I woke up the next morning to Sammy standing over the couch, which was a good thing, probably, as the last thing I wanted was to review the night before. Maggie’s voice on Danny’s phone. The irritating sight of Amber Rucci. The end of my illustrious career at 28. I had stormed out following my plate-dumping, not waiting to officially be fired. I turned off my phone, knowing Danny wouldn’t call back. I didn’t understand how things were still going so awry. How had that happened? I was supposed to be on my way to redemption by now, and I was nowhere. Jobless. Husbandless. With the lovely and charming Amber Rucci poised to take over the world.
Sammy shuffled from foot to foot, a little nervous. She had a new novel in her sweet little hands.
“I don’t want to go to camp,” she said.
“Why?” I said.
“I don’t want to discuss it,” she said.
“What do you want to do instead?
“Reading day?” she asked.
“You know what? Why not?”
She smiled, large. “Great!” she said.
Then she proceeded to move my feet out of the way, plop down on the couch, and crack open her book.
I watched her turn the pages, a nausea in my throat kicking up. It was a combination of what I assumed was morning sickness and the realization that a small person—not unlike Sammy—would belong to me soon.
“Why are you staring at me?” she said, eyes still on her book.
“I need you to tell me why you don’t want to go to camp,” I said. “Was someone mean to you?”
“No.”
“Sammy, if someone was mean to you, I’ll go with you to the camp and make sure that the counselor knows. You don’t have to give up camp.”
She closed her book. “It’s nothing to do with that,” she said.
“So what happened?”
She met my eyes, as if trying to decide whether to say. “Kathleen’s daughter is coming to camp. She wants us to sit together at lunch.”
“And you don’t want to?”
Sammy looked exasperated. “Her daughter goes to the school, the one in New York.”
I nodded. Now she was getting somewhere.
“I know she’s going to try to make us be friends and stuff. So I’ll want to go.”
It was a strange reaction—as though Sammy was skipping a couple of steps. The one where she decided if she liked Kathleen’s kid, and the one where she decided if the school seemed interesting to her.
“Why do you feel badly about that?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I mean, Kathleen says it’s a great place, so . . .”
Then I knew what was upsetting her. “Your mom.”
She nodded. “She thinks the school is a bad place, I guess.”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know. I think it could be fun.”
I felt my heart break a little. What was wrong with Rain that she was making Sammy feel like it was the school versus her? And what was wrong with the counselor that she was sending in undercover recruiters? Would she get some kind of bonus if Sammy showed up there? Suddenly I was mad at everyone, except for the kid sitting on the edge of the couch.
“All right,” I said. “You don’t have to go to camp. But no reading day, okay?”
She sighed, exhausted. “Why not?”
“You’re not going to sit around. If you don’t want to go to camp, that’s fine. You’re going to do something, though.”
“I am doing something. I’m reading.”
I looked out the window at our old house, the red car in the driveway, the nameless celebrity inside. And I thought of her boyfriend. “Let’s go fishing,” I said.
A real Montauk fishing boat—not the kind rented out for bachelor parties and beer, but a fishing vessel—was not exactly meant for a comfortable cruise around the harbor. Ethan and Thomas’s offshore boat—forty-eight feet long, two-sleeper cabin—was no exception. It wasn’t exactly uncomfortable, but it wasn’t luxurious, either. The deck was wiped down from the morning haul, but it still felt slimy and sticky. And there was a distinct odor in the air that, in comparison, made Ethan smell like fresh chocolate cookies.
Still, as soon as we left shore, I felt better, the ocean breeze helping my nausea, helping to empty my head. Ethan and I sat at the helm, Sammy at our feet, lifejacket tightly on, watching the ocean swirl, mesmerized.
Just kidding. She was reading in the sleeper cabin. She could have still been at the house.
Ethan folded his hands over his mouth, tried to warm them.
“I ended up having a lengthy conversation with my friend’s husband earlier,” he said. “He was trying to relate to me, I guess, and said all these people who say there are two Montauks, one for the summer people, one for winter people, they don’t get it. He said it’s about the people who fish here and the people who don’t.”
“So what’s wrong with that?”
“Henry doesn’t fish here. He takes a fancy charter out with his corporate buddies and pays someone to take a photo of him with a marlin. That’s not fishing. That’s a photo op. With a marlin.”
“Okay.”
“Do you not see the irony? Sammy, by herself, could reach into the ocean and catch a marlin.” He shook his head. “This guy pisses me off.”
“The man whose wife you’re sleeping with pisses you off? That’s who you’re talking about, right?”
“He thinks he fishes here. He thinks he can say something that stupid. If he really fished here, he would never say something that stupid.” He paused. “He might just think it.”
I took a deep breath in, the shoreline moving farther away. “Why are you still talking?”
“Hey! You wanted to come out on the water today. Hell, I don’t know why I agreed to it,” he said.
“Because you have a soft spot for Sammy,” I said.
He smiled. “I guess so,” he said.
He looked out at the water, navigated us farther north.
“So how’s the job going? I’m impressed you’ve lasted this long.”
“I haven’t.”
“What happened?”
“Spilled a plate of peaches on someone.” I paused. “Dropped. I should say that I dropped the peaches on purpose.”
He laughed, a little impressed. “Did she deserve it?”
“Don’t think that’s the question Chef Z is going to be interested in. I ran out of there too fast to find out.”
Ethan killed the engine. “Well, I’m interested.”
“It was Amber Rucci, the woman who hacked me. She took my cookbook deals and my Food Network show. She can’t even cook.”
“Either.”
I looked at him, confused.
“I’m just saying, you should probably say, She can’t cook either.”
“She makes toast, Ethan.”
“I like toast.” He shrugged. “But I’m not much of a recipe guy. I like to wing it. Put the toast in the toaster oven. Turn it on high. See what happens.”
I laughed. “I don’t know what I was thinking. She was just sitting in the restaurant, and I snapped.”
He pulled a joint from his pocket. “Sounds like she deserved it.”
It should have made me feel better, Ethan justifying my feelings about Amber. But it didn’t. I thought of Amber destroying my life to better her own. I’d been angry before, but thinking of the kid I was carrying, I was more than angry. I was heartbroken.
Ethan lit up the joint, and I gave him a look. “What? It’s legal.”
“I’m not sure it is while operating a boat.”
“So, it’s a good thing we are sitting still.”
Then he handed me the joint.
I shook my head.
“Not interested?”
“Pregnant.”
“Wow.” He pulled the joint back, the smoke blowing away from us. “That’s a buzzkill. Literally.”
He stared down at the joint, and I watched him taking the pregnancy in.
“Does the husband know yet?”
I flinched. The husband. The ex-husband. How was I going to tell him now? How was I going to tell him anything ever again? I shook my head.
“Why not?”
I shrugged. “He’s too busy showering with his new girlfriend.”
He took another drag. “Wow.”
Then he focused on the joint, neither of us talking.
“Have I told you I have three kids?”
I looked at him, shocked. “What?”
He nodded. “All different mothers.”
“That’s some sperm.”
He smiled. “The first one, I don’t know. I couldn’t handle it. I was eighteen, I behaved terribly. I spend most of my time making it up to the other two,” he said. “It’s not the same thing. My daughter, she’s my first, deserves to have a better father than I’ve been.”
“If you’re trying to make me feel better, it isn’t exactly working.”
“Make you feel better? I’m trying to make me feel better.”
“You were eighteen when you screwed up.”
“True,” he said. “And it’s not like I lied about everything in my life.”
“All right, enough.”
“Sent my husband into the arms of another woman. Threw away my job on a plate of peaches.”
“Pretty honest move, tossing the peaches like that,” he said. “No regard for the consequences.”
I looked at him, trying to read if he was still making fun.
He put the joint out. “I’m serious. When was the last time you did anything like that?”
“Crazy?”
“Honest. Without thinking about how it would appear to your many fans,” he said. “Just allowing yourself to have a moment that wasn’t curated.”
That stopped me. Curated. It was a perfect word for what was required of me in order to present A Little Sunshine to the world, in order to present myself to the world. Everything I’d done—for so long—had required it: sifting through photographs, sifting through perfect phrases, to capture the moment I was supposed to be having. Sleeker, more interesting, more photo-ready.
Danny had been the first casualty of that removal from reality. Every night out—even a night at home—there was the untaken shot of what was actually happening (bad pizza while I worked late), and then there was the “impromptu” Instagram photo of the night, which actually meant taking dozens of selfies until the camera had me at the right angle, “enjoying” the scrumptious pizza, and binge-watching the hottest show. #homemadepies #squeezingintohubby #Waltforpresident
What was the consequence of that? Of suggesting to both of us that the way it actually was hadn’t been enough?
Ethan turned the ignition on. “Maybe the point is that you’re done lying now.”
“I have nothing left to lie about,” I said.
He turned the wheel, his boat kicking forward. “I’d take a compliment where you can get it.”