When We Collided(26)

The memory makes my legs push harder against the sand until they burn. Vivi never gets weird when I’m sad or frustrated or pissed about the state of my family right now. I don’t know much about dating, but I know enough to be grateful that Vivi doesn’t push.

I dated a girl named Sarah last year, my longest relationship ever, and she pushed like a wrecking ball. I still like her as a person, but not as a girlfriend. She’s tiny and feisty, like a little Yorkie dog. I liked that she was in charge of about half the clubs at school. When we were little, she was the girl who got every colorful Girl Scout badge and outsold everyone in the tristate area during cookie season. She thinks success is a quick one-two punch of deciding what to do and doing it.

In the first days after my dad died, Sarah was nice to have around. She’s prepared. Just, as a lifestyle choice: prepared. For any situation. She does things like pack a whole purse full of tissues when she attends your dad’s funeral. She even had a bottle of baby aspirin, like she knew my sister would cry until her head throbbed.

But then I became her project. She was extra peppy—all positive thinking and up-and-at-’ems. When I couldn’t decide to be happy and then do it, when my grief wasn’t an easily conquerable goal . . . well, the yipping grated against my eardrums.

Jonah, she told me. It seems like you’re not even trying to be happy.

Happy? I thought. I’m nowhere freaking close to happy. Happy is a distant continent. I was thrashing in the storm. Sarah didn’t understand anything about my life. I hated being hustled out of pain I earned.

It’s why I broke up with her.

It’s why I won’t hustle my mom out of pain she earned.

Sarah didn’t cry when I ended it. She got huffy and mad. I guess I was probably the one project that talked back to her. Also the only one she couldn’t finish, with honors.

My life still sucked. But at least it felt like mine again.

The sweat cools on my body as I head back toward the car. I’ve been impaled by my own thoughts this morning, and it’s time to get back to distracting myself. When I can’t actually cook to get my mind off everything, I make up recipes in my mind. Like arugula salad with grapefruit and avocado slices. And feta. With a champagne vinaigrette. Maybe some kind of nut—macadamia? I’m not sure yet. I can’t always try them in reality because some of the ingredients I’d want to use are expensive. And not practical for a family of seven. But I do think I have some tip money at the restaurant from a wait shift I covered for Felix last week.

Money is complicated right now. My parents inherited our house from my grandparents, so at least that’s paid off. Since Naomi, Silas, and I all work, we pool enough money to buy groceries and gas every week. Naomi takes care of finance stuff, so she talks to my mom about paying bills. There’s money from life insurance. But it won’t last forever. During the third month of our mom’s departure from reality, Naomi downgraded our already-meager cell phone plan, got rid of the landline my dad insisted on keeping, and canceled our cable. Ironically, my mom has a degree in accounting. She did the restaurant’s books and worked a little during tax season. Not this year, though.

When I pull into the restaurant parking lot, Felix’s car is already there. It’s weird that he’d get in at 8:00 a.m. and that he’d drive. He always walks from home. I use my dad’s key—now mine—to the back door, and I’m surprised to see, not Felix, but his daughter Ellie. She’s peeking around the prep counter. “Oh, hey, Jonah. I thought someone was breaking in.”

“Ellie, hey. What are you doing here?”

“Freezer inventory. Just finished.” She gestures to a piece of paper on the counter.

“I thought your dad was doing that later today.”

“Yeah. But I lost a bet. Family game night thing. He and Lina smoked me and my mom. We bet freezer inventory, so I had to pay up.”

As she steps around the counter, I can’t help but notice she looks more like her mom than ever. She’s almost as tall as me, all arms and legs and thin torso. And she’s holding a frying pan in one hand.

“Making an omelet, too?”

She wrinkles her nose. “Grabbed it out of reflex. In case you were a burglar.”

“A burglar with a key?”

“You never know.” She spins the pan around once, like we’re going to duel. It makes me laugh. “So what are you doing here?”

“Getting tip money out of the safe,” I say. “I covered a wait shift for your dad last week.”

“Ah.” She smiles, up on her tiptoes to put the pan back. I’ve wondered before if Ellie does yoga or something. Everything about her is relaxed. Her movement, tone of voice. “Well, I’m glad to see you. How’s your summer going?”

“It’s . . . okay, thanks. How about you?”

She shrugs. “Pretty good. I got back from my grandma’s a few days ago, and the rest of the summer is wide open. Working here a little. I heard you have a new girlfriend—good for you.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Is Vivi my girlfriend? It’s only been two weeks, but it feels like a whole summer already. But I don’t know what to call her, and she’d tease me if I tried to bring it up. Sometimes she treats me like a boyfriend, other times like a friend with benefits, sometimes like a science experiment. She pokes and prods at me, asks me strange questions.