A Tragic Kind of Wonderful(41)

I don’t say more. He’ll see soon enough. I’ll deal with it then.

“It’s okay,” he says after a moment. “You don’t have to get into it. I don’t mean to pry.”

I reflexively want to tell him it’s okay for him to pry … except it isn’t.

Part of having him drive me was to finish our conversation, but the momentum’s broken and I don’t know how to start it up again. We drive in silence.

When David pulls up at the curb, I phone HJ. She answers and shouts, “I’m coming!” which triggers laughter from others in the background as she hangs up.

The door opens and lets out a blast of bar noise. HJ emerges in her sky-highs: stilettos so tall it’s like she doesn’t have feet. An unusual choice for a woman who’s six feet tall barefoot, but HJ revels in her unusualness. She approaches the car carrying a … long gray gym sock?

She squats by the passenger window and hands me the sock. Now I see it holds a bottle like a sleeve.

“You know, Mel, there’s no takeout here. You’re supposed to drink on the premises. It’s illegal to take anything out. The cops I’m drinking with said so.”

“You told them?”

“Don’t worry, they’re cool. Did you think that’s my sock?”

“How much is it?”

“A fifth.”

“A fifth of what?”

David says, “That’s the size of the bottle.”

“No, I mean how much do I owe you?”

“Nothing. It’s a gift. For your sixteenth birthday.”

“I turn seventeen in a couple weeks.”

“And what did I get you for your last birthday?”

A very wet, sloppy kiss on the cheek, hard enough that it needed scrubbing later to wash the lipstick off.

“No, really, I want to pay you back.”

“Can’t. Slater—the bartender—gave it to me free. I’m good for business.” She turns to face David. “Who’s this?”

“My friend David.” Then I say to him, “This is my aunt Joan.”

“Call me HJ.” She rests her forearms along the window frame. “So you’re one of Mel’s friends?”

“Pleasure to meet you,” David says.

“Yeah. So, Mel, is this the friend? You know …” She backhands my shoulder lightly.

“We’re leaving now.”

She nods at David. “You are, aren’t you?”

He looks at her with a straight face … then he waggles his eyebrows.

HJ laughs so hard she reels back and has to grab the car to keep from falling.

The door to the bar opens. A guy in a blue button-down shirt and jeans steps out.

“Come on, Joan! I hear Kenny Loggins coming!”

“Jesus, Tom, your age is showing! I’m not riding the highway with you!” To us she says, “I hate when the band drinks themselves off the stage and it turns into Jukebox Night.”

It’s the cop from the beach. He’s got shoes on but I can’t see if he’s wearing both socks.

“Duty calls,” she says. “Don’t make me regret this.”

“Shouldn’t you tell me that? Don’t do anything I’ll regret?”

“Be like me; I never regret anything!”

She stands up, raps the roof of the car, and strides back to the bar.

“That made no sense,” David says.

“Yeah,” I say. “We call her Hurricane Joan for a reason. HJ and regret have a complicated relationship.”

“HJ. I get it. She knows what it means?”

“She’s proud of it.”

“So where next? Which beach?”

“South Point.”

Again we don’t talk as we drive over. I want to say the bottle’s not for me, except maybe it is. I want to tell him we can’t be more than part-time friends, but I remember Zumi calling me a martyr this afternoon for avoiding her last year. I could make up some reason, but I don’t want to lie. This is the first time sitting with David in silence feels uncomfortable.

He parks in the lot but leaves the engine running. It’s very dark out: only one lamp, no moon, out of sight of both the beach and the highway, with no one around.

“I’ll wait here till you text me that you found your friends.”

“Okay. Thanks for the ride.”

“No problem.”

I wait a moment. It feels bad to leave like this. I don’t know what else I can do. It’s too dark to see his expression.

“Okay.” I open the door. “I’ll text you.”

As I walk across the parking lot to the path leading down to the beach, I type into my phone: I’m here. Thanks for the ride.

And for waiting.

So I can just press Send when I get there and not type it while sitting with Zumi and Connor.

Next I text Mom. I have to tell her the truth since she knows my phone password and can pull up my location on a map anytime. She’d panic if she randomly saw me on the beach, thinking I might be alone. I tell her I’m here with friends—no other explanation—and I’ll be back late. She tells me to be careful.

I see Zumi and Connor on a large beach blanket with a propane camping lantern. I press Send on my text to David.