Chapter 6
Holland
When I meet up with Cat later that afternoon, I’m still thinking about Phoenix’s face as he offered me a job—or more specifically, when he corrected himself and used the word arrangement .
I don’t usually see such a lack of expression from him, especially when I know he’s annoyed. It reminds me of a Lifetime documentary I saw about this serial killer, and the lady who was his neighbor for years and never knew. She said he was grumpy and rude but otherwise normal—except that his expression sometimes sent chills down her spine.
That’s kind of what’s going on with my spine right now: chills, because I can’t get that blank look out of my head.
“So, wait,” Cat says, frowning at me. She sets down the menu in her hands. “An arrangement?”
I nod. “That’s what he said. He called it a job first, and then an arrangement.”
Sunrise Cafe is packed for the afternoon rush, and Cat and I have leaned gradually closer across our little table—orange, chipped paint, the exact same color as the surfboard on the wall behind us—so we can hear each other over the hum of conversation and clinking silverware and laughter. Cat’s platinum blonde hair, lighter than mine, is pulled back into a braid, and even her freckles seem confused as she looks at me.
“That’s weird phrasing. Did you ask him any more about it?” She pauses and then answers her own question before I can say anything. “Of course you didn’t. But Holls”—she leans in further—“do you think you should?” She wrinkles her nose and then sits back in her chair. “I know he’s a snob?—”
“The biggest snob.”
“But you’re not in a great situation,” Cat says with a little bob of her shoulders. “If he wants to hire you, it might not be so bad.”
“I already have a job.” I point to her blonde hair. “That. That’s my job. I love working at the salon.”
“I need my roots done soon,” she says, touching the top of her head.
I’ve been experimenting on Cat’s hair the entire time we’ve known each other—since five years ago, when I moved to Sunset Harbor to live with Nana Lu. Nana was struggling to get around, her mobility growing more and more limited, and I was just struggling, period. The owner of the wellness spa where I worked gave shifts to her friends and her favorites, and the rest of us were left to fight over the scraps. I didn’t feel safe in the complex where I lived. I struggled to get out and make friends, especially because in my free time I wanted to sleep after being awoken by nightmares at night.
It was a bad set of circumstances. So when Nana started talking about moving to Seashore Oasis—the retirement home on the island—I left my apartment and my job and came to stay with her. We managed to make things work in her house until last year, when she finally started needing more help than I was able to give.
It was the best move I’ve ever made. I met Cat at book club, and we bonded over books and our shared dislike of the ocean—despite living on an island. We’ve been friends ever since, and I’ve seen her hair through varying shades of blonde, brunette, and even a stint of auburn.
“Come over sometime and I’ll do them,” I tell her. I cross my legs for all of one second before remembering the pain in my knee; I grimace and uncross them again.
“Thanks,” she says, picking her menu back up. “And you know, you might not have to quit at the salon, even if you worked with Phoenix.”
“ For Phoenix,” I say. “I’m pretty sure he would be my boss.” And then I’d have to do whatever he told me. Which is fine, I can be professional—except his whole face just makes me so stabby.
“Well, maybe it’s a side job type of thing,” Cat says.
“Mmm,” I say slowly. “Maybe he needs a drug mule.”
She nods, grinning. “Or maybe it’s an MLM.”
“Can you imagine?” I say with a laugh.
“Or maybe—” she begins again, but then she breaks off as her eyes catch on something. “Oh, here’s Ivy.”
I look up just in time to see Ivy approaching our table, her mass of curls pulled back in a bun and a stressed expression on her face. Her waitress’s apron has a splotch of what might be mustard on the bottom hem, and her order pad is clutched in tight fingers.
“So many people,” Ivy says with wide eyes when she’s reached our table. She gestures at the diner around us. “This is my first Saturday since moving back, and I was not prepared.”
I laugh. “It’s a lot.” I look back and forth between her and Cat. “Was it like this when you guys were growing up?”
“Yes,” Ivy says immediately. “I even worked here in high school. I just forgot how busy it gets.” She sighs and shakes her head. “Well, what can I get you?”
“A cheeseburger,” Cat says. She gives the menu a little waggle. “I don’t know why I bothered looking through this; I knew I wanted a cheeseburger.” She passes the menu to Ivy, who tucks it under her arm.
“And I’d like a hot chocolate, please.” Normally I’d get the stack of three pancakes with whipped cream and bananas, but my budget has decreased drastically for the time being.
“One of these days,” Ivy says as she jots down our orders, “I’m going to have to resample everything on this menu.” She gives a satisfied bob of her head and then looks back at us. “Give me a few and I’ll bring it out!”
“Thank you,” Cat calls at her retreating back as she hurries off. Then she turns to me. “I think you should at least ask Phoenix what the job is. Or the arrangement—whatever. It won’t hurt to ask, will it?”
“No,” I say, stretching the word out. “But it would offend my pride a little bit. I know, I know”—I cut her off as she opens her mouth to speak—“that’s a bad reason not to ask.”
“Because you’re helping Maggie with her tuition, aren’t you?” Cat says.
I shrug and take a sip of my water. My little sister sort of fell through the cracks when my parents split. They love her, and if she asks for help they’ll give it, but she usually won’t ask. She’s working to put herself through college, just like I did, and it’s hard.
“Plus that doesn’t look good,” Cat says, pointing to my knee. “You might have messed it up again.”
“You’re saying all the same things Phoenix did,” I grumble. But as I look down at my leg, I can’t help worrying she’s right. The bruise is bigger than it probably should be, the mottled purplish-bluish color of a mushy blueberry, and it’s been painful ever since I came down on it wrong. The surgery I had after the crash seven years ago went fine, but my knee never really returned to how it was before; what if I’ve reinjured something in there?
“All right, fine. I’ll ask,” I say with a sigh. “Now let’s change the subject.”
Nana Lu’s place is a little yellow house with white trim and a white door. There’s a tall fence around what would technically be called her front yard, except it’s really more of a courtyard; there’s no grass, just gravel and green-felt-covered concrete separated by a few old railroad ties. She has a little table on the side with the green felt, but the chairs are too uncomfortable to spend much time there. So when I step outside the next night, I sit down for about three minutes before standing again.
As much as I dislike going into the ocean, living on a little island has its weather benefits. Most people don’t like humidity, but I personally don’t mind how balmy every day feels. A warm breeze tugs at my hair as I stare up at the night sky, watching the few stars I can see past the porch light.
I’m stalling.
I haven’t reached out to Phoenix yet, even though I told Cat yesterday at the diner that I would. It’s taken me this long to convince myself I need to hear him out and then to work up the nerve to call.
His contact info isn’t saved in my phone. I refused to give him his own place—petty, undoubtedly. But it doesn’t matter; I have his number memorized, because he texts me once a week, sometimes more. After he goes to visit Nana Lu, he always lets me know how she seems.
I don’t love hearing from him in general, but I do appreciate the thought. Whenever I visit Nana, she does her best to seem strong and healthy and well, because she doesn’t want me to worry. She doesn’t pretend as much in front of Phoenix.
I go back inside, the screen door slamming shut behind me as I make my way into the little living room. My hands are steady as I dial Phoenix’s number, and when he answers after three rings, I find myself both relieved and disappointed that he picked up at all.
“Yes?” That’s all he says. His phone voice is always clipped, slightly impatient, like he has a million other things he needs to be doing. It’s the same way he talked when we first met at that corner mart.
I stop pacing the living room and settle myself on the uncomfortable couch. It’s an ugly old thing from the eighties, dark cream velour with brownish-orange damask. I sink into the cushion; then I take a deep breath and speak.
“You said you might have a job for me.”
He’s quiet for a second. “I might.”
“What is it?” I say, leaning back into the squashy couch. “How’s the pay?”
There’s another beat of silence before he answers. “The pay is negotiable,” he says slowly, and another chill runs down my spine at how blank he sounds, his voice devoid of taunting or smugness. “But…I think you would find it competitive.”
He’s talking to me in a way he usually doesn’t. Why is he acting strange? He doesn’t actually need a drug mule, does he? A little squirm of nervousness pinches at my insides .
Competitive pay, though; that could be helpful, much as I hate to admit it.
“All right,” I say. I trace my fingers over the pattern in the couch, ornate leaves and haughty curlicues. “And what is it, exactly? What would I be doing?”
For one long moment, he doesn’t say anything. I can feel his reluctance filtering down the line, and that squiggle of nervousness inside intensifies.
“Rooster,” I say loudly, my fingers digging into worn velour. “What’s the job?”
“This is something we should discuss in person,” he says finally. “Let’s meet up.”
“What?” I say, looking down at my pajamas. “No. It’s already ten. Why are you being weird about this? It’s making me really anxious.” I hesitate and then add, “I’m not doing anything illegal.”
He snorts. “Would I ask you to do anything illegal?”
No. He wouldn’t.
But I don’t answer.
“We can meet up tonight or tomorrow,” he says, and with relief I hear that his voice is back to normal; businesslike, slightly impatient. “Take your pick. But we really have to talk about this in person.”
“I—you—” I break off and then release my breath in a gust. “Tonight is fine.” I won’t want to meet tomorrow any more than I do now, and I’ll stay awake dreading it.
Because the truth is, every time I see Phoenix Park, one thing and one thing only flashes through my mind—one image conjured up from the darkest recesses of my memory.
The two of us, shaking and bleeding and soaked to the bone, watching as Trev’s lifeless body is rolled away on a sheet-covered stretcher.
That’s what I see. Every single time I see him, I’m hit with that memory. Talking to him hurts; looking at him hurts. It physically hurts , like a blow to the chest—like all the water I swallowed when we went over that bridge seven years ago is still in my lungs, festering, rotting.
It hurts to be near him. But he keeps inserting himself in my life anyway, and part of me hates him for it. The other part of me, smaller, feels sorry for him—or sorry to him, maybe. Sorry that I hate him for something he has no control over.
Because he won’t back out of my life. He won’t let me be. He’s never said as much, but I know he won’t. If Phoenix Park is one thing, it’s loyal—loyal to the people he deems worthy.
He promised Trev he would look out for me, take care of me. So that’s what he’s going to try to do. I’m not even sure I can fault him for it.
“My bike chain is broken, and I’m not walking all the way to your neighborhood by myself in the dark,” I tell him, running my hand down my face.
“Absolutely not,” he says immediately. “I’ll come to you.” Then he coughs, a harsh, barking sound.
“Are you sick?” I pause. Then, grudgingly, I add, “Do you need tea?”
“Why?” he says. “Looking for new ways to poison me now that I spotted your Skittles scheme from a mile off?”
My lips twitch; he hates Skittles. “Scald you, actually,” I say, keeping my voice light. “I thought maybe if I could burn your tongue, I might finally get a few days free from your nagging.”
“You wish, Hamster Slam.”
My grip on the phone tightens.
I put up with him calling me Amsterdam. I call him bird names instead of Phoenix ; he can call me Amsterdam instead of Holland . But every now and then he tries to get really obnoxious; that’s when he pulls out names like Hamster Slam , or Gangster Glam , or—the worst— Dumpster Ma’am.
“Just come over if you’re going to come over,” I say. “But don’t expect me to change out of my pajamas for you?—”
Except he’s already hung up.
I toss the phone to the opposite side of the couch and scowl at it for a good ten seconds. Then I stand and go into the kitchen to brew myself a cup of peppermint tea.
There’s something relaxing about the sounds of brewing tea in a quiet house; the clink-clink-clink of the stirring spoon, the light chink of porcelain on the countertop. I immerse myself in that peace for as long as possible, brewing and stirring and sipping and savoring, until fifteen minutes later there’s a knock at the door.
I debate making him wait—the idea has real merit—but ultimately I’m too impatient. Something’s off with him and this job he claims to have for me, and all I can think about are those women who cross the border with balloons full of cocaine in their stomachs.
So when I fling the door open, I don’t waste any time.
“Tell me what the job is,” I say.
Phoenix raises his brows slowly at me as his black-brown gaze runs from the top of my head to the tips of my toes and then back again; heat gathers beneath my skin, simmering just below the surface until I can feel the flush in my cheeks.
I snap my fingers in front of his nose to get his attention. “Don’t ogle. It’s rude.”
He snorts and brings his eyes back to mine. “Nothing you have”—he gestures to my body—“is appealing enough to ogle, Amsterdam. I’m simply surprised you’re willing to show yourself like this. ”
“The job,” I say through gritted teeth. “Tell me what the job is.”
He doesn’t answer; he just steps forward and pushes past me, entering Nana’s house and leaving me in a lingering cloud of his leather-mahogany scent.
I force myself to take a few deep breaths, staring vaguely out into the night and listening as his footsteps travel down the hall behind me. Then, without another word, I turn and follow.