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“I guess,” I say. “But shouldn’t you have cleared this with your friend Evan before asking? You did see us together and all.”
“He said you two were friends,” Vic says defensively.
“True, he did say that,” I say pointedly, making sure Evan hears. “I was just wondering if there’s a bro code that still prohibits your behavior.”
Vic scratches his head so hard that I can hear it. “I might have to buy Evan a beer,” he says.
I look at Evan’s disgruntled expression. “Make it a case of beer.”
“Okay,” Vic says. “But if you change your mind, give me a call.”
On that, I hang up and look challengingly at Evan, daring him to say anything along the lines of “I told you so.”
“Would you like to see that treasure map?” Evan says instead, and it’s so unexpected that I blink stupidly at him before I recall him mentioning a treasure map he got from his grandfather.
“Would I like to see a treasure map?” I repeat, my excitement growing. “Is oxyphenbutazone a good Scrabble word?”
Yes, that’s an actual word. Had I become a vet, I would have probably prescribed it for horses who need pain relief or fever reduction.
A smile touches the corners of Evan’s eyes. “When I would play Scrabble with my mom, surfing jargon and pharmacological terms were forbidden—the latter became a rule after she used that exact word.” The smile dissipates, tugging on something inside me. “She was a pharmacist.”
Should I tell him that I usually play Scrabble with my son, and that we have custom rules too, some really whacky?
Evan turns toward the door he came in from. “I’m going to go get the map and the cypher. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
There’s a cypher? How exciting. When I was a teen, I encoded my diary with a secret code that no one has been able to crack—and I know that my overbearing parents tried their damnedest.
Wait. Why am I wasting time?
As I rush back to my rental, I quickly call Reagan at the camp and get an earful of the fun he’s having, which, coincidentally, includes a scavenger hunt. When I get a chance to speak, I mention I’m doing something like a scavenger hunt myself, and he demands to know more, so I tell him about the clues and everything else.
In the end, he concludes his hunt was much more fun, and who am I to argue with the wisdom of a seven-year-old?
As we talk, I spruce up my hair and apply a copious amount of makeup.
It’s not for Evan, obviously. I just want to look and feel good on my vacation.
Yeah, that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.
Just as I gush to Reagan about how much I miss him—and right before he chastises me for being too gooey—there’s a knock on the door.
Shit.
“Bye, honey, I love you,” I say and hang up.
Pulling the door open, I gape at Evan—who has somehow gotten handsomer in the short time he wasn’t here.
Then it hits me.
He’s put some product in his hair and has swapped his T-shirt for a dressy Hawaiian shirt… which he’s only buttoned midway.
Wow. Isn’t it criminal to look good in that? What would happen if he ever wore a suit? Would I go blind from his radiance?
“I’ve got us both some lunch.” Evan waves a big bag in front of me. “Treasure maps don’t like to be figured out on an empty stomach.”
I’m still a bit stunned as he walks inside and sets the food on the kitchen table.
“Wait a second.” I study the food carefully. “Isn’t this?—”
