Reckless Girls(35)

I find myself telling her the whole story: about the divorce and my dad’s new family, how I asked him for help when Mom was sick, and how he wouldn’t give it.

“What a prick,” she mutters, and the words are out before I can stop myself.

“I got him back.”

Eliza turns to look at me, eyebrows raised, and I can’t help but smile a little even as the memory brings back this queasy mix of excitement and shame.

“He came to her funeral, believe it or not. After all of that, he fucking showed up at the memorial service.” I shake my head. “I couldn’t believe it. He said he ‘owed it to her.’”

Eliza snorts. “Seems like he owed her a shit-ton more than that.”

“Exactly,” I say. “He couldn’t be there for her when she was sick, but he could fly all the way to San Diego once she was dead?” I shake my head, remembering Dad in his nice navy suit, his expression contrite, my whole body stiff as he’d gone to hug me. I wanted to be here for you.

“Of course,” I go on, “he’d brought his new wife and his new kids. Had the decency not to bring them to the funeral home, but they were there. Might as well take in the world-famous zoo when you fly into town to pretend to care about your oldest kid, right?”

That’s what had gotten me the most. I would’ve respected him more if he just hadn’t shown up, but he wanted to have it both ways. Look like the Good Dad when it didn’t matter anymore, and actually be the Good Dad to his new kids.

“So, what did you do?” Eliza asks, and I glance over at her.

I’ve never told anyone about this—not even Nico. I didn’t think he’d understand.

“He wanted to take me out to dinner that last night he was there,” I continue, “at this fancy place in the Gaslamp Quarter. I guess as some kind of sympathetic gesture? So I said I’d go, but then I showed up late. Waited for him to order his drink, get settled.”

“I am already loving this story.”

I smile, remembering the rush I’d felt when I walked in. “I went straight to his table, and just … let him have it. Told him what a shitty dad he was, how he thought he could start over with some new family, but they’d eventually work out how shitty he was, too.”

Eliza is sitting up now, her arms around her knees. “If this ends with you throwing his own drink right in his face, I’m going to be delighted.”

“It does, yes,” I admit, my face flushing with the memory, remembering how the entire restaurant had fallen silent at that point, how the martini had made a splashing sound as it hit his forehead. “I also got escorted out and permanently banned from the restaurant, but honestly, I was fine with that. It’s not like I was ever going back there again.”

Later, I’d lain in bed thinking that I might have set myself on fire just to burn my dad, but it had felt worth it. The way his face had gone pale, the satisfaction of finally, finally saying everything I’d wanted to, of giving in to that side of myself that just wanted to fucking do something, no matter how impulsive.

I shrug, suddenly shy. “It sounds stupid, I’m sure.”

“It doesn’t.” Her hand lands on mine, squeezing it. “It sounds brave.”

I look over at her, smiling even as I feel my throat go tight. “Thanks.”

“Told you,” she goes on. “Tough. Steely. A fighter.”

“Yeah, well, lately, I feel more like a drifter.” I sigh. “Like I’m just clinging on to someone else’s dream.”

“Nothing wrong with a little drifting,” she tells me, and then flashes me that bright white grin again. “Means you have options.”

“Options,” I repeat, and I like that. It feels more solid when she puts it that way. Like I’m not just drifting, but waiting. Waiting for the right thing, the right opportunity, the right dream to pursue.

If only I can figure out what it is.

We stay at the pool for another hour or so, and when we head back, the others are already gathered on the beach. It’s become a routine now, all of us congregating there by midday, and it’s like we’re a little family on vacation or something.

But as Eliza and I approach, I realize no one is talking. They’re all just staring at the horizon, frowning. I approach Brittany.

“What’s going on?”

She points.

There, out at sea, is a sail.

Given that there were other people here when we showed up, it shouldn’t surprise me that another boat might turn up. But it’s still unnerving, seeing someone sail directly toward us—toward what has started to feel like our own private island.

We watch in silence as the boat makes its way through the shoals. It’s not as nice as the Azure Sky, not even as nice as the Susannah. A solidly middle-of-the-road boat, and seeing it makes my heart sink.

“Shit,” Brittany says at my side, shading her eyes against the sun. “I don’t want to share.”

There’s something so plaintive in her voice that I laugh even though I’m disappointed, too.

“You’re already sharing with Eliza and Jake,” I remind her, and she glances over at me.

“But they’re friends now,” she says. “Friends with good booze, too. These people aren’t friends. They’re interlopers.”