Chapter 36
Stevie
My parents have been laughing since I told them about Adam being my sasquatch back on Highway One. Now we’re pulling into Cape Georgeana proper. They’re out of breath, but they keep making terrible puns, and the laughter starts fresh.
I’m not amused.
My mom wipes the tears from under her eyes. “Oh, I like this one. He’s a keeper.”
“You think every guy who is a potential father for grandchildren is a keeper,” I mutter, folding my arms and glaring out the window.
My mom spins to face me. “And thanks to your dad and your brothers, you think every man you meet is deeply flawed.”
I shake my head. “That’s not true.” I shake my head again, like the truth of it will disappear the harder I deny it.
The cab falls silent.
My mom raises her eyebrows at my dad.
He fidgets with the buttons on the steering wheel.
“Say it, Brian,” my mom hisses. “Tell her what we talked about.”
He clears his throat. “Hon, I may have done you a disservice.”
“Dad.” If he’s about to take the blame for so many men my age being undateable, I can’t listen. “There’s nothing wrong with a woman having standards. You didn’t do anything but encourage me to wait for the right guy—”
“He set impossible standards for you.” My mom spits out. “He had you looking for perfection . . .”
“And no man is perfect, kid.” My dad finishes her sentence.
Why do I have a knot in my throat? “You are.”
My mom snorts the snort of a woman who has been married for decades.
“The point is, I shouldn’t be the voice in your head”—he lowers his voice—“even though I wanna be.”
My mom talks over him. “Yours should be the only voice in your head that matters now. Well, yours and—” she points her index finger toward heaven, her face serious. Classic Mom.
Have they been colluding with Adam? This whole line of thought reminds me of what he said in the hammock last night.
My dad nods. “She’s right, Stevie.”
The way he says my name only confirms what I already believe. No one will ever love me the way my dad and brothers do.
But do I still believe that? I think of how it felt to magically wake up in Adam’s bed, and I remember dancing with him on the geriatric dinner train.
I might have been wrong. It could be possible for someone to love me the way the best men in my life do.
But still, I can’t let my father, my lifelong hero, speak poorly of himself. “Dad,” I mimic his tone.
“I’m not perfect, Stevie. No one is. I’ve been a pain in your mom’s butt for forty-two years. I’m late all the time. I can’t listen without trying to fix things.” My mom nods, wide eyed. “And remember when I lost my job back when you were in the third grade?”
He’s grasping now.
“But Dad, that wasn’t your fault! You, Conor, Declan . . . You’re the gold standard.”
“Oh, please!” My mom tips her face to the sky. “When was the last time you had a conversation with one of your brothers that lasted longer than thirty seconds? I think it was pre-COVID for me and Conor.” She tsks, muttering, “That kid.”
Her “kid” is thirty-eight years old, but she has a point. My brothers are impossible to get on the phone. “I miss them,” I mention offhandedly.
My mom pivots to face me. “I do, too.” Her eyes soften along with her tone. “But that’s life, Stevie. We grow. We move forward. Things change. Your brothers have moved ahead, as they should. Sure, they could call more, but—”
I hear the words she’s leaving unsaid: it’s time for me to move on, too.
I’m surprised that the thought isn’t as painful as it would have been a few weeks ago.
A sasquatch-sized man started filling the gaps my brothers left behind.
I still miss them, though. So much. “I know they aren’t perfect, but . . . I love them.”
“That’s the point.” My mom throws up her hands. “It’s possible to love people despite their imperfections. It’s not only possible, but necessary.” She reaches for my dad’s hand. “No matter who you’re with, there will come a time when things aren’t ideal.”
“But if you’re lucky you’ll find someone who is perfect for you.” My dad glances at my mother with tender, crinkly eyes. “He won’t be a carbon copy of you, or me. He’ll see you and love you for who you are. And you’ll love him for who he is—”
“—even if he dresses up like Bigfoot,” my mom finishes.
My dad is howling with laughter again.
Of course, I’m thinking about Adam now. I want him to be that man for me. If what they’ve described is real love, then I might be in love with Adam, too. How many ways have I lost this bet now? I can’t keep track. With a sigh, I rest my temple on the warm window as we stop at a stop sign.
A sputtering engine and the thumping bass of heavy metal draws my attention. When I look over, I’m not surprised to see Beckett behind the wheel of a golf cart next to us. I am surprised by what he does next, though.
When he sees me he shakes his head, stares me dead in the eye, and extends his hand in a thumbs-down gesture. He emphasizes the thumbs-down, wagging his head slowly with a scowl.
What the crap, dude?
“Geez. What’d you do to cheese off the Anderton boy?” my dad asks as Beckett peels ahead of us on his golf cart.
I frown after him. “I have no idea.”
After Milt Thompson let the door close in my face at the Circle K and Muffie Horowitz bodychecked me with her bedazzled purse on the sidewalk outside the diner a few seconds ago, it occurs to me that something might be up.
Beckett isn’t the only person in Cape Georgeana giving me the figurative thumbs-down.
I take a seat at the counter, hungry for bacon pancakes and a normal Monday morning.
While I wait for Brady to take my order, I scan the makeshift chalk tally board behind the register.
I find Ruth’s name scribbled near the bottom, and a few sheets of copy paper are tacked beside it after Marlow must've run out of room.
The huge glass jar holding the pot is a solid mass of cash.
This thing got away from us. On the bright side, it looks like my T-shirts have been cleaned out.
Oh, Adam. I accidentally immortalized him—and my own foolishness.
I picture the shock on his face the night I gave him a T-shirt free of charge, and heat claws up my neck. Poor guy.
“Hey, Stevie.” Brady slides a glass of ice water in front of me. “What can we get you?” he asks, his pen poised over a small notepad.
“Brady.” I sigh heavily, steepling my fingers in front of me. He has to know this is serious. “Get me the fattest stack of bacon pancakes Marlow can make. Really pile them on. I’m thinking Guinness World Record height, you got me?”
I need this. Adam is busy at work—he and Greg the Poacher are dealing with trails that washed out in the weekend storm.
We haven’t seen each other since I left his cabin.
I have my own mess waiting for me with my podcast. I’ve actively avoided my laptop and phone as I’ve gathered my thoughts since I got home yesterday.
I need to face the music. But first—pancakes.
I rub my arm where Muffie whacked it with her giant purse. Yes, pancakes will help.
Brady grins, scribbling my order. “I’ll grab the wheelbarrow,” he says, walking back to the kitchen. This kid is unrecognizable from the teenager who was actively trying to ruin Marlow’s life only a few months ago. It’s amazing what honest, clear communication will do. Imagine.
While I wait for my breakfast, my phone hums in my purse. Then it hums a few more times.
Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look, I remind myself. Pancakes first.
But what if it’s Adam? His square jaw and strong arms pop into my head.
I snatch my phone, swiping it open. I have a handful of texts from Ike and one from Adam.
SHIRTLESS ADAM:
I need to talk to you.
My heart drums in my ears. There are a dozen ways to interpret that message.
Is he saying “I need to talk to you because I’ve decided you’re not worth the heartburn” or is this more of a “I need to talk to you because I miss you” message?
Adam isn’t his best over text. I’ve learned that.
My parents’ lecture yesterday runs through my mind.
Adam might not be perfect, but it’s very likely that he’s perfect for me. I’m choosing to assume the best.
ME:
I need to talk to you, too. I miss you.
I push send, then with some trepidation I open Ike’s texts.
IKE:
We need to have a meeting of the Committee to… you know.
IKE:
How’s everyone’s schedule tonight?
Oh no. It’s a group text with Ike, Diana, my mom, Muffie Horowitz, August, Marlow, and Adam. I need those pancakes already.
Luckily, Marlow appears, sliding a comically tall stack of pancakes in front of me along with a small pitcher of maple syrup. “Big enough?” she asks with a laugh.
I pretend to scrutinize the mountain of pancakes.
“Almost.” I start the process of buttering them, which is going to take a while.
“Did you see Ike’s texts? What do you think that’s about?
” I keep things vague, unsure how much Ike has already divulged about the conversation he overheard between Adam and Ruth.
Marlow cringes, tucking her hands in the front pocket of her apron. “I take it you haven’t been online?”
I focus on my butter. “No. Do I dare ask?”
“That guy you took on a tour.” She groans. “He put this video on YouTube and sent it to half the town. I’m sure it’s in your DMs.”
“Crispin?” My butter knife clatters to the counter. “No. What did he . . . What . . .” I can’t talk. I’m going to be sick.
“He made some crazy accusations.” She snorts. “He said you and Adam are rigging the bet and a bunch of other things.” She swats the air like there’s no way this could be true. “The best part? He said that your original sighting was, uh, Adam in a Bigfoot suit.” She can barely get the words out.
I remember Muffie smashing her purse into me on the sidewalk, Beckett’s haunting thumbs-down, and a half dozen other microaggressions I’ve experienced in the last twenty-four hours. I drag my hands down my face. “That’s why everyone hates me.”
“Maybe.” Marlow pulls my hands away from my face. “But we got into this together. We’ll get out of it together. I have your back, friend.”
But she shouldn’t have to. I have to tell her the truth. “Crispin . . . wasn’t . . . wrong.” I trip through the words with a wince.
Her eyes widen. “No.”
“Yeah.” I shove a bite of pancakes in my mouth, then say around my food, “I wouldn’t call it rigging the bet.
” I swallow. “But by the time I realized how I feel about Adam, I was in too deep. I was going to fess up to everyone, but I wanted a little more time to find . . . something. I’m sorry, Marlow—”
“It got out of hand.” She swats a hand at my pitiful explanation and apology. “I still don’t get why you were willing to die on this hill.”
“Marlow.” I fix her with a look. She knows me and every one of my weaknesses, including my need to be right about everything all of the time. Well, I was wrong this time. I’m mentally preparing to own up to it.
She grimaces, nodding in concession. I appreciate her not rubbing it in. Marlow’s a good friend like that. I need to follow her lead.
“Everyone hates me.” I take another bite of pancakes.
She winces in agreement. “They’ll love you again once you apologize. No one’s perfect, Stevie.”
Story of my life, huh?
There aren’t enough pancakes in the world.