My butt is stiff from the hard boards and I’ve slapped at a hundred mosquitoes when my father finally comes out and hands me a glass of lemonade.
“Whatcha doing out here?” he asks as I sip the tart liquid.
“Waiting for Finn,” I tell him. “I saw him at the cemetery. He went alone. He’s going to need to talk about it.”
My dad looks pained and I know it’s because he hasn’t been there yet, either.
“Don’t feel bad, dad,” I say quickly. “I haven’t actually been there yet, either. I just drove past. I couldn’t make myself go in.”
He nods slowly. “One of these days,” he starts to say, then trails off. And I know that’s gone in the One Of These Days file in his head.
I smile and pretend that he’ll actually do it.
He leaves me alone and I wish for a second that he hadn’t, because I’m lonely and I could use some company while I wait. From time to time, I think I see Dare’s curtains move, like he’s keeping an eye on me, but I’m probably imagining it.
The lemonade finally runs through me, and I duck inside to use the restroom. As I’m washing my hands, a glint of silver catches my attention on the counter.
Finn’s St. Michael’s medallion.
It’s a small silver disk honoring St. Michael that my mother bought Finn for Christmas last year. We’re not Catholic, but she loved the idea that it’s supposed to give courage and keep the wearer out of harm’s way. She knew that Finn needed that protection, for sure. He never takes it off. He even sleeps in it.
But here it is, lying on the bathroom counter.
I pick it up with shaking fingers.
Where is he?
I rush back out of the house, intent on asking Dare to drive me back into town to look for him when I glance down at the beach and I see that our boat is gone from the slip.
Since dad’s in the house and Dare is in the cottage, there’s only one person that could’ve taken it.
Finn.
I jog down the trail to the beach, and sit with my legs dangling on the pier. Because there’s only one thing to do.
Wait.
I wait until my body is stiff, until the sun sinks low in the sky, and still Finn hasn’t come back in. I start to get pissed actually, because he had to know I’d be worried.
He’s doing this on purpose, I decide. To teach me a lesson.
Anger boils my blood and I stomp back up to the house where I slam a few things together in the kitchen to make my dad a sandwich.
He looks up at me in surprise. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Finn took the boat out alone,” I snap. “He’s obviously mad at me.”
My dad pats my shoulder. “He’s been sailing for as long as you have. He’s fine,” is all he says. I want to grab his hand and snap it off because he’s so involved in his own sadness that he can’t see anyone else’s.
“You don’t know that,” I snap at him again.
“I do,” he says confidently. “He’ll be fine.”
I can’t even stand to stay and eat with him, so I slam back out the door, but on my way an idea occurs to me, something I’ve never considered doing before.
I pause at my dad’s bar.
And then I grab a bottle of gin, my father’s drink of choice.