“Morning, Vivi!”
I look up to see Whitney bustling toward the front counter. Her hair frames her face with tiny tendrils, deep chestnut with a hint of red in the broad daylight. I’m immediately envious of the maroon skirt that wraps around her waist and falls all the way to the floor. “Good morning!”
“How’s business today?” She sets down a small box of new paints.
“Pretty darn good. Fifteen customers in—what has it been, six hours? One person painted two things. Plus I made a new friend. Aaaaand”—I turn to her, making my eyebrows dance with intrigue—“I met a boy.”
Whitney spins toward me, already grinning. “Oh, really.”
I think back on Jonah, his messy hair, his dark eyes the color of a filled-up coffee mug when you stare into it—deep and brown and fading into black. Delicious, warm. “Mmhmm.”
“Would I know him? Is he a vacationer or townie?” Whitney rubs her hands together like she’s waiting for me to bundle up my juicy details and hand them over.
“Townie. Jonah.” His name is easy to overpronounce for bravado. Jo-nahhh. I love the oh and ah, and the n sound that requires tapping my tongue on the roof of my mouth. My name only needs lower lip and front teeth to say out loud.
Whitney’s eyebrow ring moves up at least an inch, catching the overhead light. “Jonah Daniels?”
“I have no idea. Medium height, dark hair, has a darling little sister named Leah. Sort of has this distracted, overwrought vibe.”
“Yeah, that’s Jonah.” Whitney has gone from excited about my hot gossip to perplexed by something. I can’t tell which detail has thrown her off. Oh, heavens, if he has a girlfriend, that will be a terribly annoying hiccup—one I’ll overcome, of course, but annoying nonetheless. It’ll take a while to deal with, and I’m not made of time. I have plans, you know. Good ones. Whitney crosses her arms more tightly. “So he asked you out?”
“Well, not technically. Leah asked me to come over for dinner, and Jonah agreed to it. But I think he liked the idea—well, maybe I’m projecting that, but he’ll like the idea by the time I leave the dinner table.” I flash my winningest smile, but she still looks unsure. “Gosh, you’re acting like he has leprosy or something. What is it? If he’s an ax murderer, just tell me quick so I can decide whether to risk it for dinner tonight.”
“No, it’s just . . .” Whitney trails off. “His family has been through a lot in the past year. Everyone has been worried that—”
“You don’t have to tell me,” I say, cutting her off. “In fact, I’d rather you didn’t. I don’t mind being introduced to people’s skeletons firsthand, in person. I more than don’t mind it. I prefer to reach right into the closet and shake their bony hands and say hello for myself.”
Whitney laughs. “You’re a good girl, Viv.”
“Why, thank you.” I give a little curtsy. “Besides, it takes a lot to scare me off, especially when the boy is completely unaware how hot he is, which amplifies it, if you ask me. Like, the responsible-older-brother thing is pretty sexy. Don’t you think?”
Whitney laughs. “I’m twenty-six, Viv. I don’t evaluate the sexiness of sixteen-year-old guys.”
“Well, then, take my word for it.” I wink, laughing as I grab my purse from behind the register.
On my quick walk home, I’m sure of my choice to not know Jonah’s secrets. I’ve been through a lot in the past year, too, and I would never want someone handing out my personal information like it’s a flyer to a concert or a coupon for a new restaurant. Those are my truths to disclose in my own time, if I ever do at all.
None of that’s very fun to think about, though, so by the time I reach Los Flores Drive, I’ve switched to thinking about my paintbrush gliding across Jonah Daniels’s skin.
Richard’s house is a mod beach bungalow that is very middle-aged-single man, all sleekness and hard edges. There are industrial-looking lights suspended over the kitchen island, and the couch rests on spiky wooden legs. Basically, the house is very chic, but the furnishings are not cozy. It’s the newest-looking house I’ve seen in all of Verona Cove, which is a bummer, but house crashers can’t be choosers, I guess. I hung strands of lights on every wall in my room here, trying to cozy it up and make it look as close to a Yayoi Kusama exhibit as possible.
I do give the house points for the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. They’re not even windows, really—they’re walls made of glass. They meet in the right corner, which points directly to the ocean. It’s positively magnificent. When the sun sets in the evening, it sets across the entire living room.
Big curtains drop down with the push of a button, but my mom and I can’t bear to use them because it seems like such a waste. At night we gaze over the ocean, and we can’t believe the vastness or the blackness or how busy the waves are while the rest of the world sleeps. And oh Lord, the way the moon fills up the cosmos—there is divinity in this view, I’m telling you.
It makes me believe my mom when she says Richard may be a gajillionaire businessman, but he also has a very deep soul—like a tide pool with a drop-off you wouldn’t expect from such a serene surface.
Inside, my mom is sitting at her easel, which is set up in the living room corner. She’s the captain, steering at a glass bow that points seaward. She’s been working on this same painting since she first set eyes on this glorious view, and my instinct is that it is almost done.
The painting is an abstract, like tangled ribbons of color all over the canvas. Most of her pieces look, to the untrained eye, like a total mess. A joyful, colorful, total mess. It is not so hard to see how she made me, too.
She twists around, finally noticing me. “Hey, chickie.”
“Heya.”
“How was work?”
“Oh, delightful, really.”
When she stands up, she stretches her arms over her head. I’m sure she’s been in the same position for a while. She looks at me, then the look turns more intense, and she steps closer—close enough to rest her soft hand against my cheek. “Have you lost a little weight?”
I stiffen, pulling away from her touch. “No. I don’t know. No.”
“Are you sure?”
I sigh because I hate this for two reasons: One, I don’t want to go back to being a beanpole. Fuller hips look gorgeous on me, though I’m still hoping my chest fills out more. Two, I know what she is implying. “Well, Mom, it’s summer in California, so I’m probably sweating more or something.”
“Viv.” She sighs, closing her eyes for a moment, like a tiny prayer for strength. “Please don’t make me ask.”
“I won’t make you do anything.” I glower at her. “How about you just don’t ask?”
I hate to be reminded, and I hate that she still thinks about it. I don’t think about it—at least, barely, because I don’t see the point in reliving the bad parts of your life. Earlier this year, I got too low. And then too high. They put me on medicine that pulled me out of my rabbit hole, and one of the side effects was weight gain. That’s why my mom is being suspicious and suggestive and unfair.
I try to do this thing when I get upset, when I start to float upward in a rage: I push all my anger down my arms. And then I snap my fingers, with both hands, trying to crush those feelings. The sound, the feel of that snap. Sometimes it brings me back to earth.
My mom follows me as I go up to my room. I look over my shoulder, snapping my fingers once on each hand. Nope, still furious. “I’m almost seventeen. It’s very hurtful and insulting that you don’t trust me.”
We stop outside my door, and she looks sad—so sad, like she’s helpless to silence what she’s about to say. “Viv, tell me that you’re taking your pills. Just say it, and I’ll believe you.”
I step into my room, then spin around to face her, my hand already steadied on the door to slam it. “Yes, okay? Yes, I am taking the stupid, fucking pills.”
The door hits, heavy against its frame, and it echoes into the hallway. I burrow into my bed, angry enough to cry—which isn’t a shock, considering I’m angry enough to yell the f-word in my mom’s face. I don’t even care, because I’ve asked her eighty thousand times to just not bring it up, and honestly, how hard is that? Avoiding one single topic in the entire, ever-loving world?
I let myself cry for a while, pitiful and sprawled out on my comforter, and I bury my head into Tannest’s plush fur. Tannest has been my best stuffed-animal friend since I was little. My mom suggested that I name him Tanner because he is a tan-colored dog. But, since he is completely tan and I couldn’t imagine him being tanner, I named him Tannest. He lives at the head of my bed with a pink pony named Rosabelle and a stuffed turtle named Norman.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been sniffling when my phone beeps.
Hey. It’s Jonah. From this morning.
From this morning, like he had to remind me. Like I met another, more memorable Jonah in the past few hours. A smile sneaks across my face. How darling that he thinks I’d forget him inside of six hours. I roll over onto my stomach, holding my phone in both hands as I type.
Hi Jonah from this morning. Are you still making me dinner?
Pizza’s on around 6 if you’re interested.
Hmm. Detached, totally nonflirty. Jonah, Jonah, Jonah—you are only encouraging me. It’s like being at an animal shelter, where I want to be the one the most skittish dog takes a liking to.
Oh, I’m interested.
Cool. 404 Seaside Street. Leah’s excited.
Oh, Jonah. Silly boy. I will make you flirt back with me.
Just Leah? Not you?
I spin the phone in my hand, waiting and smiling to myself. This is exactly what I needed for the summer—the sunshine, the ocean, some seriously blatant flirtation. And a little bit of a challenge.
Finally, my phone beeps again. Of course me too.
Ha—got him! That’s all it takes to perk me up, and suddenly I can’t bear to stay in my room and not make up with my mom. I shuffle downstairs, nibbling on my lip as I go.
She’s sitting at the kitchen island when I turn the corner from the stairs. I cross my arms and lean against the door frame, sighing without really meaning to. I don’t want to be the first one to talk; I don’t know what to say, exactly. My mom senses my presence, and she gets up from the table to face me. Her eyes are a little red because she’s a very sensitive person, like I am.
“You know I don’t like bossing you around.” It’s true—she hates telling me what to do. My mom believes in the inherent worth of instincts, like self-reliance as a way of transcending. She encourages my creativity, my impulses, my me-ness. To a point, I guess. “I’m proud of the person you are, and I do trust you. But I have to watch over you because you are my baby, and I will always need to protect you, even when it makes you mad at me.”
“I know that.” My voice is quiet—the murmur of a child who apologizes to get out of the time-out chair. I tug my left sleeve instinctively, covering the long scar. “I’m sorry I yelled. I just hate to be reminded of it.”
“I know. But we have to communicate. Dr. Douglas said that we—”
“Can we not talk about it anymore? Please, I just . . . it physically hurts in my chest to think about, and—”
“Okay. Okay.” She pulls me into a hug, though I keep my arms across my chest, cradling myself even as she cradles me, too. I rest my head on her shoulder, and we stay this way for a little while, under Richard’s light fixtures, which probably cost more than my life.
When my mom pulls away, she keeps her hands on my arms. “I was thinking of ordering sushi for dinner. What do you think? Philly roll and a spider roll? Some sashimi?”
I love sushi more than any other food on the planet. This is her olive branch, and I’d normally take it in a hot second. “Sounds perfect, but can I get a rain check? I forgot to tell you I’m going over to a friend’s house for dinner.”
“Oh, that’s fun!” My mom claps her hands together. Just like that, she is my best friend again, not my nagging mom. She slides onto a nearby stool, and I resume my position leaning against the door. “At Whitney’s?”
“No, this is a brand-new friend. Two, actually. This little girl came into the store this morning—seemed shy but warmed up to me, and she invited me over for dinner, since we just moved here. She said the best place to eat in town is her house.”
My mom laughs. “That’s precious. So you’re dining with a kindergartner?”
“Yes . . . plus her much older brother, who has no idea how severely cute he is.”
“Aha.” She grins. “Well, that sounds great. Much better than sushi with your old mom.”
“Mom . . .” I roll my eyes because she knows I love hanging out with her, which is why I do almost all the time.
“I’m just teasing you,” she says. Then she reaches over to hold my hand in hers, looking a little sad again. “We’re okay, right? You’d tell me if we weren’t okay?”
She means: you’d tell me if you weren’t okay. I nod, squeezing her hand. “Yeah, we’re okay.”