Serious Moonlight(78)

“Birdie—”

“I’m not a child. I can get home by myself.” I quickly swiped at my eyes and found my purse as he begged me to stay. I couldn’t. Everything inside me was screaming for me to run. Bolt. Flee the scene. I slipped into my shoes and bolted out the door, and when he tried to come after me, I stopped him and said, “I shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry . . . for everything.”

I somehow made it out of the neighborhood, avoiding stares as I tripped my way down the sidewalk, blubbering like a small child. But I managed to pull myself together long enough to board a morning bus. And when I was headed out of West Seattle, crammed against commuters headed to their jobs downtown, stunned and dazed about what had just happened, trying not to cry again—Pull it together, Birdie!—I realized that what I’d said to Daniel was a lie: I wasn’t sorry in the least.

Sure, it was humiliating that I’d brought an entire box of condoms for Cherry to find, but I wasn’t sorry that Daniel and I had talked about sex. And yes, it was embarrassing that I’d nodded off so many times last night, but I was honestly glad he knew about my narcolepsy now; it was a relief. And spending the night with him on the couch? I didn’t regret that one single bit.

At least, not until Cherry walked in.

What are you doing with my son?

Good question. What was I doing?

I guess I needed to figure that out. But right now it was all I could do to hold back tears and try to stop my chest from feeling as if it were caving in and collapsing around my wounded heart.

? ? ?

It wasn’t until I got back to Bainbridge Island that I remembered Grandpa was gone on his fishing trip with Cass. Instead of heading home, I walked past the harbor shops and hiked up the main drag to Aunt Mona’s house while the sun timidly peeked through gray clouds. But when I spied the retro red letters of THE RIVERA on the marquee above the doorway, I also spotted a shiny black SUV parked in front of the door. My first thought was that the cops had come to arrest Mona for stealing that painting from Sharkovsky’s house, but as I quickened my steps, hugging my purse against my ribs, I realized it was something far worse.

Leon Snodgrass.

He was putting something in the back seat of the SUV. When he shut the door and looked up, our eyes met. It had been more than a year since I’d seen him, and some things looked exactly as I remembered: pasty-white rich-boy complexion. Long nose. Stupid 1990s band T-shirt, in an attempt to look less like the stockbroker that he was.

But other things had changed. No longer clipped short, his chin-length light brown hair was tucked behind his ears. A matching beard covered the lower half of his face. And he was wearing jeans. I’d never seen him outside a pair of khakis.

If I had to profile Leon Snodgrass, it would look a little like this:

Suspect: Leon Snodgrass

Age: 39

Occupation: Investment banker

Medical conditions: (1) Allergic to mangoes. (2) Terrible yet frequent golfer. (3) Thinks “da bomb” is a funny way to describe things he likes. (4) Says Monopoly is better than Clue. (5) Possible foot fetish; always looking at Mona’s feet.

Background: Born into an upper-middle class family on Bainbridge Island; great-grandfather owned a shipbuilding company in Scotland in the early twentieth century. Went to the University of Washington; has master’s degree in finance and brags that he met former President Barack Obama in 2010 when the man made an appearance at a bakery in Pioneer Square, and that President Obama complimented his shoes. Won a bunch of sailing competitions after college. Started dating Mona four years ago; broke up. Then again two years ago, before going on a “break” a year later, during which time, seventeen-year-old Birdie Lindberg took photographs of him laughing it up over calamari with Cathy Wong inside Doc’s Marina Grill. A month later he moved to Texas. Some of us wished he’d stayed there.

“Birdie,” Leon said, blinking at me as if I were a figment of his imagination.

“Leon,” I replied, hugging my purse more tightly. “Heard you were in town.”

He nervously tucked his hair more firmly behind his ears. “Yeah. Decided to move back to the island. Austin was great, but it’s sweltering, and the traffic is insane. And I got sick of waiting in line for breakfast tacos.”

Did he say “move back”? As in permanently?

“Well, hoo-boy,” I said. “You came back to a real restaurant mecca here, didn’t you?” I said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “Now you get to wait in line behind chatty Mrs. Carmichael at Pegasus Coffee.”

He laughed softly and scratched the back of his head. “Believe it or not, I’ve missed all this. You don’t realize how fresh the air is until you’ve gone.”

“Like Murden Cove’s tidal flats?” Farther north on the island, they start stinking like sulfur in the summer during low tide.

“Ugh, Murder Cove,” he says, wincing. “Okay, maybe I didn’t miss that. But the rest of it. Plus, the city is right across the water. I can zip over there if I’m missing nightlife.”

“In your super-dope new yacht?” I said. “What was that you named it? The Spirit of a Woman I Don’t Deserve?”

“Oof,” he said, blowing out a hard breath. “Why are teens so vicious?”

“Because we haven’t learned the art of being phony yet, Mr. Soundgarden.”