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“So?” I retort, confused.
“So what do you think about Mom and this new beau of hers?”
“Do people still say beau?”
“I’m trying to use words you will understand. Give me a break, squirt. Just stop acting all Skylaresque for a bit and tell me everything. I know you're always eavesdropping on us—"
“Hey!” I blurt out defensively.
“I’m not accusing you or saying it’s a bad thing,” she’s quick to add. “I know that’s how you get your creative juices flowing and come up with story ideas. It’s your process and I respect the hell out of your commitment to your craft. All I’m asking is if you know the scoop about this guy or not? Spill it.”
Shit. She has me there.
I have been eavesdropping.
I always do.
At school. At the supermarket. At the coffee house. Even at the bus stop. I can’t help it.
The human spirit and people’s interactions with one another fascinate me.
Since I’m unable to tap into my own experiences—since, let’s face it, I’ve had none worth mentioning—eavesdropping and spying on strangers has become my favorite pastime. Sometimes all it takes is listening in on an innocent phone call to have my imagination working double time. I don’t question the morality aspect of it anymore. The hit of dopamine I get when inspiration hits is far more alluring than worrying about the implications of my less than above water actions.
When I grow quiet for longer than acceptable, Daisy snaps her fingers in my face.
“Sky! Get out of Lalaland and tell me what you know,” she insists, frustrated.
“Fine,” I relent. No use in pretending I’m in the dark when it comes to my mom’s new boyfriend. “His name is Curt, and he lives in Thatcher’s Bay.”
“Okay,” my sister mumbles, taking in that piece of information.
“That means they can’t see each other as much as they would like. He's also a fisherman, which means he goes out to sea for long periods of time sometimes.”
“What else?”
“I don’t think their relationship is something new. I think they’ve been seeing each other for a while now. And I’m not completely sure about this next thing, but I think he might have a son. I heard Mom saying something about Curt needing to give someone named Noah time to heal and grieve or something. I’m guessing someone close to them must have died a few months back. A woman by the sound of it. Maybe a grandmother.”
“Or maybe his wife,” Daisy interjects, making my eyes snap in alarm at her.
“You think? No, that can’t be. By my count, they've been dating for over six months and whoever passed away sounded like it happened pretty recently.”
“Keeping track, huh? I knew I could count on you for dirt," she praises, fake punching my chin.
I slap her hand away.
“Whatever. All I know is that it’s getting super serious between them.”
“How come?”
I maul my lip, since what I’m about to confess is far worse than eavesdropping on my mother’s private conversations.
“I might have gone on Mom’s computer last week,” I admit with a cringe.
Instead of the reprimand I expect to hear from my sister, all she does is wait for me to continue.
“And?” she insists, with wide eyes anxious for me to get on with it.
“And she’s been sending resumes to hospices, clinics, and the hospital on the island,” I finally say.
