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“Did it storm here while I was gone?” I ask as she returns from her bedroom with the laptop in hand.
“We had some rain I think but it only lasted five minutes maybe.”
“The power went out at City Hall.”
“I guess the wind’s kind of strong. The boats were all knocking into each other out at the wharf,” she says, pointing toward the slider. Depending on the direction the wind isblowing, we either get slammed or skipped because of the inlet we’re nestled in between two hills.
While Willa is typing away on her keyboard, I take a couple of plates out from the cabinet to dish out the food.
“Oh boy,” she says. “You might want to see this.” I guess I should have figured she’d find something. Not even a ninth grade English teacher can have a scratch-proof online history these days. I lean forward over the sink to the ledge of the open framed window connecting the living room and kitchen. She flips the laptop around to show me a picture that popped up. “Is that him?”
I press the back of my hand up to my mouth and lean in further. “It is,” I confirm.
“Okay then. We check off the first box on my list,” she says, her eyebrows dancing around. “Extremely good looking.” Her chirp makes my cheeks burn.
“Where did you find this?” I stare at the picture of Liam dressed for the beach. The sight is not disappointing.
“A dating site. Don’t worry, it’s eighteen plus so no students would be on here. That gets another check on my list,” she says with a cluck of her tongue.
I tug at her messy bun. “You and your crazy list.”
“It worked for me, didn’t it?” she asks, pointing out a valid occurrence.
“Yeah, yeah. Okay, I’m dishing the food out because I’m starving.”
“I’d be hungry too if I got the number of this body…I mean, guy,” Willa mutters.
“Hey, hey! What would Chef Jerry say if he heard you talking like this?”
“That he wants his number too,” she says with laughter.
I dish out the food, knowing that for every minute of silence that passes while I do so is a step closer to checking off all the boxes of Willa’s non-existent list.
I set the table, a beer for each of us, and plenty of napkins for my favorite tomato sauce. “All set,” I tell her. She’s still scrolling through a web browser sat on the stool at the window ledge but closes the laptop and joins me at the table.
“He has a clear record. He has minimal posts on his social media accounts, and most are about baseball and charities he contributes to. He has a typical teacher online presence. He’s twenty-eight, has an August birthday, likes baseball—yadda, yadda… Okay, I think I have all the information necessary to give you the green light. Well done, lady.”
I guess I’m glad I went to that class tonight for more reasons than one. I’m a believer in meeting someone when you least expect it. But who knows, he may not respond if I message him. Maybe he came to his senses on the way home. He could have been having a moment of desperation and saw one person in the class who didn’t look like they were trying to plan out their escape.
“I want to meet him,” Willa says, mouth full.
“No. No way, not yet. Not until I know he can handle your—your eccentric sunshine vibes.”
“What? Why?” Willa drops her fork and huffs. “Haley. It’s in your best interest…”
We both laugh, knowing this is less to do with my best interest and more to do with her curiosity. “Hmm…I can think of a few reasons, and you couldn’t argue with one of them.”
“Hales, come on.” She frowns. “Leave Kyle out of this. No one could have known how that would end up.”
SEVEN
FRIDAY, JUNE 9TH 6:00 PM
Mr. and Mrs. Smith’s house gives me a far better understanding of the high-end hourly rate they can afford. It’s easily worth over two-and-a-half million dollars with ocean-front access and has one of the best views of Newport’s main bridge. The lifestyle of the rich isn’t uncommon in this part of Rhode Island, but students like me rarely mingle with people like the Smiths. I’m intrigued, and excited to get to know the twin girls. I haven’t done much research or studying about the financial influence on the psyche of young children. I’m hoping to gain some insight from watching and interacting with them. It will also help me with the research and case study I have to complete over the summer.
As I navigate the pebbled driveway, wrapping around a cluster of oak trees, I can’t help but feel a twinge of anxiety about where to park. Their cars must be stowed away in the adjacent garage, but I don’t want to park behind the wrong bay, assuming they’ll be needing a car to go to this gala tonight. The rocks ping and pang against the undercarriage of my car as my tires crunch and my brakes squeal. There’s no discreet way of arriving anywhere with my old clunker, especially against the surreal backdrop of their historic three-story manor. The grayand white brick façade speaks of high-class, but it’s not a life I can imagine myself living. I’ve been an apartment dweller most of my life, finding comfort in smaller spaces that offer warmth and containment—not that I really have much choice, anyway.
The moment I close my car door, I notice the front entrance of the house open. Mrs. Smith appears to be clutching an earring between her fingertips as she watches me approach. She’s even more gorgeous than the house. With long golden hair curled over her right shoulder and skin that glows in the sun’s rays. Her eyes glisten like fresh pearls.
