Earlier
Despite the throbbing in my temples, I somehow manage to finish my surfing lesson, all the while hoping the kids can’t smell the vodka fumes on my breath.
Like with my Airbnb business, I do this volunteering gig as a way to socialize and stay down to earth, but today, thanks to a killer hangover, I wonder if I should’ve hired someone to cover for me.
But no. What if the guy I hired was some sicko? Not that the camp’s administration would let me do that anyway. Regardless of how much money I’ve donated to this place, their first concern is the safety of the campers.
As all the kids run off to their next activity, Reagan stays behind.
Harry sniffs Reagan like an old friend. The kid takes out a peanut butter and jelly sandwich from his pocket and shares it, winning major brownie points with both me and the dog.
I wonder what he wants this time. Has he sprouted hair in another location?
“Hi, Mr. Evan,” he says shyly.
I smile reassuringly at him, and somehow that makes my headache recede. A little.
“Hey, bud. Call me Evan.”
“Sorry… Evan,” Reagan says. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.” I gulp some water from my bottle in the hopes of alleviating the worst of the hangover.
Reagan shifts from foot to foot, clearly unsure if he should ask whatever it is.
Seriously? What could it be? Chest hair? Mine didn’t come in until I was in my late twenties, but maybe—
“What’s anal?” he finally blurts.
The water goes up my nose, and I have to cough to regain my composure.
It’s official. I’m not going to drink liquids around this kid ever again.
“What a fascinating question,” I say when I can speak. To buy myself more time, I cap the water bottle. “What’s the context?”
Please don’t say porn or—
“Con—what?” Reagan asks.
“Context. As in, where did you hear it? In what sentence? Under what circumstances?”
“Ah. One of the counselors said it to the other,” Reagan says.
My hands ball into fists. “What did he say?” If I learn that someone has been having inappropriate conversations around the children, I’m going to—
“She said ‘Yes, I checked it twice, Brian. Stop being so anal,’” Reagan says in an imitation of a teen girl’s voice.
Oh. My hands unclench, and I exhale in relief before asking, “Do you know what persnickety means?”
Reagan cocks his head. “Fussy?”
Despite not knowing what “anal” or “context” is, the kid clearly has a great vocabulary. “She meant something like that, but with a compulsive component.”
He looks less sure. “Like you have to be fussy?”
“Kind of. There’s usually an obsessive element to it as well. Like when someone likes neatness so much they force others to be neat, or they like correct spelling and grammar so much they correct them for other people.”
“Hmm,” Reagan says. “My mom might be into anal.”
It takes an elephantine effort to keep my face impassive. “You don’t say ‘into’ before an adjective.”
Reagan grins mischievously. “Are you showing me an example of how to be anal?”
Clever little munchkin. “Exactly.”
“Thank you.” He grins at me. “I loved your lesson, by the way. When I grow up, I also want to be a surfer.”
Huh. He even looks like some of the surfer dudes I know, with his long hair and his unusually chill attitude.
“I’m sure I’ll make a surfer out of you before the summer is out,” I say.
His smile turns upside down. “I’m not here till the end of the summer. Only five more days.”
With that, he runs off, leaving me feeling melancholy for no reason at all.
“You look terrible,” my father says when I walk into his house with Harry on my heels, wagging his tail. “Those bags under your eyes have bags.”
“Thanks.” I rub said baggy eyes. “That’s why I’ve come. I want your hangover cure.”
After Mom died, Dad drank so much he became quite the expert on hangover cures—that is, until he joined AA.
“Hangover?” Dad’s expression turns worried. “What was the occasion?”
It’s been a while since he’s missed things like birthdays, but the memory must linger, so I can see why he’d be concerned. That or maybe he’s worried I’ll start to overindulge the way he did.
“I was just keeping someone else company,” I say. “And after today, I think I’m going to avoid alcohol for a few years.”
Dad grins knowingly. “A female someone?”
“It’s not like that. But speaking of her, it’s best if you double the cure.”
He grabs his blender. “Who is she?”
I sigh. “A tourist.”
He wrinkles his nose. “From where?”
“New York,” I say and expect the nose wrinkle to worsen.
Dad shrugs instead. “I’m sure she’s got ways to compensate for that nearly fatal flaw.”
I smile. “She plays Scrabble.”
“Well.” He dumps half a bag of spinach into the blender. “There you go. That alone means she’s a keeper.”
Even if she is, I’m not—but I don’t go into that with my dad because in his eyes, I can do no wrong.
“Tell me more about her,” he says.
“Like what?”
“Oh, don’t be like that. How did you meet?”
Fine. As he makes the concoction, I tell him how Brooklyn and I grumped at each other when we first met, and how she almost drowned.
When I’m done, Dad blinks, his eyes suspiciously damp. “It’s eerie,” he says after a moment. “Your story reminds me so much of how I met your mother.”
I frown. “I thought you went to high school together.”
“Right, and I spilled chemicals on her when we first met in the lab. She then threw a frog at my face.”
“And you saved her life too?”
Dad gives me an exasperated look. “I got her out of the chemical-drenched dress, didn’t I? That’s despite the frog tossing, mind you. I also gave her my jacket to cover herself.”
“You’re right. It’s the exact same story.”
“And that means she’s also your soulmate.” Dad sprinkles dried ginger into the blender. “The way your mother was mine.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in souls,” I say.
He gives me a sidelong glance. “The ‘soul’ is just a word that describes what happens when the computers that are our brains do their computing. Anyway, I don’t need to believe in souls to believe in soulmates.”
Before I can offer a rebuttal to that very flawed argument, Dad presses the blender’s “on” button, making so much noise I can barely hear myself think. I wince and clutch my throbbing temples.
For a second, he stops, but just as I open my mouth to say something, he starts the blender again.
“Very mature,” I say when the blender is finally blessedly silent.
Feigning innocence, Dad pours the thick concoction into two mason jars, hands one to me, and covers the other with a lid.
Fighting my gag reflex, I take large sips of the “cure.” It takes effort to keep it down.
Harry pokes me with his nose.
“You won’t like it,” I tell him.
Harry wags his tail.
“Fine.” Since it is safe for dogs, I give him some of my drink, and he downs it like it’s the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted.
“I’ll feed you again when we get home,” I say, unable to help a grin that tugs at my lips.
“You also should eat something,” Dad says. “That works as well as the hangover cure.”
I nod. “I had cereal earlier. For lunch, I was planning on making some Japanese food for me and Brooklyn.”
Hearing her name, Harry wags his tail.
The nice-smelling dudette? Where is she? I haven’t sniffed her in a century.
Dad’s eyebrows go up high on his forehead. “You’re cooking for her already?”
“So?”
Dad hands me the sealed jar. “Cooking is your love language.”
“And reading all that girly stuff about love languages is your love language,” I say and then wince because I didn’t mean to remind Dad of Mom so casually.
She was super into this stuff.
Thankfully, Dad doesn’t seem fazed. “I don’t think you fully understand the concept,” he says with a huff.
“Neither do you. The five languages are words of affirmation, quality time, gifts, acts of service, and physical touch.”
Honestly, I’m just busting his balls at this point. When Mom was in the hospital, I read that same book to please her.
Dad puffs up like a peacock. “Cooking is both a gift and an act of service. Reading what your partner likes is—”
“Quality time,” I chime in.
Dad sighs. “If there’s one thing you got from your mother, it’s the ability to win any argument.”
On that note, I grab Harry and the other jar and skedaddle.
“Honey, I’m home,” I shout when I enter my house, groceries in tow.
No reply.
Hmm. Is she still sleeping?
Maybe. Or maybe she woke up, decided last night was a mistake, and ran far away from here.
Dammit. Why does that thought upset me so much?
Leaving the food on the kitchen table, I brace myself and go look for Brooklyn.