19
I drive home in a daze. It’s a half-mile drive, and I catch myself raising my fingers to my lips three times.
I walk into the house and they are already there. Cliffy runs into my arms. Pete wants to know why I’m wet. I say something about paddleboarding with Frannie and falling in the sound, and they ask something about paddleboarding at night. None of it makes sense, but that’s fine.
It’s late and my kids go right to sleep. I get in my bed and he’s texted me: When can we do exactly that again?
My smile goes up through my eyes into the top of my head. I am carbonated. Me: Soon?
Ethan: Now would be good
I grin at my phone in the dark. Me: Soon
Ethan: Good night Ali
On Sunday, I take my kids to my dad and Libby’s house in Twin Rivers for lunch.
I always bring Libby flowers to make up for the fact that I don’t really have a relationship with her. I hand her the flowers in lieu of a hug, and if there were a card it might read, Sorry this was never more natural between us. Libby is a perfectly nice person. She loves my dad. She’s sweet to my kids. They met when he was on a sales call in Twin Rivers when I was five. She had twin eleven-year-olds, Marky and Walt, and my dad sort of stepped into a new family the way a favorite TV character suddenly appears in a spin-off. They’re the same, but everything around them is different. I never knew how to approach this spin-off dad, suddenly the father of two boys, and part of me felt like getting too close to him would be disloyal to my mom. I suspect that what attracted him to Libby was that she adores him like my mom adored me.
My dad opens the door and my kids throw their arms around him. “Well, if it isn’t the Three Stooges!” he says, every single time.
I hug him and he hugs me back. It’s a longer hug than is socially acceptable, but it’s all we have. I don’t really know how to talk to my dad. But when I see him, I count on this long hug to say everything we need it to.
“These are beautiful,” Libby says, accepting the mason jar of pink hydrangeas. She has a helmet of blond hair and an admirably light touch with liquid eyeliner. “Come out back. We’re barbecuing hamburgers.”
We walk through their living room and I count six photos of Libby’s grandkids next to the one of us. I look at my kids to see if they’re focused on this particular math and realize that I am the only childish one here.
“Everything okay?” my dad asks when we’re scraping plates into the garbage.
“Sure,” I say. This is as close to my dad asking me how I am as we’ve come in a long time. I don’t know which one of us is more scared of the answer. “Well, I guess I didn’t tell you that Pete and I are going to finally file for divorce. We have our second mediation meeting next week. Sort of a formality.”
“Ah,” he says. He puts two plates in the dishwasher and turns back to me. “Do you need help? A lawyer?”
“No. It’s all pretty simple.”
“Okay, let me know if that changes,” he says. “And there’s nothing else going on?”
“No, why?” I do a quick life scan for what he could be noticing. My kids are fine. I washed my hair, but it’s not like I’m wearing lip gloss again.
“You checked your phone six times during lunch.”
I blush and he sees it, which makes me blush worse.
“Oh,” he says. “Got it.” And he walks back outside smiling.
We drive straight from lunch to the inn and launch a canoe for our Sunday afternoon ride. For the past few months, I’ve been making the kids paddle with me, though I do most of the work. This is something Phyllis taught me about parenting, the importance of making kids do small things that you could do faster and better on your own. Just ask a little kid to make his bed and you’ll know what she means. One year she let Greer and Iris plant tulip bulbs all over her yard. She gave them small shovels and absolutely no artistic guidance. That spring, the random garden design felt like a miracle. I look at my kids and imagine them grown up and strong. I imagine them being able to carry a canoe into the water by themselves. I want them to be prepared to be thirty-eight.
I check my phone immediately when we’re back in the car. Ethan: Can I see you tomorrow?
Me: Free around 12.
And I am carbonated again.
It’s Monday morning and I’ve just made sense of Frannie’s books. I order poached eggs and an English muffin at the counter. “Who’s doing the inn’s books now?” I ask.
“Harold. The beach attendant,” she says for emphasis.
“Wow, your parents must have more of a streamlined system than you do.”
“They don’t,” she says. “And it’s a total mess over there. My parents have to know that. The only saving grace is that all of our vendors have known us long enough to give us a heads-up before they cut us off.”
“I’ll stop by this week and see if I can help,” I say. The inn is like someone’s totally disorganized but gorgeous mudroom that I’d like to get my hands on.
Frannie puts her hands together in prayer and bows her head. “Thank you.” She refills my water and narrows her eyes at me. “So what gives?”
She knows. I have kissed her brother and infiltrated the universe with impure thoughts about him ever since. Saturday night I lay in bed and I could still feel the pressure of his lips on mine, his hand on my waist. She has to know. “Nothing.” I shove eggs into my mouth to thwart a confession.
“Ali. Hard pants, clean hair. I swear when you walked in here you were wearing lip gloss. What gives?”
I laugh with relief. “Yes, I made a fresh start today. And it feels pretty good. These jeans even fit. Did you notice that?”
“I did. And if I didn’t know better I’d think you were preparing to date a real grown-up man.”
“Oh, please,” I say.
She walks away because someone’s short stack is ready. I’m not going to admit to her that I get to see him at noon today. Last night I got in bed with Iris and Cliffy on either side of me, listening to them disagree about what we were going to read, and rubbed my fingers together to try to re-create the feel of his hands on my skin. I like the way I’ve contained things. Nothing in public because my kids can’t know. And neither should Frannie. No sex because that might put me on a slippery slope emotionally. Just a fun, easy summer where the end takes care of itself. The magic of the summer romance lies in the constraints.
My phone beeps, and it’s him: Is it noon yet?
I smile at my phone and my face goes hot.
“What?” asks Frannie as she walks back.
“Nothing. It’s just Scooter. He wants me to come help with the house.” I busy myself with replying so I don’t have to look at her: Be there in 15.