But more than anything, I wish I didn’t feel Lennon’s gaze on my face. All that memory dredging we did over dinner is overlapping in my brain with Summer’s earlier assumptions about my relationship with Lennon. And a troublesome thought suddenly balloons.
Bogus gossip about my so-called hookup with Brett reached Summer’s ears.
Did it reach Lennon’s, too?
It bothers me that it might have, and it bothers me that I care. Then again, my caring about Lennon was never the problem. It was his caring about me. And a little peanut butter fudge and fond memories of bad shrimp aren’t enough to convince me that anything has changed.
9
Following Brett and Reagan, we all head outside to a deck studded with tin lanterns. It’s beautiful out here, actually. The sun still hasn’t completely fallen, but it’s getting close, and the mountains are limned in orange and pink behind darkening silhouettes of pine trees. Everything’s in that middle stage between day and night, which somehow seems more exciting out here in the wilderness than it does in the city. As though something’s on the verge of happening.
The deck quickly swells with people, some of them standing against the railing to watch the sunset, others claiming seats on the sprawling patio furniture to listen to folksy guitar music. Waiters begin circulating after-dinner coffee and tea. We stroll past Candy, who is chatting with some of her guests, and when she spots us, she calls Reagan over to meet them. The rest of us jog down the wide deck steps to a clearing and head toward the compound’s fire pit.
It’s a gorgeous bonfire, with rustic split-log benches circling it. A few guests are toasting marshmallows over the flames, and there’s some sort of make-your-own-s’mores station on a table. Nearby, white lights are strung on a cedar pergola, beneath which three lanes of horseshoes are set up on sandy ground.
“Want to play?” Kendrick asks Lennon. “I have to warn you, I’m pretty much a horseshoes genius, so I’ll probably beat you.”
“Is that right?”
“Legendary,” Kendrick confirms. “At least, I was when I was ten, which is the last—and, well, only time I’ve ever played.”
Lennon chuckles. “If it’s like ring toss at the fair, I kill at that. Let’s do this.” He glances at me. “You in?”
“Hand-eye coordination is not my strong suit,” I tell him. Every time I’ve ever played games where you have to get up in front of others and do something in a spotlight—like bowling or charades—I generally am too concerned about onlookers watching me and end up looking awkward. “Maybe I’ll watch a game and see how it’s played first.”
“Throw a horseshoe, try to hit the stake,” Lennon says.
“You make it sound easy.”
“No, I think you’re making it harder than it really is,” he says, one side of his mouth tilting. “Sometimes you just have to say screw it and go for it.”
Summer chimes in that she wants to play, and it’s only now I notice that Brett is missing. Maybe he hung back with Reagan to talk to Candy. Or maybe he’s staking out the bartender. Who knows. But I wish he were here so that we could revisit his earlier interest in taking photos of the moon—and maybe so that he could be a natural buffer between me and Lennon.
While we’ve been talking, all the horseshoe lanes have filled with teams. So we stand at the edge of the pergola and wait for a free stake, watching the games in progress. That’s when I feel a gentle tap on my shoulder.
I look up to see a woman about my mom’s age, with pale brown skin and her hair pulled tightly back in a smooth ponytail. “Aren’t you Dan Everhart’s daughter?”
“Yes.” My shoulders tighten. Then I recognize the woman. Razan Abdullah. I’ve seen her in the clinic. She runs a video production company. She used to be one of my dad’s patients.
“I thought I recognized you,” she says with a smile. “Is your family here?”
“No, I’m just vacationing with some friends.” I glance toward Lennon and Kendrick. Lennon nods in greeting.
“Ah,” she says. “Beautiful place, isn’t it? I’ve been here the last few days filming a promo video with a small crew.”
“That’s really cool.”
She nods. “It’s been a great shoot. We leave tomorrow morning. How’s your dad doing? I haven’t seen him since he worked on my back this spring.”
“He’s okay.” I feel like I should say something more positive than that, but honestly, it’s hard for me to muster the words.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” She makes a face, gritting her teeth. “Is your mom still with your dad?”
I’m baffled. “Of course. Why wouldn’t she be?”
“I must be . . . confusing them with another couple.” Rapidly blinking eyes dart sideways as she seems to be thinking about something, hesitating. “You know how it is. I meet so many people for work. . . . They all blur together sometimes.”
“Right,” I say. But now a strange, quiet panic is rising inside me. Did she really confuse my dad with someone else, or has she heard a rumor? Please, please, please don’t let her be someone my dad’s had an affair with. I think she’s married, but I’m not sure.
Before I can press her for more information, her phone lights up and she excuses herself.
I watch her walk away, head muddled, and realize that if she’s getting phone service, we should be in Wi-Fi range. I check my phone, and sure enough, I’ve got a signal. I also have several texts. Two are from my mom, and as I meander away to answer them, I can’t help but think about Razan’s question. It doesn’t take long for thinking to become obsessing, and now I’m picturing
