Page 95 of The Sweet Spot

Luca shifts in his seat, running his hand over his hair. “Actually, there’s a chance I might be leaving, too. My dad wants me back in São Paulo.”

My heart sinks. “Again?”

“Nothing’s certain yet…but his firm has a huge upcoming project, and they just offered me a pretty good position.”

“I thought you were gonna look for stuff here, finally focus on architecture.”

“I was. I still might. I don’t know.”

“Do you want to go?”

“Yes and no,” he says, which is what he always says when this topic comes up.

“What’re the pros?” I ask.

“The pay will be good. Really good. I’ll be writing and checking code with a team of software architects, something guys with more seniority usually get…it’ll look great on my resume.”

“And you’d have more time with your father, I guess?”

He pauses. “Yeah.”

“Cons?”

Luca doesn’t say anything for a long time, but when he does, it feels like he’s erupting, giving voice to things he’s maybe always wanted to say. “The biggest con is that I want to just stay here. Relax. Find an architecture firm or something that’ll hire me and figure out what I want to do for the rest of my life.” He looks at me. “I want to teach you how to surf. I want to go to Mãe’s for Sunday dinners.”

My chest tightens. “Why don’t you do all of that, then?”

“Because it’ll disappoint him, so much,” he says with a tired sigh. “He lives for these summers together, and he’ll just wear me down until I do what he wants. He can’t let go of the dream of us being in business together.”

“I don’t think those are good reasons to go.” I’m quiet when I say it, and he doesn’t respond, but I know he hears me. It feels like we’re just getting started. The thought of him leaving now, after so many false starts, makes my stomach hurt.

I would wait for Luca, of course. I just don’t want to have to.

Wren

Clutching an oversize cup of coffee, I pull up to my old apartment building and park. I’m here to steal Mom’s trusty, old beach cooler. She hardly uses it these days, and Arlo leaves tomorrow, so today we’re going on a picnic at one of my favorite beaches down the coast.

Yawning, I climb out of my car and head upstairs. It’s a pretty morning, almost nine, the cheerfully blue sky packed with fat clouds. Luca and I spent most of last night outdoors, drinking beer and stargazing at Fremont Peak until we fell asleep on the hood of his car. We woke up at quarter to three, freezing, and spent the next half hour warming up in the backseat.

It was one of the best nights of my life.

I peer blearily across the lot, surprised to see the eyesore that’s been parked in the corner has finally been towed. I never thought I’d see the day.

Sliding my key into the lock, I push open Mom’s front door and kick my flip-flops off, leaving them behind on the welcome mat. I’m rooting quietlyaround the pantry in the kitchen, searching for the cooler, when it hits me. The apartment smells different today. Like patchouli, of course, but something else, too. Something like…cologne?

Still down on my haunches, I pause my search and glance around the kitchen, noticing for the first time the Chinese takeout containers and empty wine bottles littering the countertops.

“Wren?”

I whirl around at the croaky voice, falling back onto my ass. “Arlo?” I gasp.

My father gapes at me, shirtless, his phone in one hand and a broomstick in the other. His hair looks like he stuck his finger into an electrical socket and then left it there while he slept. Mom hovers behind him, clenching her teal kimono bathrobe shut. She’s so red she looks like she might catch fire.

Oh, my God.

“Oh, my God!” Horrified, I spring up and squeeze past them. “Call me later, Arlo!” I snatch my shoes off the floor and escape out the door, past the men’s Chelsea boots I somehow missed on my way in. Mom might be calling my name, but there’s no way I’m going back there.

It’s not until I’m in the car, squealing out of the parking lot with a pounding heart, that my shock turns to laughter…and then epic gross out. In all my years of life, I’ve never caught my mother the morning after with a date.

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