone into my back pocket, I have to take several deep breaths to dispel my discomfort. I lift one hand to shield my eyes from the sun, already feeling the prickle of sweat on the back of my neck despite the early hour.
I hate lying to Nana. To anyone, actually, but especially to Nana.
But lying is really my only option here. I can’t tell my sweet, precious, feeble old grandmother that I was scammed out of every last cent in my checking account. I definitely can’t tell her what I was trying to buy. I haven’t told anybody but Cat, and I’ll die before anyone else hears.
There’s embarrassing, and then there’s embarrassing. Unfortunately for me, my attempted purchase is the latter.
It’s my own fault. Buying things in the middle of the night is never a good idea, for one, and especially not when you’ve arrived there via a social media ad.
But I was lying there on the cramped sofa in Nana’s living room—or my living room, I guess, now that Nana has moved permanently to the senior living center—debating whether to go back to the bedroom or stay on the couch, and I was just so uncomfortable. I don’t sleep well on that couch, but I sleep even worse in my bed after I’ve had a nightmare, so I stayed. I got a drink of water from the ever-dripping faucet, ran into the kitchen table and fell on my bad knee hard enough that I shed actual tears, and then I collapsed on the sofa. I knew I would wake up with a crick in my neck.
So I looked up affordable alternative seating. And beanbags, as it turns out, are expensive. I gave up and scrolled social media for a while—another unwise decision, I’m aware—and not two minutes after I started, the algorithm fed me an ad I couldn’t pass up. I forked over my money so fast…and my checking account turned up empty twenty-four hours later.
I called the bank first, but they said they’d need to do an investigation. Then I called Beau Palmer over at the police station, but he said there’s not a lot they can do at this point. So here I am, scrimping and scrounging and lying to my grandmother.
I square my shoulders and take another deep breath, reminding myself that I’m just trying to preserve Nana’s health and peace of mind. Then I force myself to think about something else—anything else, as long as I’m not dwelling on my newly broke status. The summer weather, the adoption fair I’m currently helping set up in the town square, my job at the salon—I’d even be happy to think about Phoenix right now, that dead-fish-vandalizing bane of my existence whose voice I keep hearing in my head, telling me to put my savings in a designated savings account instead of just keeping it all in checking.
I hate when he’s right. He gets this smug look on his face, like he loves nothing more than proving me wrong, the corners of his lips curling up? —
And on second thought, maybe I’d better not think about him either. I’ll only end up feeling irritated and annoyed.
So I’m grateful when Jane Hayes appears in front of me, popping into my field of vision from out of nowhere. Maybe some of her lightheartedness will rub off on me, and I’ll be able to get my mind onto happier things.
“Hi,” she says, smiling cheerfully. She’s dressed similar to me in denim cutoffs and a t-shirt, and her brown hair is pulled back into a cute ponytail. “How’s it going?” She casts a quick glance at me and then at the table I’m supposed to be setting up. “Anything else you need over here?”
I look down at my table too. “I don’t think so,” I say. “I’m really just going to be keeping the till and handing out pamphlets.”
Jane nods, her ponytail swaying slightly. “It’s nice of you to help,” she says. “Patrice seemed worried they wouldn’t have enough staff when she came to talk to me about the permit.”
“Well, I’ll be here until noon,” I say. “Staring at all the cute animals from afar.”
“But you’re allergic, right?” Jane says. I’m not even surprised she knows this, though I don’t remember telling her; Jane knows everything about everybody.
“I am,” I say. “To dogs. But I’ll stay over here.” I smile at her. “Hey, how was your date the other night?”
Jane grimaces but doesn’t answer, and I laugh.
“That expression doesn’t look too promising.”
“I know,” she says with a sigh. “We’ll see.” Then she tucks one hand into her pocket. “Well, I’ve got to head out. Have fun here!”
“I will,” I tell her. “See you later!”
She hurries off, waving over her shoulder again with one last smile, and I turn back to my table. I pull the rest of the brochures and pamphlets out of the paper bag Patrice gave me—fliers from local businesses, mostly, that we’re promoting as thanks for the donations they made to this event—and arrange them neatly around the cash register. Then I plop myself down in the metal folding chair behind me.
I will be glued to this spot for the next three hours, and when the adoption fair is over, I will have fifty more dollars in my bank account. It’s not a ton, but it’s better than nothing. It’s nice of Patrice to pay me at all; realistically, if she’d asked me to help for free, I would have been tempted. Pets are family, after all, and my family is what makes my life worth living, even if sometimes I have to lie to them about things I’ve been buying in the middle of the night. I already lost my brother, and the grief that followed tore my family apart; without my little sister and Nana, I’d be lost.
A sudden, painful twinge in my knee pulls me out of my thoughts; I grimace, rubbing it. I try to massage around the knee cap, but the bruising from the other night makes this difficult, and I’m just about to stand and hunt down some ibuprofen when I hear the sound of a throat clearing above me.
I don’t even have to look—I know who it is. He’s blocking the sun, but a hot wave of irritation settles over my skin anyway. I don’t attempt a neutral expression; I let my dislike show clearly and blatantly when I finally give him my attention, turning to see what he wants.
And sure enough, looming right over my chair is my least favorite person on this entire island. He’s got on his usual custom-fitted suit, briefcase in hand, and he’s staring at me with a mixture of irritation and exasperation.
“What are you doing here?” I say, blinking up at him.
“I could ask you the same question,” Phoenix says. He casts a glance around the square, the breeze playing in his classic businessman-styled hair. “Is this the adoption fair?”
“Maybe,” I say. “But the farmer’s market is setting up too.” I point at the stalls and carts on the other side of the square, their owners arranging things neatly. Dill O’Donnell and his wife Mildred seem to be arguing over where their watermelons should go, and Mildred’s already got her table of homemade jewelry out.
“You’re here for the adoption fair,” Phoenix says in a flat voice, pointing at the sign on my table that says Sunset Harbor Animal Haven. “You cry at adoption videos on YouTube, Amsterdam.”
“So?” I say, willing myself not to be embarrassed and ignoring the nickname.
“And you’re allergic to dogs.”
“That’s why I’m all the way over here,” I say slowly, gesturing to my table, “and the dogs are all the way over there.” I point to the dog enclosures—which, yes, I specifically set myself up far away from.
But he exhales and rubs his temples. “And here I thought your decision-making skills couldn’t be any worse. Come on.” He leans down and wraps firm fingers around my wrist, tugging me to my feet. “We’re leaving.”
He’s like this; he thinks he can barge in and tell me how to live my life, like I haven’t been doing just fine for the last twenty-seven years. He says it’s because he made a promise to my older brother before he died, but I know the truth: he just really loves making people miserable, and he especially loves making me miserable.
I yank my arm out of his grasp and sit resolutely back in my metal folding chair. “No,” I say, and I look directly at him so I can enjoy that expression he makes when he’s trying not to get annoyed. It’s a little crease in his forehead, one that pushes his black brows to shadow his eyes like storm clouds.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I go on. Goodness knows I need the money. “Patrice is paying me to be here, Emu. I’m staying.”
He looks around quickly, undoubtedly checking if anyone is in earshot, and then he leans closer, caging me in with one hand on the back of my chair and the other on the table in front of me. He smells like leather and mahogany, and I want to punch him in his stupid face.
I want to never look at him again. I want to forget everything that’s happened to us, every nightmare that keeps me awake, every painful memory.
But he’s never seemed to want the same thing, regardless of how poorly we get along. “Give me one more ridiculous bird name,” he breathes, his eyes flashing, “and see what happens?—”
“Emu,” I repeat loudly, snickering even though I know it will annoy him. But why call him Phoenix—an imaginary bird—when there are so many real bird names available? “Be grateful it wasn’t Titmouse ”—a nickname I’ve used before and will absolutely use again—“or Rooster or American Woodcock —” But I break off as he moves, my grin dying as he reaches for me. “Wait,” I say. His hands find my waist; my eyes widen. “What are you—wait. Hey. Hey!”
He’s not listening; he’s too busy hauling me out of my chair.
“Let go right—now—” I say, trying to land hits on whatever bits of him I can find. His grip tightens as I continue to squirm. “Put—me— down ?—”
But my words turn into a yelp of surprise as he hoists me over his shoulder right there—in the middle of the town square, in front of Patrice and the rest of the shelter employees and the poor animals who just want to find homes—he slings me up like a freaking sack of potatoes.
I call him a name that Nana Lu would make me gargle with soapy water for using.
“Tsk, tsk,” he says, sounding smugger than I’ve ever heard him before. “Language, Amsterdam.” I can hear that curl in his lips and the flash of triumph in his eyes. “I’m sorry”—he grips me tighter around the thighs, sounding not at all sorry—“but I promised your brother I’d keep an eye on you, which means I can’t let you die of anaphylaxis.”
“Yeah, right,” I say with a scoff as all the blood rushes to my head, my blonde hair falling around me and obscuring my vision. “This is about the bird name.” I pound my fists on his back. “Put me down!”
“No,” he says. “Now smile nice and big for all the people who are watching you flail around like an idiot.”
The square is surrounded by shops and businesses on all four sides—including Cuts and Curls, where I work—so I have no doubt there are a lot of people seeing this. I don’t smile, though. I pinch him as hard as I can in the side instead.
He doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t even flinch. He just says one thing: “You smell like dead fish.”