The Reunion(13)

Outrage.

Drama!

“That’s all you’re going to say?” I hiccup. “Why aren’t you angry?” I sway to the side.

He looks me up and down. “Palm, maybe lay off the wine.”

I shake my head and clutch my bottle close to my heart. “This right here, this is my only friend.”

“You’re using the wrong thing to cope.”

“Ugh, get out of here with your big brother sensibility. Can’t you see I’m letting myself have a moment?”

“You were having a moment before the announcement.” He studies me. “Is there something else going on you’re not telling me about?”

Sensible and intuitive.

“What? No,” I answer quickly. “Why would you think that?”

“Because your eyes are shifty. Because you’re acting weird. Because you’re having an outlandish reaction to Mom and Dad moving.”

“Outlandish?” I say, my voice rising. “Ford”—hiccup—“this is our childhood home; this is where you once drove over Mom’s garden with a tractor, and then all three of us ran to the market to buy vegetables and restocked the soil with them. Don’t you remember the look on Mom’s face when she held up her prize-winning eggplant that we bought from the store . . . on sale? You’re telling me you’re okay with them selling the garden that brought us all together that fateful summer?”

He looks down at the deck and scuffs his shoes across the wood. “No, but I’m willing to talk through things—”

I point to the deck. “This is where we built the biggest Jenga tower, unofficially breaking the Guinness Book of World Records.”

“Palm—”

“And that window up there? That’s the window Cooper broke when he hit the screaming home run off of Dad during the Chance Championship, which in turn bought us our trophy . . . a blow-up slide for the lake.”

“I know—”

“And that lake.” I fling my arm out to the side. “That is the same lake where you touched your first breast, under the water, like a teenage pervert . . .”

“Why do you know about that?” He sighs and then drags his hand over his face. “Wait, don’t answer that.”

“And the driveway, that’s the place where I first saw—” My mouth slams shut as I realize I’ve almost said where I saw Beau for the first time, riding his bike, looking like a total dreamboat on a red and black Trek he bought from the Watchful Wanderers.

Seemingly oblivious to my abrupt stop, Ford says, “I know this is where we hold our fondest memories—even the creepy ones, apparently—but Palmer, you have to understand where Mom and Dad are coming from. And I hate to say it, but . . . you’re acting out.”

“Acting out? You think this is acting out? Oh, I can show you”—hiccup—“acting out.”

Because I feel the need to prove a point, I search around the deck, looking for something that . . . oh, that will do. Wine bottle still clutched to my chest, I step up on the adjoining seat of my parents’ picnic table and then stand on top of it, waving my hands—and bottle—above my head. “Now this is acting out,” I declare, pelvic thrusting the air and making lewd gestures because, well . . . wine. “Woooo-hoooo, look at me, acting out. Palmer Chance is on a picnic table, waving her hands, acting like a giant . . . whoooaaa—”

Clunk.

Like rain from the sky, my wine bottle slips out of my hand, knocks me in the head, and throws me off balance.

I teeter on the edge of the picnic table, my legs wobbly, and before I know it, I’m crying, “Man overboard!” as I topple to the deck, landing directly on my wrist with a crunch.

“Jesus, Palmer,” I hear Ford say right before everything goes black and wine takes me into a pillowy-soft, emotionless dream state.





CHAPTER SEVEN

DR. BEAU

“Wine!” my patient shouts as her eyes fly open and she clutches at her chest.

Palmer Chance.

The brilliantly beautiful, sometimes insufferable, most of the time gregarious woman with a knack for bringing men to their knees. The record holder for most Girl Scout cookies sold on Marina Island, the heiress to the Watchful Wanderers store, and the youngest and only girl of the famous Chance family. Everyone cheered her on when she went off to NYC, rallied when she went viral for posting a video of herself eating snails for the first time, and bragged when she became a famous Instagrammer. Marina Island loves her, and from the blank look on her face . . . she has no idea who I am.

“Where am I?” She pats down her clothes and winces. “Dear God, what is that pain?” Her eyes zero in on me. “And who are you?” She plucks at her shirt while taking in her surroundings. “You’re smiling—why are you smiling and hovering over me? Is this . . . is this a secret cannibal, sadist, organ-harvesting cave?”

“Palmer,” Ford says, coming up next to her. “You’re at the doctor’s office.”

Her eyes search the exam room, and she shakes her head. “This is not a doctor’s office—this is a bedroom converted to look like a doctor’s office.” She turns to Ford. “Blink twice if they’re making you say that.”

Yup, she’s still drunk.