She slid open the refrigerator case door and pulled two crab cakes off the ice.
“Oh, I’ll probably just have a turkey sandwich.”
Piper peered at him over the counter. “The sandwiches are terrible here.” Anders had ordered one before, cheap white bread stuffed with packaged deli meat and a square of plastic-wrapped cheese. Still, he thought “terrible” was an overstatement.
“I don’t really eat seafood.”
“Are you allergic?”
“No. I just don’t like it.”
“That can’t be possible.”
“To not like seafood? I think it’s pretty com—”
She cut him off. “You haven’t eaten the good stuff.”
Realizing she wasn’t going to take no for an answer, Anders remained silent as Piper moved to the flat metal grill next to the sink in the back. After lighting the fire with the turn knob and squirting oil onto the surface, she slapped both crab cakes on it with a satisfying sizzle.
When they were done, Piper flipped them both onto a paper plate and directed Anders to grab a couple bottled waters and follow her out to the covered porch, where two plastic chairs sat waiting. A light mist filled the air, minuscule raindrops not strong enough for gravity to pull to the ground, giving the whole island an otherworldly feel.
“Here,” Piper said, offering him the plate after they sat down. She watched intently as he bit into the crab cake. Anders emitted a small grunt of surprise at the texture (somehow meaty and flaky) and the flavor (salty, buttery, with a hint of sweetness, but no fishy taste to be found). He swallowed. “It’s good.”
“Good?”
“Yeah,” he said, confused at her clear disappointment in his response. “I like it.”
“Are you always this enthusiastic about things you like?” she deadpanned.
“Yes.”
She laughed. “Oh! I know what you should do for your next assignment.”
Anders narrowed his eyes. “You mean I haven’t done every single thing there is to do on Frick Island?”
“Not yet. You haven’t picked crabs.”
“Which is different from crabbing, I presume?”
“It is. You’d have to come Wednesday evening, though. That’s when they do it.”
Anders considered this. If he could convince BobDan to bring him over after he dropped off the afternoon passengers, instead of catching the noon ferry, he would only have to take a few hours off work.
“I could do that,” he said, as a pinprick on his arm grabbed his attention. He cursed and swatted at the feasting mosquito. “These bugs!”
“Oh, don’t kill her,” Piper intoned. “She’s just trying to make her babies.”
Anders pulled a face. “On my arm?”
“No. She just needs your blood because she doesn’t produce enough protein on her own to form her eggs. It’s called anautogeny.”
Anders wavered between being disgusted and impressed. “Well, tell her to use your blood, then.” He scratched at his arm where a bump was already forming.
“You know, I’ve never understood why people love ladybugs and butterflies—”
Anders raised a finger, effectively cutting her off. “I don’t like ladybugs or butterflies.”
Piper blinked. “OK, I don’t understand why most people love ladybugs and butterflies, but not mosquitoes or roaches. It makes no sense.”
“It makes perfect sense. Mosquitoes are parasites. And roaches—” He shuddered again, not even sure where to begin with how disgusting they were. “Name one redeeming quality they have.”
“I’ll name five.” She held out her pointer finger and began ticking points off. “They’re survivors—they’ve been around for more than 280 million years. They can hold their breath for forty minutes. They play a major role in our ecosystem, converting just about everything they eat into nutrients that nourish growing plants. In China, they’re breeding them to help combat their huge landfill problem.” She paused, thinking. “Oh, and the Chinese believe cockroaches have medicinal benefits, so they eat them ground up in pills or fried.”
Anders looked at the crab cake he was about to take another bite of, and lowered it back onto the plate. “Remind me never to go to Beijing.”
Piper giggled. They sat in a comfortable silence, watching the mist turn into a dripping rain.
“Why are you here?” Anders asked suddenly.
She glanced at him, arching her eyebrows. “Because you wanted lunch?”
“No, not here here. I mean the island. I know you said your mom brought you over. But she’s gone. Why did you stay? Or I don’t know—go to college?”
She sighed and turned her face back toward the rain. “You sound just like Tom.”
“I do?”
“Yeah, after high school, he was adamant that I leave; go get a degree.”
“And?”
“I don’t know. This is my home. Everything I know and love. And he isn’t ever going to leave. Why should I?” She shrugged, as if that explained everything. She adjusted in her seat and her knee accidentally nudged his. Anders felt the sudden warmth of her skin against his and then it was gone.
Well, he did leave, actually, Anders wanted to say. Instead he said: “Yeah, but you could always come back.”
Piper cocked her head. “You don’t really do small talk, do you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Most people chat about the weather. What’d you do last night? That sort of thing. But you—you always cut straight to the heart of things. Why didn’t you go to college? Do you miss your mom?”
Anders paused. He’d never considered that before, but it was true. “I’m sorry. Occupational hazard, I guess.”
“No, I like it. I never wonder what you’re thinking.”
“I wonder what you’re thinking all the time,” Anders said, and then snapped his jaw shut. Did he have to say everything that came into his mind?
Piper let the words hang in the air for a few seconds and then changed the subject. “Tell me about you. What’s your family like? Why did you decide to be a journalist?”
For the next ten minutes Anders monopolized the conversation, telling her about Kelsey, his mom and dad—the condensed, easy-to-understand version that made his family sound as idyllic as a Norman Rockwell painting, even if that wasn’t quite accurate. Then he explained about Superman and Clark Kent.
“Wait—you’ve known
