Vivi smiles at us as she lugs both of their bags down from the porch. She’s cute, but in an understated way, far more subdued than Ginger’s brand of cute. Medium height, medium build, medium length dark hair in a straightforward, simple cut, no makeup or jewelry or bedazzling of any sort. Her denim shorts—not short-shorts, more conservatively cut—plain green T-shirt, and foam flip-flops are in stark comparison to Ginger’s cheetah-inspired romper and neon-pink platform sandals. But they look happy walking down the front steps together. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but Vivi is giggling over something Ginger says. They both blush.
The two days go by too fast. The beach is long and hot and crowded with screaming babies and kids tossing Frisbees in every direction, flinging sand on neighboring sunbathers. The boardwalk is even more hot and crowded. But none of that matters. I’m with Ginger and Noah, and Vivi feels like a natural fourth. She listens and laughs when we go off on long tangents about old memories, and if she’s bored, she’s polite enough to never let on.
We take a long walk along the water after the masses pack up for the day. It’s easy to lose yourself looking out at the ocean—easy to think too much. Max’s face comes to me first. Then Elliot’s. I close my eyes and listen to the waves, and I think I feel just a little bit better.
I am here. We are here.
When Noah puts a lit candle into a funnel cake for Ginger to blow out, she clamps her eyes shut tight and focuses intently on her wish.
Later that night when I see Vivi and Ginger kiss on the moonlit beach, I feel confident that her wish came true.
Eighteenth-birthday wishes really do have a special power.
Thursday night, Noah drops me back off at home. We’re sunburned and sleepy and happy, smelling like salt water and vinegar fries. I don’t want to wash the ocean out of my hair. People make fun of the Jersey Shore, but it’s the only ocean I’ve ever known, and ocean is ocean.
I eat dinner with Mama and Mimmy, and after they head to bed, I pick up my phone.
I’m not sure why I do it, but I do.
I call Elliot. I ask him to get breakfast with me on Saturday.
“I didn’t think you’d actually call.” Elliot is flipping absentmindedly back and forth through the ten sticky laminated pages of the diner’s menu. I’ve always wondered how they could possibly keep so many different ingredients constantly stocked. Sometimes I want to order the most obscure item on the menu, Delmonico Steak or Dijon Pork Chops, maybe, just to call their bluff. I only ever see breakfast platters and burgers and fries on the tables. And pie. Lots of pie.
Ginger’s not on duty today—a fact I knew, of course, when I suggested this morning for breakfast. If she was here and caught wind of our conversation, she’d take a break at the next booth over. She’s not really missing anything juicy so far, though. Just a run through the basics: College. My moms. Friends. Hobbies. I’m afraid we’ve run out of subject material and we haven’t ordered anything but our coffees.
“I didn’t think I’d call either,” I say.
“I’m glad you did.”
“Really?” I put my menu down. I always order the same thing: Two poached eggs, two blueberry pancakes, home fries. Extra maple syrup. “You didn’t offer out of obligation? I’m not looking for a dad, you know. I don’t need anything from you. My moms have it covered.”
“I know that. And maybe it was partly out of obligation, at first. Guilt. It felt like the right thing to do. But as soon as I said it, I knew I meant it. I really did want to talk. Learn a little more about you beyond being Max’s…” He lets it dangle and die, for both our sakes.
“How is he?” I clench my fists under the table. “Max?”
“Locked away in his room, mostly, sneaking out to steal food at odd hours when he doesn’t have to interact with any of us. But he’s probably painting up a storm at least—that’s his usual fixer-upper when he’s down.” He frowns. “Though he’s never been down quite like this before. If there’s a silver lining, it’s that he might paint his way into college with all the new material for his portfolio. Quite emotional material, too, I would imagine.”
“So, you want him to study art?” I steer the conversation away from how down Max is. My heart is still too sensitive—the messy stitches too loose and easy to tug right back out.
“Sure, if that’s his dream. I want him to do what makes him happy. He deserves that, especially after nearly eighteen years of living with me.”
I admire his honesty at least. His self-awareness.
“It’s none of my business, I know, but—why do you stay?” I ask. “From the outside at least, it doesn’t seem like you want to be there. Maybe you’d all be happier apart.”
“Very direct. Must have gotten some of my lawyering genes.” I can tell from the twitch of his lips that he hadn’t meant to say it—to compare our genes. “Sorry. I don’t mean to say you’re anything like me. I actually hope you’re not.”
I shrug. Wait for him to talk more. That’s why I’m here. To learn about him.
“Why do I stay?” He laughs, but his blue eyes are sad. “Because I love Joanie. I do. I love her deep in my bones. And the kids, too. They are my bones. Funny for a guy who didn’t think he’d want kids, I can’t imagine a world without them. But I know I have a peculiar way of showing it to all three of them.” He pauses, takes a long swig of coffee. Chases it with some lemon water. Clears his throat. “I’ve never been good at that. Real affection. Commitment. Devotion. I had a pretty poor role model of a dad myself,
