Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
I shut my laptop, leaving it on the bed as I head downstairs to rejoin my family. Nia’s prepping dinner, while Dad pretends to watch football in the den when everyone knows he can’t name even one player on any of the teams playing today. In the living room, my sisters are sitting in front of Pierre’s tank, showing him the drawings they made of him.
I walk over to them and peer at the glass. Pierre’s chilling on his cypress tree. I give him a wave. “Hey, little dude.” I look at Mo. “Any fart attacks lately?”
“No,” she complains, and Roxy heaves a disappointed sigh.
Snickering, I wander into the kitchen where I find Nia at the counter glaring at her cutting board.
“Um. Everything okay?” I eye the pile of diced onions she’s amassed, trying to figure out what the problem is.
“I ran out of onions,” she grumbles.
“You, Nia Soul, ran out of an ingredient? Didn’t you just give me a whole braggy speech when I was here at midterms? The one about your fancy sixth sense that allows you to always purchase the exact amount of potatoes required?”
“Yes. Potatoes.” She’s gritting her teeth. “These are onions.” Nia curses under her breath, a mixture of English and French expletives that make me grin. “Merde. I don’t have time to go look for a store that’s open right now. I have too much to do—”
“I’ll go,” I offer. “I’m pretty sure Franny’s Market is open till four today. They’re always open on holidays.”
Relief loosens her shoulders. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“Yeah, it’s no problem at all.” I grab Dad’s keys off the counter. “I’ll go now. How many do you need?”
“Two. So get four.”
I snicker. “Four it is.”
“Thanks, Cassandra.”
I leave the house and get into Dad’s truck. It’s so strange not to be driving Grandma’s Rover. Or staying at her house. But Grandma doesn’t live in the Bay anymore. She’s in Boston now, residing in the same building as Aunt Jacqueline and Uncle Charlie and loving her quality time with the grandkids. Our house in Avalon Bay belongs to another family now. Some venture capitalist, his much younger wife, and their three children. Grandma says they seemed like a nice family. I hope they enjoy the house. It holds a lot of good memories for me.
At the market, I bypass the carts and march toward the produce aisles. I pick out four large onions, managing to stack two in each hand, then turn around—and slam right into Tate’s mother.
“Gemma,” I squeak. “Hi.”
“Cassie.” She’s equally startled. “Hello.”
Then silence falls.
Oh boy. This is awkward.
I stand there, trying to figure out what to say. I haven’t seen her since that awful night at the Beacon. Do I bring it up? Ask how she’s doing? Apologize on behalf of my mother?
Now we’re both fidgeting with whatever’s in our hands. In my case, unfortunately, it’s onions. And then I forget that it’s onions, and stupidly raise one hand to rub the bridge of my nose. My fingers, now covered in the onion curse, trigger a reflexive rush of tears. Shit.
Gemma takes one look at my face and bursts into tears too.
“Oh, no, no,” I assure her, trying to wipe my eyes with my elbow. “I’m not crying. It’s the onions.”
“Well, I’m crying,” she blubbers. “And it’s not because of onions.”
“Oh.”
Our gazes lock.
Sniffling, she rubs her eyes with her sleeve, then gives me a sad smile. “Do you have a minute to talk? I know it’s Thanksgiving, but …”
“Sure. Let me just pay for these. I’ll meet you outside.”
A few minutes later, we reconvene in the small parking lot. The market is the only store open in the plaza, but the café at the end of the row has an outdoor patio. I gesture toward it.
“Let’s sit,” I suggest.
She nods. We walk to the patio, where I flip over two of the chairs and set them on the ground.
We sit across from each other. I watch her, sorrow tightening my belly. “How are you doing?” I finally ask. “We haven’t spoken since the night … you know, the night.”
“The night,” she echoes wryly.
“Just so you know—I had no idea what my mother was going to do. She took me by surprise, same as she did everyone else.”
Gemma’s eyes widen. “Oh. No. I never for a moment thought you were involved.”
“Ah, okay. Good.”
Another silence falls.
“I’ve been watching all of Tate’s videos,” I say. “That was some voyage, huh?”
“Took ten years off my life.” She shudders. “He could have died in that squall. Lord! And then when his GPS broke!” She’s now swallowing repeatedly, appearing nauseous. “Never have kids, Cassie. You’re constantly living in fear they might die.”
“Nah, when the GPS broke, that’s when I was the least concerned about him.”
“Really? Because I was picturing my boy lost in the middle of the Indian Ocean.”