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ing for me to reply, then lets out the smallest of sighs when I don’t.
“All right, Ellie. I’ll give you an out. For now. Where we headed?”
“Where are they least likely to find us? It’s an island.”
“Yes, but a big one. With plenty of tourists. Dream big, woman. We’re on Maui. It’s paradise. If you were here for vacation instead of the show, what would you be doing right now?”
“Honestly? Probably taking a nap.”
He groans. “I really did pick the wrong girl as my partner in crime. A nap? Don’t make me push you out of this car.”
“No, I’m serious!” I say with a laugh. “The beds they have us women in…bunk beds, Gage. Like the kind you had at summer camp. And the sheets are like sandpaper, and there’s always someone around. The only escape is the bathroom, and that’s tiny, and there’s no ventilation, and oooh, no, forget a nap. I want a bubble bath. Or a really long shower. Or—”
I grab the dash as Gage pulls into the left-turn lane and makes an unexpected U-turn.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see. In the meantime, tell me something about yourself.”
“Oh, God,” I groan. “Don’t—”
“Fine, I’ll start. I’m from Rhode Island. Providence. My dad’s an engineer, my mom’s a pastry chef for a local restaurant. I’ve got one older brother, named Frank. I played baseball in high school but wasn’t good enough to play in college.”
I smile gently. “Is that from your Wikipedia article?”
He gives me a startled glance. “I’m trying to open up here. Evidently I’ve got to do better. Let’s see, something not available on the Internet…” His thumbs tap the steering wheel. “My brother married my ex-girlfriend.”
My head whips around. “Seriously?”
It’s a stupid question. I can tell by his expression that what he told me is true. I know that look. It’s the one we all wear when we’re trying too hard to be indifferent—to convince everyone that what we’ve just said is no big deal. To convince ourselves.
I want to ask a million questions, but instead I reach across the car, resting my palm against his still-wet swim trunks, letting him know that I’m here if he wants to say more.
He doesn’t. Instead he looks embarrassed, maybe a little vulnerable, at having shared something that’s not part of his public persona.
I bite my lip, realizing I’ll need to give back a little. “My mom’s a hot mess. Like a fifty-year-old kid. She drinks too much sometimes, but then she’ll go really far the other way, get rid of all the booze, and buy a four-hundred-dollar juicer. Or go into debt because she wants to go on a yoga retreat in Bali. She can’t hold a job for more than six months, but according to her, it’s never her fault. And I love her to death, I do. I love her free spirit, but sometimes I wish she just understood the concept of accountability a little bit better….”
I break off when I realize that instead of giving back a little, I just laid thirty years of baggage at his feet. And I know from experience that guys do not dig this sort of information. Whenever I tried to talk to Sean about my mom, he’d shrug and say things like “Family’s complicated, babe.”
He was right—family is complicated, and everyone has a family member who makes them pull their hair out. But my mom’s my only family member, and sometimes I’m too scared to admit, even to myself, that if I don’t have her to lean on—and most of the time I don’t—I don’t have anyone.
Marjorie, yes, but good a friend as she is, she’s got her own family, you know? Her husband and her baby, and four siblings, and two parents…
Wow, okay, I’m feeling sorry for myself, and I have a strict rule with myself not to go there.
“No dad in the picture?” Gage asks.
I’m glad my sunglasses hide my surprise. I’d expect him to try to move the topic on to something less…intense. But he sounds genuinely interested, as though it matters. As though I matter.
“Nah, he bailed the second my mom told him she was pregnant.”
“You never wanted to track him down?”
I shrug. “There were a few times in junior high when money was really tight and I was sick of eating canned chili for dinner. And I let myself think, Damn, that child support check would come in handy right now. But then I remembered that a father who didn’t want to be a father wasn’t much of a dad at all.”
“I guess. Doesn’t mean he’s not still a shitty piece of shit.”
I laugh. “Totally. Okay, your turn to spill the sad story. Want to hold hands? Make it easier?” I purposely keep my tone joking, thinking it might make it easier for him if we can keep it light. But he surprises me by taking my hand, linking my fingers with his.
