The Loose Ends List(50)

“I’m grateful for the ability to tune out this cheesy conversation,” Jeb says.

“Stop being a wiseass, Jeb,” Dad says. “I’ll go. I’m grateful for Mr. Bob Johns. Bro, you are my poker buddy, and I’m damn glad you’re here.”

“Thank you, Aaron. Same here. I’m grateful this family has welcomed me with open arms.”

Did he just call Bob bro? Jeb texts me. I laugh out loud and text back Aww. Dad finally has a friend.

The chorus of gratitude and snide comments continues through the piles of buttery shrimp and loaves of crusty bread dunked in olive oil.

“Maddie’s turn,” Wes says. His face is red from the wine. They all turn to look at me. I’m not feeling philosophical or particularly grateful. But I don’t want to be a douchebag like Jeb.

So I decide to sing. It only takes one line of Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World” to get them going. We sing the song, beginning to end, in our terrible voices. The group of Bulgarian tourists at the table next to us don’t crack a smile, but that is their problem.

Gram motions to the waiter and hands him her Amex platinum card. Where will we be in a year, when Gram is no longer telling us to get our asses to dinner or brunch? Who will grab the arm of the ma?tre d’ and whisper, We’d like a corner table and your best server, please? Who will make the reservation in the first place?

On the way to the hotel, we stop at a Venetian glass shop with a delicate menagerie of blown-glass creatures, each more exquisite than the next. I spot a marble-sized glass soccer ball hidden behind a school of orange fish. I buy it for Enzo.

It pours again on our walk through Pigeon Shit Square. The downpour has caused the bay to swell and flood the sidewalk in front of our hotel. I start to panic.

“Maddie, relax. Venice has been flooding for hundreds of years,” Gram says.

“Gram, do you seriously love this city?” My feet squeak on the marble lobby floor.

“I love the grand idea of Venice sinking before our very eyes.” She holds my arm and we shuffle toward the elevator. “It’s fascinating to think we might be part of the small fraction of humans who will get to enjoy this place before it returns to the sea.”

“Is that why you chose it?”

“That and because it’s on the way to our next destination. Also, I had my heart set on a fabulous Venetian dinner. But between you and me, I could barely taste the shrimp. My palate is gone.”

“I’m sorry, Gram.”

“It’s okay, honey. The company was good.”

We go to our rooms, and I sink into my gilded Renaissance bed, desperate for sleep. I try to think of clever things to write Enzo, but I’m too tired. So I wing it. 1. I had a plane dream that I forgot to take gym class and they wouldn’t let me graduate. High school forever! 2. My family is obsessed with food. 3. I liked you a tiny bit more when I saw your legs in soccer, excuse me football, shorts. Bonus Question (you know I like questions): Is there anything about you that isn’t perfect?

I hold the glass ball to my cheek and hope the flood doesn’t rise above the second floor.

I’m too tired to swim.



“Why the hell are we going to a place called Bled? Why don’t we stop at Clot and then Barf and maybe have lunch at Tumor?” Janie is in rare form. She sounds like Brit, the evil twin.

Dad keeps bugging us to move up a few rows in case we get rear-ended. We’re on a private coach bus, and the roads in Slovenia seem safe, but we humor him anyway.

“Who goes to Slovenia?”

“It’s still the Alps. It can’t be that bad. What is wrong with you, anyway? I’m just going to ask you one thing, and I don’t want you to get mad.”

“What, Maddie?”

“Are you mad at me because I’m still a virgin?” I whisper, in case Dad is listening.

“What? That’s idiotic. I’m mad at you because you’re annoying.”

“Because I was totally about to have sex, and then I got my period.”

“I don’t care,” Janie says, picking at a split end.

I decide to blurt it out. “You saw me walk in, didn’t you? In Iceland.”

“I don’t want to talk about Iceland.” She turns away and presses her face against the window.

“Why not?”

She turns back and gives me a snide look. “Because I’m a slut, Maddie. I promised Ty I would be faithful, and I did way too many shots and slept with that guy, okay?”

“Stop doing this to yourself,” I say. “It’s not like you have a ring on your finger.”

“Did I tell you Ty’s mom died on the Wishwell? That’s why he became a doctor. And he cares about the environment and fosters pit bulls when he’s not on the ship.” She shakes her head. “He’s a saint. And I’m a horrible person.”

“Seriously, stop, Janie.”

She whips her head around and stares at me. “I made fun of his penis, and I slept with somebody else.”

“But you are not a slut. You’re just a sloppy drunk. It’s the O’Neill gene.”

“It doesn’t matter that I was drunk. I feel awful. Like, sick-to-my-stomach awful.” She pulls her hair out of the ponytail and picks furiously at the split ends.