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My eyes scan the table. I spot that little plastic cup of jalapeños—it’s filled to the top. I put it on the table between us. “If I ate this whole thing. Right now. Can we be cool?”
He lifts his eyebrow dubiously, but his eyes don’t leave mine.
“Um,” Kenzi says. “That’s like…a lot of jalapeños. I don’t know if you should…”
Too late. My gaze locked on his, I put the cup to my lips and tilt it back in one go.
Kenzi’s eyes go wide. So do Donovan’s. “Holy shit…” he says.
“Not so bad,” I say, crunching through the slices, the tiny seeds.
And then my mouth explodes.
I just make it to the trash can by the pool, where my body rejects the peppers and I hurl.
Dock Master Richard Donovan grabs me by the shoulder and drags me into his office, even though I tell him I’m fine.
And I am fine. I mean, my mouth is on fire, my throat feels like it’s closing up, but Donovan and I are cool. I think.
I hope.
He gets me a milk carton from the kiddie supply, and I sip on it. It settles my stomach a little. When my throat is working again, I’m able to beg him: “Please don’t call my dad. I’ll do whatever you want. Just please, please don’t call my dad.”
I see where Donovan gets his stern gaze. He hands over the office phone. “He’s already on the line.”
I’d take the jalapeño sting over this lump in my throat any day.
I take the phone. “Hey.”
“The harbor master said you were sick.” My dad’s voice is strong and steady. Controlled. “Is that true?”
“Uh…no. It’s fine.”
“Do you need me to come get you?”
He doesn’t say it—I can hear the disappointment in his voice. I knew you couldn’t cut it. Disappointment. Loser. Pansy.
“No, sir. I’m good.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re not giving them any trouble, are you? If you were…you know how that would look on us.”
“No, sir. No trouble. Just something I ate. All good now.”
A pause. The silence makes my stomach knot. Or maybe it’s the spice. I hold it back either way.
“Should I be concerned?” he asks finally.
“Huh?”
“First, there was the incident with the boat. Then, I have to hear that you’re running around in women’s underwear. Now, this.”
“It was a prank, Dad. We were just being idiots.”
A labored sigh on the other end. “You’re nineteen. Not a child. You act like that, people are going to think you are a—”
