I didn’t sleep that night. At breakfast I sat at the table with Emily and Uncle Rob and Aunt Judy. Nobody talked. I pushed some eggs onto my fork and put them in my mouth. I forced myself to chew, and when I figured I’d chewed enough, I swallowed. I drank some orange juice and bit off a corner of my toast. There were pancakes but they looked dry, and I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to swallow them.
At the Happy Bubble, I was slow and distracted. After lunch I began to come to my senses. I began to process what I’d seen outside Phoebe’s house. By the end of my shift I’d straightened out certain facts in my head. The first was: Phoebe had a boyfriend. Okay. That made sense. She was super cute, and a million guys liked her. So no surprises there. The second was: The boyfriend was Wyatt. This also made sense. He was a confident, good-looking (by Seaside standards) stoner guy who drove a Camaro, which, if I was honest with myself, was exactly the kind of guy you would expect Phoebe to be with. And then third: But she also liked me. That was correct too, I believed. I mean, I was a year younger than her, and not a badass like Wyatt. But I was okay-looking. And I was Kyle’s cousin, which probably counted for something. Plus, we had slept together. Twice. And not only slept together, but talked and shared things and dozed in each other’s arms. Something real had happened. Even if it was just a summer fling, Phoebe did care about me. Of course she did. And think how much I cared about her! I would have done anything for her. And I still would. Even after I’d seen Wyatt going into her house.
* * *
At home that night, after dinner, I ended up on the couch with Emily, watching Dancing with the Stars. She was texting a lot. Her life was starting to change now: Summer was winding down; Seaside High School would be starting soon.
I had my copy of Letters to a Young Poet. I still hadn’t gotten past page twelve. I was trying to read it during the commercials. But I was too upset. I would occasionally get up and calmly go downstairs, where I would stomp around the basement and silently rage and fume. Then I’d come back up as if nothing had happened.
Then I remembered that Emily was friends with Wyatt. Maybe she knew something about the situation. Maybe I could get some information out of her. And so, during the next commercial, I casually said: “Does that guy Wyatt have a girlfriend?”
Emily didn’t answer right away. She was busy texting. “Wyatt?” she said. “I don’t know. Probably.”
“Justin was saying he saw him with Phoebe,” I said, pretending to look at my book.
“Phoebe Garnet?”
“That’s what he said. They seem like a good match.”
Emily looked over at me. She was very perceptive. She could tell I was up to something.
“Do you know Phoebe?” she asked me.
“Me?” I said. “Sure. I mean, I’ve talked to her. She and Nicole come into the Happy Bubble sometimes.”
“But you yourself? Have you talked to her?”
I shrugged. “Yeah. I ended up at her house once, with her and Nicole.”
Emily lowered her phone and gave me her full attention. “You’ve been to Phoebe Garnet’s house?”
“Yeah,” I said casually. “What’s so weird about that?”
Emily turned back to the TV. “Nothing.”
I sat very still. I didn’t say anything.
“What was her house like?” asked Emily.
“It was just a house. She and her mom make T-shirts and stuff. For tourists.”
“What else do you know about Phoebe?” she said to the TV.
“Nothing,” I said. “Just what everyone knows. She and Nicole. They’re the life of the party.”
“Yeah,” said Emily. “That’s true.”
“I was just curious. Because Justin was saying—”
“Are you in love with Phoebe Garnet?” said Emily, turning toward me.
“Me?” I said. “No . . . I mean . . . I like her.”
“Oh my God,” said Emily, staring hard into my face. “You are.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“Does Jace know about this?”
“There’s nothing to know. I mean—”
“What exactly happened? Did you hook up with her?”
“Uh . . . well . . .”
“Oh my God,” said Emily, turning back to the TV. “You hooked up with Phoebe!”
“It wasn’t like that. I mean, we were drunk . . .”
“Of course you were drunk,” said Emily. “She’s always drunk.” She stared at the TV without seeing it. “Do you think Phoebe loves you?”
This question seemed to stab into me. I looked at Emily. Why was she being so hostile about this? “I don’t know . . . probably not . . . I mean, she likes me. She seems to enjoy my company.”
Emily shook her head. She seemed physically pained by what I was telling her. She turned back to me. “Listen,” she said. “Phoebe doesn’t love you. You need to know that. Phoebe doesn’t love anyone.”
“What about Wyatt? She seems to love him.”
“She doesn’t. She doesn’t love Wyatt. And she doesn’t love you.”
“But she must love somebody. . . .”
“No. She doesn’t. She can’t.”
“Why can’t she?”
“I don’t know. And it doesn’t matter!”
“Well, actually it does matter,” I argued. “I mean, I know what you’re saying. She’s a tough girl. She’s had a hard life—”
“Oh my God,” said Emily, shaking her head.
“—but that doesn’t mean she can’t love somebody,” I pleaded. “Everyone can love somebody. And if they don’t have a person, they love their cat, or their dog. It’s natural. People love. It’s part of being human.”
Emily stared at the TV. “Wow,” she said. “She got you. She really got you. You’re lucky you’re leaving.”