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“It was my fault.” I’ll say anything to make his face less somber. “I shouldn’t have woken you up.”
“I ate the sandwich.” He says it grudgingly. “After you left.” Then, even more grudging: “It was the best BLT I ever had.”
“Really?” Relief makes my bones go liquid. “I’m glad you liked it.”
I really am glad. Food is magic, it feeds the body and the soul. That’s why loneliness feels like huger.
Sullivan grins, coming out the back door. “Smelled those steaks grilling and figured you better apologize?”
His dad huffs, “I was going to apologize either way.” Then admits, “The steaks moved up the timeline.”
He watches me top each rib eye with a pat of butter.
Sullivan looks way more like his mom than his dad when it comes to coloring. She was sloe-eyed, coal haired, bronze skinned like him, while his dad has that shaggy surfer hair you only seem to see on men born and raised in California, with those eerie blue eyes.
But when he watches me, he looks just like his son.
It’s that stare that blazes all the way through me. When they each fold their arms over their chests and lean back against the nearest tree, Sullivan could have another twin.
“Theo’s staying with us for the week,” Sullivan reminds his dad.
“I remember.”Doubtful. “I’m Merrick, by the way.” He pushes off the tree trunk and steps forward to shake my hand.
“Nice to meet you, Merrick.” I grip his palm, which is rough and calloused. “Formally.”
I feel a little awkward calling him Merrick, but “Mr. Rivas” would sound even worse.
Especially since Sullivan’s dad doesn’t look very old. He’s battered and weary, but he must have had kids young—I doubt he’s even fifty.
“So, are you two…?” Merrick lets the question hang.
“We’re just friends,” Sullivan calmly states.
I shoot him a look—I was under the impression that we were pretending to date in front ofeverybody,just to be safe.
Sullivan receives my look with a small smile that means…I have no idea what. I guess that we’ll talk about it later?
“Okay,” Merrick says, like he doesn’t believe us.
Or maybe he doesn’t care. His eyes have slipped away from us, toward the house. He’s staring at the windows of the east wing, where he had his bedroom with his wife. With a jolt, I realize that you can see the portrait of Stella Rivas through the window, like she’s gazing back at us.
“Where do you want to eat?” Sullivan asks me, as I transfer the rib eyes from grill to platter with a set of tongs.
Merrick steps down from the porch, like he’s already planning to head back to the pool house.
Thinking fast, I say, “I hoped we could eat out here—it’s such a gorgeous night.”
I nod toward the ancient picnic table with its splintering bench seats.
Sullivan gives it a dubious look. It’s covered in weeds.
But Merrick steps forward and starts ripping off the vines snaking up its legs.
“I’ll get candles,” Sullivan says, ducking back inside the house. He emerges a moment later with a motley assortment of half-melted stubs and lights them quickly as the sun sinks below the fence line.
I carry the platters out to the table, the pineapple wedges beautifully browned in their brown sugar glaze, the veggie skewers turned so the slightly charred side is hidden underneath.
Sullivan triumphantly places his salad on the table.
