Good for You: A Novel (32)

“I see,” said Wyatt, whose phone had just started vibrating on the table. He immediately flipped it over, but not before Aly saw MOM written across the screen.

“Do you need to get that?” she asked.

“Nope.” He drained his coffee.

“You sure?” she said. “You have a weird look on your face.”

“Are you saying I’m ugly?” he said, pretending to be hurt.

She laughed. “Don’t try to change the subject.”

“Fine—then I definitely won’t ask you if you’ve been to the Dunes.”

“At Oval Beach? Of course, though it’s been years.”

“I meant Warren Dunes,” he asked, referring to the state park an hour south of Saugatuck. “I’ve never seen them, but I was just reading that they dwarf these dunes.”

“Oh—yeah, I’ve been. But not since . . .” Her voice trailed off, and tears pricked her eyes before her brain had even registered the memory.

Not since she’d gone with Luke more than a decade earlier.

Wyatt slipped his laptop into his bag, then stood and folded his arms over his chest. “We should go.”

“We?” she questioned.

“Yeah. You and me—unless you want to bring Cindy,” he said, smirking.

“That’s a hard no,” she said, laughing. “And by the way, thanks for changing the locks.”

“Don’t mention it. Anyway, I’ve never been to Warren Dunes, and apparently, you’re leaving any day now. It might be fun. Unless my beard offends you too much for you to spend two hours in a car with me,” he added.

“Oh,” she said, sheepish. So he was aware that his facial fur made her want to do rude things with a pair of scissors. “It’s fine.”

“Good. Then how about this afternoon, after lunch? Unless you have plans,” he said, arching an eyebrow.

She blushed. “I don’t.” I never have plans anymore, she added mentally. And I seem incapable of making any, which doesn’t bode well for my future.

“Then I’ll meet you at the house around one,” he said.

Now she smiled. “It’s a plan.”

Panic didn’t fully set in until she was nearly home. SOS, she texted Harry the minute she got into the kitchen. I’m going on a beach outing with Wyatt

Blinking dots immediately appeared, then text: The plot THICKENS!

Nothing is thickening, Harry

Tell that to your rugged roommate

Her ears were burning. You’ve never even seen him, she typed, grateful they weren’t on FaceTime.

It’s called Google, babe

You’re certifiable

Harry didn’t write back right away—he was probably in the middle of emailing a client or tactfully informing a junior associate that they’d bungled a brief. She was about to tell him she’d check in later when he texted her a photo of what was clearly Wyatt’s banking headshot. But Harry had scribbled a scraggly beard on his chin and had written HOT over his head.

Now her face was officially on fire. Harry! This is Luke’s best friend we’re talking about. Ew. No

I’m incorrigible (a word I can’t actually spell without the help of autocorrect). And you’re going on a DATE. Tell me how it goes! More soon xx

I’m NOT. You’re the worst and I can’t believe I love you xo

Aly sighed and sank into her bed. The mattress Luke had chosen was nice—expensive, no doubt, and soft on top while solid enough that she didn’t roll into the middle. She wished she could take it with her to wherever in the five boroughs she ended up. She was tired, so very tired; it was a shame she couldn’t nap. She’d never been able to, even if she’d stayed up half the night studying in college. Luke hadn’t, either. “I think it’s from years of being on high alert,” he’d said to her when they’d discussed it over dinner one night when they both lived in the city. “Because of Dad, you know?”

She did.

She hadn’t seen or heard from her father since she was fourteen, but the memory of him followed her like a shadow. Sometimes she felt sorry for him—how broken did you have to be to take out all your anger on a child? Mostly, though, she hated him for what he’d taken from her. Besides her childhood, he’d stolen her belief that she was inherently lovable. And yes, the sense of safety that allowed a person to fall asleep midday.

She laid there for nearly half an hour, wishing for unconsciousness. Then she went into the bathroom and splashed her skin with water. She had bags under her eyes that no amount of concealer could correct, and she was badly in need of a haircut. She swiped on tinted gloss, and then decided to add waterproof mascara in an attempt to appear slightly less exhausted. Photo-ready she was not, but it was just Wyatt, and it would have to do.

“Hey,” he said when she came downstairs. She must have looked as spent as she felt, because he said, “We can go another time if you’re not feeling up to it.”

But Aly didn’t respond. Though the man sitting on the counter was wearing a worn Lake Michigan T-shirt she’d seen plenty of times and a beaten-up pair of swim trunks, it took her several seconds to process that it was Wyatt. Because his jaw was no longer covered with fur. And now the whole effect was . . .

Well, she wasn’t going to admit this to Harry, but he had not been wrong.