“Sounds interesting. Do Mom and Dad know?”
No one knows.
Not a single soul . . . well, besides my best friend.
“No. Thought I’d surprise them. Fly out tomorrow and, you know, stay for a month or two. My lease is up, and I’m putting things in storage. No use looking for another place when I won’t be here.” He doesn’t need to know the truth: that I told my landlord I won’t be able to make rent and that I found someone to take over the lease. Thankfully, my landlord was cool about it. But that means I packed up everything that matters and sold the rest of my furniture. Starting tomorrow, I’ll be homeless.
All the more reason to “create an Instagram journey” that I have no intention of putting any real effort into, while hopefully making connections as I wait for my next job.
“You mean that? You’re really going to fly back home?” Ford asks.
“Yeah,” I say while picking up a Sharpie to label my boxes. “I have movers coming early tomorrow morning, my flight has been booked, and now I just have to execute the surprise for Mom and Dad.”
“They’re going to be thrilled, you know that, right?”
I smile. “I know. It’s probably time I came back home, even if it’s just for a short period of time.”
“Either way, they’ll have all their kids together. I don’t think we could give them a better anniversary present.”
“Do you know what would be an even better present?” I ask.
“What?”
“If you and Larkin stay at the house with me, and we convince Cooper to do the same?”
He chuckles, and the sound is familiar, yet . . . different. Older. Wiser. “Not going to happen, sis.”
“Knock knock. I brought tapas,” my best friend says as he walks through my front door. When he sees that I’m on the phone, he pretends to zip his lips and then proceeds to tiptoe toward the kitchen.
“I have time to make it happen, but hey, Laramie just got here with food.”
“Okay. So, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Yes, you will,” I say, feeling a small ounce of comfort that I’ll get to at least hang with my big brother.
“Good. See you tomorrow, kiddo.”
We hang up, and I set my phone down on a windowsill.
“Was that the almighty Ford Chance?” Laramie asks, setting out the to-go boxes.
“It was.” I join him in the kitchen and lift myself up on the counter, where I take a seat next to the sink.
“Is he thrilled to have his little sister coming home?”
“More excited than I expected.”
“And did you tell him the real reason you’re going home?” He lifts his knowing, thick brow in my direction.
Laramie is the only person who knows about my circumstances, and it will remain that way. We met while attending NYU. He majored in theater, and I majored in business in the hope of being able to help with Watchful Wanderers, but . . . well, we won’t get into that. We both reached for the last chocolate milk in the dining hall, we played rock, paper, scissors to see who got to take it, and after a rousing battle, I left with the milk and he left with my phone number. We’ve been attached at the hip ever since.
“No.” I open a box and stare down at the duck confit tapas that would normally make my mouth water but does nothing for my appetite right now. “I told him I was coming home to do some sort of piece on the Pacific Northwest.”
“So, he doesn’t know you’re broke, unemployed, and homeless?”
“Not so much.” I pop a tapa in my mouth and chew, even though the flavors fall flat.
“I told you, you could come work with me at the studio and sleep on my couch until the next thing comes along.”
I shake my head. “I know nothing about SoulCycling, and I’ve slept on your couch before—I was one night away from suffering from a serious case of sciatica.”
“Just cycling—you don’t have to put the ‘Soul’ in front of it—and you could help with the front desk. We’re always in need of more help.”
“I think you and I both know you don’t need help at the studio and you’re going to make up some job for me.” I sigh. “No, I think I should go home and figure out what to do.”
“Even if that means going back with your tail tucked between your legs?” he asks, handing me another tapa.
“No, they won’t know my circumstances, and I’ll keep it that way. It’s not like my parents are going anywhere, so I’ll have a comfortable roof over my head and a full belly thanks to my mom’s incessant need to feed people. Who knows, maybe it will be refreshing.” I shrug and take a bite of a stuffed mushroom.
Laramie wiggles his eyebrows. “And maybe you’ll find a little Lands’ End lad to snuggle up to.”
I point my finger at him. “Now that’s something I can guarantee won’t happen. Trust me, I’m in no place to be snuggling up to anyone.”
“Not even . . . hunky high school crush Beau . . .” Laramie bats his lashes.
I point my finger at him. “Do not even go there.”
“Why not? He was the main reason you didn’t want to go back to Marina Island, so wouldn’t it just be poetic if you ran into him?”
“Why do I tell you things?” I pop open another box. Lobster wontons. If only these were the comfort I need right now.
“Because I keep you on your toes. Seriously.” Laramie pokes me. “What if you run into him? Weren’t you totally infatuated with him? I mean . . . I saw your yearbooks—you had hearts circling every picture of him.”
“Just drop it, Laramie.” My voice grows harsh.
“Oooh, there was some spice on that; not sure I appreciate the sass. Just your best friend trying to get to the bottom of this crush you’ve been harboring. What’s he even doing? Is he married?”
“I have no idea. I don’t keep up with his social media. I’m not even sure if he’s still living on the island. I don’t ask around. So let’s just drop it—I don’t need the extra anxiety. Going back to Marina Island is all about focusing on me. No distractions. No men.”
Laramie offers me a pot sticker from his take-out box, probably as a peace offering. “That would not be the case for me. I’d be hanging around the docks looking for a strong fisherman to whisk me away.”
Change of subject, thank God. I squeeze his thick biceps, bringing back our playful humor. “I don’t know why you think you’re whisking-away material. You’re like those Great Danes that think they’re lapdogs. I love you, but no one is picking up a six-foot-four man made of muscle unless they have a forklift with them.”
He licks some sauce off his finger and smirks. “So you’re saying I should fall for a construction worker, then? That can be arranged.”
“Oh, Martin, look, there she is, our baby. Yoo-hoo, Palmer, over here. Over here!” Mom yells across the ferry terminal while waving her hands frantically and holding a sign up that reads, PALMER CHANCE. OUR BABY.
Realizing I needed a ride when I got to Marina Island, I called my parents this morning to surprise them with my homecoming. After Mom screeched on the phone for a solid minute, we put a plan into action, and here they are now: my parents, waving their hands wildly while “yoo-hooing” at me.