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Sasha’s neighborhood is a stretch of lakefront homes. Just west of it, there’s a strip of lakefront restaurants and shopping centers, plus of course the marina. They built a Starbucks three years ago, and our tiny town freaked out at having a big coffee chain.
At the marina, I pull into an empty parking spot next to an older black motorcycle. I’m not entirely sure it’s Elijah’s, but we’d agreed to meet near the Starbucks, so the chances are good.
A Starbucks truly is the sign of living in modern civilization. Up until Sasha’s initial diagnosis, we spent nearly every Sunday morning here, sipping Frappuccinos and watching the sailboats go by.
I park my car and pull a pair of sunglasses from my center console, doing a quick check in the visor mirror to make sure my choppy h
air is tucked behind my ears and not sticking out over the tops of the glasses.
Elijah appears on the other side of the Starbucks glass door just after I flip my visor up. He’s in a white T-shirt that fits snugly over his chest and arms, revealing a muscular frame I hadn’t noticed last time I saw him.
Though it’s warm enough to go swimming, I guess we both had the same idea — that swimming together would be weird — because Elijah wears a pair of faded, light blue jeans and those same running shoes. His black hair flies around in the breeze, and that thin silver chain around his neck glints in the sunlight.
I wave at him and reach into my back seat, retrieving a pale green bag from Gigi’s Cupcakes.
Elijah meets me at my car, two Frappuccinos in his hands. “Java Chip, right?”
“How’d you know?”
He takes a slow sip from his own coffee, a caramel Frap by the looks of it. “Sasha talked a lot about you in our emails. She said you were both addicted to Java Chip.”
“Addicted might be an understatement,” I say, lifting my straw so I can get a sip of whipped cream. It only just now dawns on me that Elijah probably has no money. “What do I owe you?” I say, reaching for my purse.
“Nothing,” he says, his lips still wrapped around his straw. “It’s on me.”
I hesitate, my hand on my wallet. “My parents give me cash all the time, so it’s not a big deal. I can pay you back.”
He shakes his head. “I have a job,” he says, emphasizing the last word. “If you don’t let me buy you a coffee every now and then, busting my ass forty hours a week would be for nothing.”
Every now and then. I drop the wallet back in my purse. “Thank you.”
I hold up the cupcake bag. “I brought dessert.”
“Sweet.” He reaches across his motorcycle and grabs a blue backpack from the handlebar. “Lunch is in here. Do you like tacos?”
“Uh, who doesn’t like tacos?”
“Good deal,” he says quickly. I think we’re both aware that all of this happy small talk is awkward no matter how we wrap it.
Now that I’m officially spending the day with him on Sasha’s first adventure, the pressure to make sure he has a good time is almost overwhelming. We agreed about not stealing a boat — maybe the rest of the day will go smoothly as well.
Still, what if I screw all of this up? I’m the one who knows my way around Sasha’s life, so the pressure is on me, not him. “I was thinking I could show you Sasha’s boat first,” I say, lifting my shoulders. I stammer more words just to keep talking. “You know, so you can see what it looks like. Is that okay?”
He slings his backpack over his shoulders and hooks his thumbs around the straps. “Totally.”
To the left of the Starbucks, a sidewalk dips down to the water’s edge and then wraps around the back of the restaurants and shops. We pass three wooden docks until we get to the row I’ve been to a million times. Unlike the public docks, these private slots are guarded by a metal gate with a key code on the door. Each boat owner has their own code, even though it’s the same gate. I punch in the Cades’ wedding anniversary date and the rusty metal hinges squeak as we enter.
It’s a long walk down the narrow dock to get to slot number eighteen, where Sue’s Paradise floats on the water, filled with enough memories to sink the freaking Titanic. My heart races as we make the trek; we’re not doing anything wrong just by being here, but I’m still afraid of getting caught.
Sue’s Paradise isn’t the biggest boat here, but it’s close. Like a mini yacht, it’s white with a long purple stripe down the middle, two bedrooms, a kitchen, a bathroom down below and a viewing/party area up top. Then, of course, there’s the wide deck at the front of the boat, which makes for the best sunbathing a girl could ask for.
“I forgot we can only see the ass end,” I say with a little laugh when we reach the boat. There’s a small walkway, a ladder up to the top and a narrow door back here, positioned between the two motors.
“They really do have money,” Elijah says, using his hand to shield the sun from his eyes. “I mean, Sasha alluded to it but …”
“Yeah.” I kick at a sharp piece of wood that’s splintered off one of the boards of the dock. “Mr. Cade is a lawyer. He’s uh … Walter Cade.”
Elijah lowers his hand, his brows disappearing into his scraggly hair. “Walter Cade, the tough Texas lawyer?” he says, doing a near-perfect impression of the deep voice-over on Mr. Cade’s TV commercials.
