I quickly fold, nothing but a pair of twos in my hand. Harvey celebrates his winning royal flush by shuffling into the kitchen and coming back with a bottle of nice scotch. He pours a little for each of us and Barb puts a new record on.
“Round two,” Lenore says, rubbing her hands together.
By the end of the night, I’ve lost forty bucks, won eleven of it back, smoked my first cigar, and promised to go to Harvey’s seventy-fifth birthday party, which isn’t until October—three and a half months from now—but for which planning has already commenced.
“We’re going to rent a party bus and go down to the casino!” Barb tells me, eyes sparkling from laughing, drinking, smoking, and soundly kicking our asses at the card table.
“Assuming I don’t kick the bucket before then,” Harvey says.
“Oh, no, we’ll still rent the party bus,” Lenore puts in. “It’ll just be a funeral instead of a birthday.”
“Going out in style,” Harvey says.
“Should we make sure you’re wearing your signature look?” I ask, gesturing toward his getup. As soon as I’ve said it, I feel that familiar oh shit dip in my stomach, unsure whether the joke crossed an invisible line.
But Harvey’s coughing out a laugh along with a cloud of smoke. “You can come back,” Harvey tells me; then to Ashleigh, pointedly, “Bring her back.” Then, to me again: “Just don’t expect special treatment at work.”
I cross my heart.
At the front door, we all exchange hugs farewell, then Ashleigh and I slip on our shoes and step out into the quiet cul-de-sac. Most of the other houses are either totally dark or have one lone bulb glowing beside their front doors, but if Ashleigh’s to be believed, poker night is just getting started.
“Share a cab?” she asks, swaying slightly on the spot as she summons one on her phone.
Neither of us is fit to drive. “First a hobby, then a cab,” I say. “What’s next?”
“A deadly secret,” Ashleigh deadpans.
At least I think it’s a joke.
“That was really fun,” I say. “I haven’t been to a party since . . .” I think for a moment. “My engagement party, I guess.”
“You thought that was a party?” she says. “We really do need to get you out more.”
I shrug. “I’ve always been kind of a tagalong, I guess. Only lately I haven’t had anyone to tag along after.”
“You’re not a tagalong,” she says. “You’re a we-girl.”
“Like a wee lass?” I ask.
“No, like, We love that restaurant. We always vacation there. We don’t really like scary movies. A woman who’s more comfortable being a part of a whole, who never goes anywhere without a partner.”
“Shit,” I say. “You’re right.”
“Of course I’m right,” she says. “I’m wise.”
The first we was my mom and me, then it was Sadie and me, then Peter. I’ve always cleaved to the people I love, tried to orient my orbit around them. Maybe, I realize, I’ve been trying to make myself un-leave-able. But it hasn’t worked.
“I don’t want to just be a part of we,” I say. “I want to be an I.”
“You’re already an I. It’s just about how much you embrace it.”
“I guess,” I say.
Ashleigh appraises me. “You held your own tonight.”
“Yeah, well, I have a feeling they went easy on me,” I say.
“Oh, they treated you like you were made of glass,” she agrees, her head cocked and gaze appraising. “But you’re not so delicate, Vincent.”
“I’m not.” It feels true, at least right now. I’m not so delicate. Lonely, hurt, angry, a little bit whiny? Sure.
But not delicate.
Maybe I could handle staying here, where my life fell apart. Maybe I could start over, making something my own this time.
The cab pulls up.
“Ashleigh?” I say.
“Hm?” she says.
“Thank you,” I say. “Really.”
She rolls her eyes. “We needed a fifth.”
I shake my head. “Not just that. For being my friend. For still giving me a chance, after the last year.”
Her ever-blunt features soften. “You know,” she says, “I needed one too.”
“I’m glad it could be me,” I tell her.
“Right back at you.” The cabdriver flashes his lights at us, and with our arms slung over each other’s shoulders, we wobble down the driveway to meet him.
For reasons I don’t completely understand, I feel like I could cry.
OceanofPDF.com
17
SATURDAY, JUNE 29TH
49 DAYS UNTIL I CAN LEAVE
“Why don’t you just tell me?” I ask Miles as I follow him into the kitchen.
“Because,” he says, opening the fridge, “you already agreed to go.”
“And you’re afraid I’ll back out once I know what it is?” I ask.
He pulls the water pitcher out, fills his glass, and drinks the whole thing, while smirking at me.
“Come on, Miles,” I say. “I hate surprises.”
“Then you should’ve asked questions before you said you’d go with me,” he says.
“Are we skydiving?” I ask.
He refills the pitcher at the sink. “I doubt it.”
“Does what we’re doing involve heavy manual labor?” I ask.
He puts the pitcher back in the fridge. “Go put on something nice, Daphne. We have to leave soon.” He squeezes past me to leave the kitchen.
“Funeral?” I call after him.
He pauses and looks back at me. “Closer.”
“Please tell me that’s a joke,” I say.
His smirk splits into a grin. “You can wear red, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“A funeral for someone you hate?” I say.
He laughs and ducks away. “Be ready in half an hour,” he says, somewhere out of view.
In my bedroom, I put on the only really nice dress I have, the same backless black one I wore to my engagement party and to Cherry Hill with Ashleigh that first night. She and Julia are out at a local jazz club tonight, so I message them in a group chat: do either of you know where Miles and I are going?
Julia writes, he still hasn’t told you?
Ashleigh says, lmao yes I do.
I send a bunch of question marks.
Julia says, oh my god she just told me
What is it, I ask.
Ashleigh only replies with a winky face. Julia adds, take lots of pics PLEASE.
SENIOR PROM, reads the silver banner. It’s strung between the two columns that frame the baby-pink beachside resort’s front doors, a bouquet of black and silver balloons on either side of it.
Miles’s truck rumbles to a stop in front of them.
“What,” I say.
“Don’t worry.” Miles puts the car in park. “It’s going to get a lot weirder.”
A teenage valet comes sprinting out of the hotel, and Miles gets out of the truck to hand over his car keys. I follow suit and he meets me at the front door.
“It’s the middle of the summer,” I say.
“June twenty-ninth,” he agrees.
“We’re, like, thirty-five years old,” I point out next.
“Yes, we are,” Miles says.
“How are we at a senior prom?” I ask.
“How are any of us anywhere?” he teases. “Come on.” He sets a hand against the small of my back, a tingle leaping up my vertebrae as I let the light touch guide me into the hotel’s opulent lobby.
Glossy tiled floors topped with thick floral rugs and boldly clashing geometric wallpaper, velvet chairs arranged in seating areas on either side of us, and a mounted sign straight ahead: Waning Bay Historical Society Senior Prom.
