The Moon and More (20 page)

“All right,” Clyde said finally, so casually you would have thought he was agreeing to a cup of coffee. “Set it up with your boss, name your place and time.”

“Oh my God!” Theo said. Now he was damp, breathless, and shrieking. I put my hand over my face. “Thank you! You won’t regret this, I promise. Just give me your number, and—”

“No.” Clyde nodded at me. “Set it up with Emaline, have her contact me.”

Me?
I thought. But then Clyde was waving and walking away, just as easily as he’d turned up, down the wide aisle towards the paper plates.

At first, Theo and I just stood there, watching him go. Then he said, very quietly, “Please, for the love of God, tell me that did actually just happen.”

“Think so,” I said, readying to push the cart towards the
registers. “Can we go now? I have other clients waiting for towels.”

He turned to face me, a smile slowly spreading across his face. Behind him, toaster ovens and microwaves were stacked up high over us, facing mini fridges on the other side. And it was there, surrounded by low-priced appliances, that Theo suddenly stepped forward and kissed me. In a bulk store, with high ceilings and vast quantities, more of anything than you could ever really need. And the weirdest part was that in that moment—after feeling so small all morning—the tug I felt in my heart as I kissed him back was suddenly, inexplicably, very big as well.

“PICK A CARD. Any card.”

This was how Benji greeted me at the door. No hello; just a command. I looked down at the playing cards, spread in a fan between his fingers, and reached for one in the middle. His brow furrowed.

“Not that one,” he said. I drew back. “Pick another.”

I did as I was told. This time, he just shook his head, looking frustrated.

“How about this,” I said. “Let’s just say that, in the interest of time, you give me some direction.”

“More to the left,” he told me. “Far left.”

I picked the last card, a queen of hearts. Happy, he folded up the rest. “Okay,” he said, then cleared his throat, closing his eyes. A beat. Then, “Your card is … the queen of hearts.”

I flipped it over. “You’re right! Wow. That’s impressive.”

“I’m just learning right now,” he explained unnecessarily, turning to go into the house. “I only got the kit yesterday.”

“Kit?” I said, but once I was in the foyer, I understood. There, scattered across the huge, antique dining-room table, was everything you’d require for putting on a magic show: top hat, stuffed rabbit, bag of balloons, interlocking rings, as well
as several packs of cards. “Wow. Where’d you find this?”

“Park Mart,” he told me, as he climbed up on one of the chairs, picking up the rings. “We’ve been going there, like, every day.”

“Really,” I said, picking up the rabbit and studying its small, whiskered face. “Why’s that?”

He shrugged, letting the rings fall back to the table with a clank. “I’m really hard to keep entertained.”

Hearing this, I thought of Theo, earlier in the day, relaying how he’d been told he slammed doors. His and Benji’s expressions, sharing these things, were altogether similar: small and sort of rueful. Clearly truths they’d heard more than once.

Then, however, my brain shifted to another image of Theo, this time after I’d received the call from my dad asking if I could drop by when I had a chance. At that moment, he had still been apologizing for kissing me at Big Club.

“I can’t believe I did that,” he’d said, again, as we walked to the car. His entire face was pink, having faded from the bright red it had turned earlier when he first pulled away from me, when he suddenly realized what was happening. “Especially after last time, when you specifically told me
not
to kiss you. I swear, I’m not that guy.”

“Theo—”

“You know, That Guy Everyone Hates. I don’t make a habit of kissing girls with boyfriends. I’m not even a big PDA person! Or, I mean, I wouldn’t be, if I’d ever had much of a relationship. Which I haven’t. Maybe because I’m That Guy Everyone Hates?”

“Theo.”

“Emaline, you have a
boyfriend
. Whom I
met
. Who
already
doesn’t like me. It’s like I want him to kick my ass. And I swear to you, I don’t. I’ve never been in a fight. Like, not even once.”

“
Theo
.”

This time, thankfully, he shut up. Which left me with the floor before I was ready to know what to do with it. So, equally ungracefully, I said, “Luke’s not my boyfriend anymore. We broke up this morning.”

He stopped dead in his tracks, the cart he was pushing rattling to a sudden stop. Then he looked at me. “You split up today?”

“Yep.”

“That’s why you were upset, when you came over!” he said, pointing at me. I nodded. A big grin spread across his face. “Oh, man. That is
great
!”

“Well,” I said diplomatically, “I wouldn’t say—”

“I mean, it’s not, of course not,” he added quickly, fixing his expression. “It’s terrible. For Luke. And your, you know, long relationship, which was clearly very important and meaningful.”

“True,” I told him.

“But for me,” he said, smiling again, “it’s good news. Because, number one, I am not That Guy Everyone Hates. Or totally him.”

“Always a good thing,” I agreed.

“And two,” he said, grinning wider, “I can do it again. I mean, we can. And it’ll be okay.”

I smiled at him. He was such a dork, one thing I could safely say Luke, for all his charms, had always been too confident to be considered. “It wasn’t so bad the first time, actually.”

Another grin. And then, he leaned over the cart—awkwardly, sweetly—and kissed me once more. Clearly, despite the jumbled way it had all happened, that first time was no fluke. It was more than okay.

By the time I pulled into the driveway at Sand Dollars, though, the guilt was starting to set in. I mean, this had to be the quickest rebound on record. Actually, it was more of a crazy, errant hard bounce, right back into the basket. So when he leaned down into my open driver’s-side window, toaster oven box in his arms, to make it a three before walking up the steps of Sand Dollars, I pulled back.

“Uh-oh,” he said, looking worried as I put my hand over my mouth. “That’s never good.”

“No, I’m fine,” I said. “I—”

“Usually I get at
least
twenty-four hours before people regret kissing me,” he said, shifting the box in his arms. “Just so, you know, you’re aware of the averages.”

I shook my head. “It’s not you. It’s—”

He winced, already bracing himself for what came next.

“Luke and I were together for a long time,” I continued. “I like you. But I have to be careful not to go too—”

“Fast,” he finished for me. I nodded. “Of course. I understand. You need a demarcation.”

“Demarcation?” I asked.

“It means a clear separation between two things,” he told
me. “A solid end before a clean beginning. No murky borders. Clarity.”

I knew what it meant, but figured this was not the time to again flaunt my SAT verbal score. So I just said, “Exactly. The problem, I guess, is figuring out how to do that.”

He considered this, shifting the toaster oven again. “It seems to me the only way is a do-over.”

“Of …”

“This,” he said, waving his free hand between us. “You and me. Start over, back at the beginning, with you as a happily single girl and me not That Guy Everyone Hates.”

“And we do that by … what? Going back to Big Club?”

He considered this. “No. We just wait a little bit, then start over fresh. No looming boyfriends. No toasters. Just us.”

“Okay,” I said.

A car drove past and someone hollered in our direction, distracting us both momentarily. Another beat, and Theo said, “About how long?”

“Should we wait?” He nodded. “I don’t know. A day or two?”

His face fell. “You think?”

“You,” I said, pointing at him, “are the expert on this demarcation thing. You tell me.”

I watched as he thought for a minute, really considering it. Then he said, “Tomorrow. New day, new start.”

“Okay,” I repeated. “It’s a date.”

He smiled, just as the front door of Sand Dollars opened to reveal Ivy, in pajama bottoms and a tank top, her hair matted on one side. “Theo!” she barked. “Did I not ask for fresh-squeezed orange juice?”

“Fridge door, blue pitcher,” he replied, ever cheerful. She huffed, then shut the door again. I raised my eyebrows and he said, “Vitamin C. She’s a bear until she has it.”

“Clearly.” I reached down, cranking my engine, and he stepped back. “So I’ll see you … tomorrow?”

“Count on it.”

I’d smiled, and he went up the drive and into the house. I’d looked at the clock on my console. It was not even noon. Suddenly, I wasn’t sure I’d ever have enough demarcation to figure out how all this had happened. What had I
done
?

Now, shaking this off—or trying to—I turned my attention back to Benji. “It’s summer and you’re at the beach, though. There’s a million things to do here.”

“Yeah?” he said. “Like what?”

I’d forgotten who I was dealing with: of course I’d be expected to expand on this. “Well,” I said slowly, “there’s, um, swimming.”

“I’m only allowed to be in the sun two hours a day,” he informed me, voice flat. “And I have to be accompanied by a responsible adult.”

“Oh.” I glanced back at the kitchen, wondering where said adult actually was at that moment. “Well, what about riding a bike around or something? I bet we could—”

“Because of my inner-ear problems, I have balance issues.” He picked up the cards again and shuffled them. “I have to stay away from self-propelled wheeled activities.”

Zero for two. “Well, you could read.”

“That’s all I’ve
been
doing. That and practicing my balloon twisting.”

“Balloon twisting?” I asked.

He plucked a slim booklet from between a ring and the rabbit and held it out to me. “Making animals. It’s part of the kit.”

Twist Art: Easy Balloon Sculpting for All Ages!
proclaimed the cover, which featured a bald guy with a handlebar moustache, a bright yellow balloon giraffe in one hand and an air pump in the other. I flipped through the pages, which provided step-by-step instructions for everything from beginner-level wiener dogs to incredibly elaborate rose bouquets, complete with stems and thorns. “Wow,” I said. “This is really cool.”

“It’s noisy, though.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Noisy?”

“When they pop. It could give a person a nervous breakdown.” Again, this sounded like a direct quote. “So I had to stop and just do the card tricks for a while.”

“Where
is
your dad, anyway?” I asked him.

“Upstairs,” he replied, cutting the deck once, twice. Then he drew out a few cards, fanning them between his fingers. “He’s on deadline.”

“Deadline?” I repeated.

“It means he’s grumpy. And stressed.” He nodded at the cards. “Pick another one.”

I reached for one on the far right. This time, he didn’t stop me. Seven of spades.

“Okay.” He folded the cards back into a stack, then closed his eyes, concentrating. “Your card is … the ten of diamonds.”

I glanced at it. “You’re right!”

“I am?”

I had no idea why I was lying to him, especially since the deception would be more than clear as soon as he looked at what was left in his hand. But there was something so sad about a little kid at this huge table, bored and alone. The least I could do was let him think he could do magic, if only for a little while.

“I’m going upstairs for a minute,” I said, sliding the card in my pocket. “Keep practicing, okay?”

He nodded, shuffling the cards again, and I started up the stairs. It had been years since I’d been in this house, and I wasn’t sure I’d ever made it to the second floor. Still, something about the climb felt familiar, as did turning to the left, not right, to reach the master bedroom.

Inside, I found my father sitting at a wooden desk by an open window. He had his back to me, but even without my seeing his face, the stress of being on deadline—whatever that really meant—was apparent. One hand was at his left temple, rubbing hard as if trying to polish it to gold, while the other tapped a pencil against the desk staccato-style,
rat-a-tat-tat
. Additionally, there were papers spread out all around him: on the desk, the floor, the bed. So much paper, so little order. It made me want to clean up, quick. I was almost to the door when he said, “Is it twelve fifteen? Because it
better
be.”

I stopped where I was, glancing at my watch. “Um … no?”

He turned, his face irritated. Then he saw it was me and just looked tired. “Oh, sorry. I thought you were Benji.”

What was the proper response to this? I didn’t say anything.

“He’s been up here constantly,” he explained, rubbing a
hand over his face, “bugging me about one thing or another, even though he knows how I get when I’m working. It’s driving me nuts. I told him I didn’t want to see him until lunchtime, or else.”

“I think he’s just bored.”

“Which is a first world problem,” he replied. “This piece I’m working on? It’s about the African famine. Suffice to say, I have very little sympathy.”

Right, I thought. But this was not my business, so I said, “You said you wanted to talk to me about something?”

“What? Oh, yes.” He gathered up one stack of papers, arranging them in a lopsided stack, and put them on the desk. “I’m totally swamped right now, trying to work out these estate issues and putting the house on the market, not to mention trying to work.”

Downstairs, distantly, I was pretty sure I heard a balloon pop.

“I’m aware,” he continued, “that you’re very busy, working and getting ready for, um, school …”

With this, he started rubbing his temple again, rapidly. Like at the Reef Room, it was like this last word, and the subject it pertained to, spiked his blood pressure from flat to borderline widowmaker status. Even his face was flushed. It was beginning to make sense why I’d never heard more from him after that weird, formal e-mail. If just the thought of my college did this, a real, honest conversation might outright kill him.