My little blow-up at Mom this morning must have had an effect, because she doesn’t insist that I come to dinner with her and the group. In fact, she offers to take Abby herself for the night.
I end up having dinner alone. I pick the little outdoor restaurant right next to the Ocean Tower. It’s nice, some would even say romantic, all under a canopy with white lights strung throughout. There’s a guy with a guitar in the corner playing love songs: old ones, new ones, ones he wrote. He’s got a decent voice. The food’s good: Mexican, addictive freshly made chips and salsa that could have been my entire meal. Sizzling fajitas to die for. I eat them glumly. It’s kind of worse that they’re so good.
I’m lonely, I realize.
But this is better than sitting around a table with my mother.
I think about texting Nick. He’d probably come have dinner with me in a heartbeat. But that would feel cheap somehow, like I’m using him. Maybe I am using him, I realize, but he seems okay if I’m using him for sex. There’s no real romance between us. And it should probably stay that way.
My thoughts revolve back around to Pop. He seemed okay today. Maybe he doesn’t know his marriage is completely on the rocks.
Dear god, I think, and then stop myself. What am I doing? I go to mass once a week during the school year, because it’s mandatory at my school, but God’s not someone I have regular conversations with. And even if I did—believe, I mean—I’m sure God wouldn’t appreciate the fact that the only times I attempt to communicate with him are those moments I want something impossible.
I’m only interested in God when there’s a crisis.
But it would be nice to truly believe in God, I think. Because then I might have someone to talk to.
That’s what Mom has done to me, without even knowing it. Because of her, I’m cut off from everyone I used to turn to as a support system: my sister, Pop. And now I am completely alone.
At some point in my pity party I look up and see Afton sitting on the other side of the patio, having dinner with a dark-haired boy with his back to me—Michael, I assume. They appear to be on a real, honest-to-goodness date. She’s wearing a white flowered sundress and the strappy sandals, which I wouldn’t have recommended, as they are probably cursed now, after their encounter with Leo at the swim meet. Her hair is loosely braided in a long fishtail that’s pushed forward over one shoulder. She’s a shade or two more tan than she was only a day ago, and it makes her come off like she’s glowing in the white dress.
She’s perfect. Barf. If a mermaid came to shore for only one night, to have a plate of Mexican food with a handsome prince, she’d be exactly Afton.
She also looks, well, happy. The glow isn’t entirely the tan. She’s leaning forward slightly, listening intently to whatever it is that Michael’s saying, a relaxed smile on her lips. Then she stops for a second to dip a tortilla chip in salsa, and as she’s bringing it to her mouth, it drips. Right down the front of her white dress. Splat.
I brace myself for the drama. Her horrified expression. The frantic dabbing of her napkin dipped in ice water. Maybe she’ll have to excuse herself to go change.
But Afton only laughs. Not a delicate, feminine titter, either, but a real, full-throated laugh I can hear over that dude’s sappy guitar. She throws her head back and lets out a guffaw of pure amusement. Oh, silly salsa. Oh, silly dress.
My breath catches. I immediately want to sketch her expression, but then I realize that I already have. It’s in my sketchbook from over a year ago. I reach down into my bag and pull it out, flip the pages until I find it.
Afton Laughs, I called it.
My sister has never been a big laugher. Pop says it’s because she has a dignified old soul. Not that Afton is missing a sense of humor—she has that fierce, dry wit when the occasion calls for it—but she almost never laughs out loud. When we were kids we’d see something funny on television and I would crack up laughing, and Afton would be sitting next to me crisscross with the smallest of smiles on her face. That was it. The most you can usually get out of Afton is a quick, amused exhalation, a laugh-breath. If that.
Imagine our surprise, then, when she brought this boy home for dinner last year. Logan, she said his name was, there to win us all over to his side. And he did. Easily. He was handsome, tall with wavy black hair that looked like he put an effort into. He was always dressed well, too, with a little more flair than most boys bother with. A boy with style, which of course made sense, because Afton is nothing if not stylish herself. He made all the requisite charming small talk to Mom and Pop, had Abby wrapped around his finger in about five seconds flat, and then, as we were passing the green beans around the table, Logan said something to Afton, something that I didn’t catch because he said it soft, just for her.
And Afton tilted her head back and actually laughed.
It was like a sudden gust against wind chimes, that laugh, an unexpected music.
That was the night of the camper trailer, I think. And I remember thinking, too, as I was drawing this sketch, lost in a feeling of being half happy for her, half dismayed because I had to suddenly share my sister’s time with this guy, that this time Afton was really in love. And that was okay. That’s what happens with sisters. Boys take us away from each other. But not really, right, because sisters are forever?
I frown. I don’t know what to think about her laughing at Michael. She can’t be in love with Michael Wong. She was still in love with Logan less than four days ago, and, in spite of what she and I seem to be fighting about constantly right now, I know that Afton’s not fickle. She’s not careful. But she’s also not dumb.
Maybe I’m putting too much importance on this expression. Maybe Michael just said something really funny in response to her spilling salsa on herself.
It doesn’t have to mean anything, this laugh.
The guitar guy starts playing a cover of “She’s Got a Way” by Billy Joel. Michael and Afton get up to dance. Double barf.
I gesture for the waiter to bring the check. I was here first, but I feel like I’m intruding on my sister’s date. Spying on her. Watching her now, I’m not sorry I didn’t tell her about Mom’s affair, because of course she wouldn’t look so happy if she knew.
She spots me. Her expression darkens. I can practically hear what she’s thinking—Can’t you leave me alone for five minutes?
I look away, guilty even though again it’s not my fault, give the waiter cash and tell him to keep the change, and head back toward the Ocean Tower. Afton keeps dancing, turning her face away from me. Laying her head on Michael’s shoulder.