Except really, we sat on the bank of Utah Lake.

Our crappy bikes lying in the dirt.

The water wasn’t clear. It was muddy and brown.

There were loud WaveRunners and it stunk like garbage and Bart said, “Sometimes I think things in my head are going to be one way and then they turn out to be completely different.”

I looked at him.

He had his chin on his knees.

I said, “How?”

He sat there.

I waited.

And waited.

Then he looked at me.

And he said, “I’m supposed to be at my dad’s.”

“What?”

“It’s my dad’s weekend,” he said.

A WaveRunner went by spraying water so close to us I could almost feel it on my face.

“Where does he live?” I asked.

“In some condos by the train station,” he said.

Then I said, “Oh.”

Then he said, “I hate going there.”

I was quiet because I didn’t know what to say. But then I said, “Is he mean?”

Bart shook his head. “No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Then why do you hate it there?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s boring.”

We sat there. It was hot.

I said, “They’re divorced?”

He nodded. “Yep.”

“How long?”

He shrugged. “Since I was six.”

“Six,” I said. Berkeley was five.

“Yep,” he said.

Then we sat.

“Is it bad?”

He looked at me. “Is what bad?”

“Them being divorced?”

“It’s fine,” he said.

It’s fine, I thought.

Then he said, “Are yours divorced?”

A big fat lump got in my throat.

“No.”

“Oh,” he said.

Then I said, “But my dad’s gone.”

He looked at me. “Where is he?”

I looked at my hands. “I think Bryce Canyon.”

He said, “Bryce Canyon? I’ve been there.”

“You have?” And I was about to ask if he’d seen him or if he thought maybe park rangers didn’t get internet or if Bryce Canyon had girlfriends there but instead I said, “They’re not divorced. He’s just on a break. He needed a break.”

I waited for him to say that was stupid. That my dad was never coming back. That they pretty much were divorced.

I waited.

And waited.

But then he said, “Do you know how to swim?”