Those last two words were definitely for the dog. Bobby lifted his hand and, just like that, strode away.
Okay.
So. Cross lunch with Bobby off my mental list of things to do today. It sure was different from two weeks ago, when he had the whole day for me.
This was good. This was reinforcement that our breakup had been for the best. This was exactly the kind of classic Bobby nonchalance that I’d grown to hate.
Even so, it threw me a little.
Still, it was a beautiful day in Boston. I called Roseline, told her I was free earlier than I expected, and she said she’d be on Newbury Street in ten minutes so we could power-shop and eat.
“Oh, my God, I miss you so much!” she said when she saw me, throwing her arms around me. “And you, too, Boomer!” she added, bending down to get a sloppy kiss. “I actually miss you more, puppy. Don’t tell Nora.” She held me at arm’s length. “You, my friend, look fantastic.” We hugged again and started walking, arm in arm.
The brownstones of Newbury Street were beautiful, and Roseline chattered nonstop, giving me all the gossip about our friends and acquaintances. She and Amir were going to Haiti for a delayed honeymoon to see the family, most of whom I’d met over the years. We went in and out of shops, tying Boomer’s leash around a signpost so he could woo the sun-deprived Bostonians, and did our usual thing—fondled purses and tried on shoes. It was great to be together again.
But had Boston always been so loud? Did every driver have to scream curse words out their window? (Yes, of course, it was Boston.) The f-bombs rained down in a nearly benign fashion, so common in this city that the impact was almost nil.
“You should hear how quiet it is on the island,” I told her as we ate lunch, Boomer at our feet, the sunshine warming our hair. “At night, I sit on the deck and watch the sunset and swat the blackflies, and it’s beautiful. Please tell me you’ll come visit.”
“Do you love it there?” she asked.
I didn’t answer right away, taking a slurp of my clam chowder. “Sometimes, I do,” I said. “On the one hand, everyone knows me there and...” I shrugged. “It’s like I’m the same person I was at fifteen, rather than an actual adult.”
“It’s the same for me when I go back to Haiti,” she said. “Harvard, Yale, they mean nothing. I’m still the little girl who peed in church on Easter Sunday.”
“Exactly. This week at the clinic, I was called ‘the fat one’ and ‘Sharon’s other daughter, not the pretty one.’”
“That’s so sweet,” Rosie said, rolling her eyes. “First of all, you’re very pretty. And fat? Come on! Don’t they have eyes?” She took a bite of her burger. “How’s your sister, by the way?”
Roseline knew Lily was in prison; I’d told her when it happened, and now I felt a wave of shame at how I’d done it, making it seem like no big deal. After all, Lily’s sentence wasn’t long, and her crimes weren’t terrible, but she was in prison nonetheless. Then again, a few months ago, I’d been desperate to talk about anything that made me feel better, and somehow my sister going to State did that. I mean, I might’ve been beaten within an inch of death, but at least I wasn’t Lily.
Yes. Shame.
“She’s okay, I guess,” I said, not that I knew. “I’ve been spending a lot of time with Poe and this other girl, my old classmate’s daughter. It’s nice. I forgot I liked teenagers.” Audrey had stopped by this week. Twice, as a matter of fact. We talked about movies, and on Thursday, she was going to come over to watch Naked and Afraid, a show we both loved. I wanted to have another sleepover for both girls, but I wasn’t sure Sullivan would welcome that, since I’d kind of blown him off the night of my party.
“So what’s going on with Dr. Bobby Byrne?” Roseline asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “He was being really...attentive. Lots of texts and emails, a few phone calls. Today, though, he pretty much tossed me the leash and left.”
“Are you thinking about getting back together?” Her voice was suspiciously neutral.
“I don’t know,” I said. “We got off to such a great start, and then...”
“Then you got beat up and almost killed and after the thrill of being noble faded, he got bored,” she finished.
“Thanks for reminding me. But I was pretty pathetic. I’d get bored of me, too.”
“Nora! You weren’t pathetic! You were almost murdered!”
The elderly women at the table next to us looked over with obvious interest. “True story,” I said. “How’s your lobster?” They turned back to their meals.
Rosie lowered her voice. “So getting bored because your girlfriend was on shaky ground...that’s kind of shitty.”
“I know, but I didn’t like myself, either. I hate shaky ground.”
“Well, we all have to walk it, girlfriend. Best to have someone who’ll hold your hand while you’re doing it, not run ahead and start flirting with some slutty-ass resident.”
I smiled. “You’re so good for me.”
“I know, I know. And you’re such a slob of a friend to me.”
“Come out next weekend,” I suggested. “It’s Memorial Day, we have a boat parade, and rugged charm is our middle name. Please? You can meet my other friend and everything.”
“You have another friend? I’m devastated!” She grinned. “Okay, I’ll leave Amir home. You know how he is about boats. Titanic ruined him forever.”
“It ruined us all. There was room for two on that door.”
“Preach it, sister. But those last two minutes are worth everything,” she said.
She picked up the tab, and we spent the rest of the afternoon like our old selves, before she got married, before I was attacked.
* * *
On Monday night, after a day at the clinic that consisted of me removing a hook from Jeb Coffin’s palm and closing it with one entire stitch, I went home, changed into jeans and a cute little shirt with cunning little buttons up the back. I fed my beloved, then threw him the tennis ball in the little meadow that spread between the cove and the road.
Then I put my dog inside. Tonight, I was hitting the townie bar to see if I could talk to Luke Fletcher about my dad.
Red’s was the local hangout for serious drinkers and those who hated tourists. The parking lot was full of rusting, dented pickup trucks—beatahs, they were called—and a few cars from the 1970s, not in the classic sense, but in the held-together-with-wire-and-duct-tape sense.
I’d never been here, too young to go to bars when I left the island. Time to see if it was all I’d heard in my youth.
I parked my MINI Cooper at the edge and went in. It was a seedy, dark little place with sticky floors, a few grubby-looking tables and a bar where the serious drunks of Scupper Island sat propped up in a row. This was not a place sought out by flatlanders, that was for sure—it was locals only, and the air itself had a bitter, angry tint to it.
There at the bar was Luke Fletcher, leaning heavily on his elbows. And though he’d been horrible to me, I couldn’t help the pity that ran through my heart. This was a man whose life had not gone as planned, who couldn’t find his way out. There was no victory here for me.
The seat next to him was empty. I slid onto it. Luke didn’t notice.