Until a sharp elbow connects with my gut, causing me to double over.
“Eyes off,” Wes says under his breath, frowning at me as I rub my stomach.
“They’re off,” I mutter, and I grimace as I stand up straight again. “Sorry. I didn’t—I didn’t realize. I didn’t recognize her.”
Except as she finally reaches us, pulling off her sunglasses and placing them on top of her head, I begin to see the proof.
The last time I saw Molly O’Malley was…what, ten years ago? Nine years ago? When Wes and I graduated from high school. I didn’t return home more than once or twice during my college years, since I didn’t feel much need to see my dad—but even when I did go, I didn’t see Molly. She was a clumsy little shadow back when Wes and I graduated, always present but usually silent except when she was knocking something over, scrawny and short with bright red hair and a face full of freckles.
The freckles are still there, I notice, and still starkly visible against her milky skin. Her hair, too, is the same color as it was all those years ago, though it’s longer now, and she seems to have tamed it, weaving it into a loose braid that’s tucked over her shoulder to one side.
It’s her eyes, though, that convince me. I remember those eyes peeking up at me from her pale face, warm and lively and intelligent. That gaze was one of the key features that made the O’Malleys’ house feel like home. Because home is a place where people actually want you around, and although I never encouraged the hero worship I saw in Molly, it did make me feel welcome. She was always watching, even when she pretended she wasn’t. And she’s watching now, too, her eyes not darting away even when our gazes clash.
Everything else about her is different. Wes is showing signs of wanting to jab me again, though, or maybe gouge my eyes out, so I look away instead of cataloguing the other changes the years have brought. I don’t need to be noticing anything more.
I pick a spot over her left eyebrow and direct my attention there. “Hey,” I say to her forehead, forcing a halfhearted smile onto my face. I take a quick breath, hoping to get rid of this jitteriness that’s sending adrenaline through my veins. I feel…shaken, I guess, and I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit. But I’m still getting over the shock of checking out a woman only to realize it’s Molly O’Malley. It’s that same feeling you get when you take a drink, expecting water, only to taste flat, day-old soda instead—a wrong-footedness that makes you shudder.
“Hi,” Molly says, smiling up at me. It’s a gorgeous smile—familiar, but new, too. There’s none of the shyness I remember, and none of the shining adoration. It looks like her puppy love crush ran its course a long time ago. “It’s been a long time,” she goes on. Then she holds out her hand in the space between us.
I look down at it, surprised, and then look back up at her.
“What?” she says, glancing at her hand. “Is that weird? Should we not—”
“No,” I say, cutting her off and shoving my hand forward to shake hers. I’m being stupid. “Not weird. Sorry.” My voice sounds wooden and stiff, even to my own ears, but I can’t help it, and I’m not sure I want to get chummy with Molly anyway. Still, to be polite, I force out, “How have you been?”
“I’ve been good,” she says slowly. “You?” And even though I’m staring at her forehead, I can see the expression she’s wearing—lips turned down, a tiny crease in her brow like she’s confused about my behavior.
And look. I don’t mean to be cold or rude or anything. But I’m not good at faking it, either. I’m not the sort of person to pretend at a warmth I don’t feel—or in this case, to spend energy on a relationship I don’t want or need. It’s nothing personal. Molly and I will just be acquaintances for a day; I’m not going to put myself through the draining process of pretending it’s anything more than that, especially since I don’t want to send her the wrong signals.
I give her a short nod, answering her. “I’m good, thanks.” Then I turn to Mr. and Mrs. O’Malley, who’ve made their way over from their spot on the bench and are now watching our exchange with interest. “Should we get going?” I say.
“Yes, let’s go,” Mr. O’Malley says, rubbing his hands together excitedly. He doesn’t seem to notice anything strange or off about my interaction with Molly. I sneak a peek at Mrs. O’Malley, but she too simply looks anxious to get started on our day.
A sigh of relief slips out of me. Good. This is good. Everything in its place, everything normal. Just a normal outing with the people I consider family. Nothing awkward, nothing forced, no weird feelings or realizations.
Good. All good.
* * *
It doesn’t take toolong for all of us to move through the checkpoint in the port terminal. We emerge into what’s essentially a large outdoor shopping center—perfectly placed for tourists to spend money, of course. It’s a paved courtyard, bustling and chaotic, punctuated with palm trees and cased by colorful shops and restaurants. We pass a tall, dreadlocked man with two tiny monkeys on his shoulders, and Molly stops to coo at them. I might do the same if I hadn’t already met both the man and his animals; his name is Nilson, and the monkeys are Alfonso and Señorita. Alfonso is fine, but Señorita has only ever pulled my hair and stuck her creepily long fingers in my ears, so I stand back and wait, nodding at Nilson when he spots me.
“Hi, baby,” Molly says in a soft voice as she runs her hand down Señorita’s back. “You’re pretty, aren’t you?”
“You want to hold her?” Nilson says, adjusting Alfonso on his other shoulder while he reaches up for Señorita.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to warn Molly, but I keep it in. She probably wouldn’t listen anyway, judging by the way her eyes light up.
“Oh, yes!” she says, smiling. She shrugs off her backpack and sets it on the pavement before patting her right shoulder. “Here?”
Nilson smiles. “Sure. This is Señorita.”
And Señorita goes straight from Nilson to Molly without a fuss. She settles comfortably on Molly’s shoulder, not pulling her hair, not sticking her finger in her ear. She’s a perfect passenger, and Molly is clearly in love.
Señorita, that little she-devil. It must just be me she likes to torment. I glare at her, and she stares back, her beady little eyes taunting me.
I pull my eyes away from Señorita when Molly’s attention turns to me. “Have you ever held these before?” she says, her hand gently holding the little monkey in place.
I nod, stepping closer. I try to keep my gaze neutral as I look at Señorita. “We’re acquainted, yes.” I tilt my head. “Though she didn’t like me as much as she seems to like—”