The Reunion(8)

“Even if that means going back with your tail tucked between your legs?” he asks, handing me another tapa.

“No, they won’t know my circumstances, and I’ll keep it that way. It’s not like my parents are going anywhere, so I’ll have a comfortable roof over my head and a full belly thanks to my mom’s incessant need to feed people. Who knows, maybe it will be refreshing.” I shrug and take a bite of a stuffed mushroom.

Laramie wiggles his eyebrows. “And maybe you’ll find a little Lands’ End lad to snuggle up to.”

I point my finger at him. “Now that’s something I can guarantee won’t happen. Trust me, I’m in no place to be snuggling up to anyone.”

“Not even . . . hunky high school crush Beau . . .” Laramie bats his lashes.

I point my finger at him. “Do not even go there.”

“Why not? He was the main reason you didn’t want to go back to Marina Island, so wouldn’t it just be poetic if you ran into him?”

“Why do I tell you things?” I pop open another box. Lobster wontons. If only these were the comfort I need right now.

“Because I keep you on your toes. Seriously.” Laramie pokes me. “What if you run into him? Weren’t you totally infatuated with him? I mean . . . I saw your yearbooks—you had hearts circling every picture of him.”

“Just drop it, Laramie.” My voice grows harsh.

“Oooh, there was some spice on that; not sure I appreciate the sass. Just your best friend trying to get to the bottom of this crush you’ve been harboring. What’s he even doing? Is he married?”

“I have no idea. I don’t keep up with his social media. I’m not even sure if he’s still living on the island. I don’t ask around. So let’s just drop it—I don’t need the extra anxiety. Going back to Marina Island is all about focusing on me. No distractions. No men.”

Laramie offers me a pot sticker from his take-out box, probably as a peace offering. “That would not be the case for me. I’d be hanging around the docks looking for a strong fisherman to whisk me away.”

Change of subject, thank God. I squeeze his thick biceps, bringing back our playful humor. “I don’t know why you think you’re whisking-away material. You’re like those Great Danes that think they’re lapdogs. I love you, but no one is picking up a six-foot-four man made of muscle unless they have a forklift with them.”

He licks some sauce off his finger and smirks. “So you’re saying I should fall for a construction worker, then? That can be arranged.”



“Oh, Martin, look, there she is, our baby. Yoo-hoo, Palmer, over here. Over here!” Mom yells across the ferry terminal while waving her hands frantically and holding a sign up that reads, PALMER CHANCE. OUR BABY.

Realizing I needed a ride when I got to Marina Island, I called my parents this morning to surprise them with my homecoming. After Mom screeched on the phone for a solid minute, we put a plan into action, and here they are now: my parents, waving their hands wildly while “yoo-hooing” at me.

“Palmer, do you see us? Your parents are right here. Yoo-hoo, Palmer!”

“Yes, I see you,” I shout over the herd of people before me. They all turn to give me a look but keep moving.

I adjust my sunglasses over my eyes, tug on the neck pillow I have draped around the back of my neck, and clutch tightly my two rollie suitcases that are half my size. Being broke means you don’t get to fly the way you prefer. Instead of sitting up in first class with a glass of champagne and enough space to warrant sitting cross-legged, I sat back by the toilets, where someone must have eaten something foul at the airport because they were occupying the lavatory for an uncomfortable amount of time. Not to mention I purchased a ticket for cheap, which was evident in the lack of cushioning in the seats, the tray table that was the size of my palm, and the surcharge for bags and a drink, and I’m pretty sure they charged me for a seat belt too.

“There she is,” Mom says as I finally make my way to them. “Our baby girl.”

“Hey, Mo—”

I’m scooped into a hug, my face planted straight into my mom’s shoulder.

She strokes my head as she swooshes our bodies back and forth in a bear hug that knocks my suitcases from my hands as I struggle to keep my balance.

“Our baby girl,” she repeats over and over as she kisses my cheek. “Look at you and your little bob cut. Martin, do you see her hair? See how short it is. Look at her hair.”

“Is it a different color?” Dad asks with a confused grimace. “I thought you had red hair. That’s what you were born with.”

Holding back the necessary eye roll, I pry myself from my mom’s arms. “Laramie put in some highlights last night for me. It’s strawberry blonde.”

“Is that what the kids are calling it these days? Fruit hair?” Dad chuckles to himself and pulls me into a hug. “You look great.” He kisses the top of my head, and then together we roll my bags to their red Subaru Outback that they’ve had for I believe at least ten years. For people who have millions in their bank account, they sure do live the simple life.

“You packed an awful lot, don’t you think?” Dad asks, shoving my bags in the back, and that’s when I notice his ill-matched socks. A tube sock with red stripes and an ankle sock with neon letters on the side. What on earth is that about?