Page 60 of The Sea-Mist Cottage Inn
“Yeah, I think so. Mr. DeValle—he does English and drama—seems pretty cool. He said I should try out for the fall play. And Ms. Flint in biology—she’s funny, I think.”
“How about sports? You thinking about trying out for any teams?”
Hearing that question, I almost interrupted. Wyatt was not into team sports, and since Micah’s death he wasn’t much interested in outdoorsy activities, either.
Sports are so entangled with traditional (and toxic) ideas of masculinity, and I wasn’t sure what Roman’s ideas about that were. His brand of masculinity isn’t toxic at all, but sports has a tendency to bring out the caveman in most men. I didn’t want him to say something that accidentally hurt Wyatt out of an assumption about what ‘all’ guys like.
I held back, though, and that was the right call.
Wyatt shrugged and said, “I’m not that into sports. I’d rather do plays and maybe choir.”
I thought I detected a hint of defensiveness in my son’s tone.
But Roman said, “That’s great—you know, art and music are a lot more important to the world than sports.”
“You don’t like sports?” Wyatt asked.
“No, I do. I like to watch baseball and basketball—baseball especially—but I’m not that good at playing them myself. There’s lots of good about sports, but they don’t really change the world. Art and music change the world all the time. All the true things are said there.”
Wyatt looked at Roman and smiled. I knew that smile. That smile meant my son felt seen.
I stood behind them at a table ready for the dinner they were grilling, and my eyes filled with tears. There was literally no better answer he could have given my son.
It’s possible that this is the moment I fell in love with Roman Mendoza.
DINNER WAS DELICIOUS. The steaks were perfect, the rolls were fresh and buttery, the salads crisp. Roman and I shared a bottle of wine, and Wyatt had sweet tea in a wine glass so he could feel like a grownup with us. By the time we were ready for dessert—cupcakes from Sprinkles, three Mexican hot chocolate and three raspberry-lemon—dark had fallen completely, and Roman’s back yard was a fairyland of twinkling lights.
In the long tradition of family dinners, our conversation wended through the topics topmost in our minds. We described our days, the most typical of which had been Roman’s. I talked about lunch with my friends, and the adventure with Daddy Ned, and how both had seemed to work together to create a space for Erin and me to rebuild our friendship. Mostly we were interested in Wyatt’s first day, and he was happy to answer the questions we peppered him with.
Then, as he started to peel the paper off his second raspberry-lemon cupcake, Wyatt said, “Actually, there’s something I want to ask you, Mom.”
I sucked cayenne-infused chocolate frosting off my thumb and said, “Okay, hit me.”
“On Friday, there’s a bonfire thing on Bluster Beach. Bailey and everybody are going, and they want me to go.”
Roman and I made eye contact across the table. We’d both gone to Bendixen High and knew the Bendixen Bonfire. I had, sadly, forgotten about it, so I was not prepared for this talk.
For something like seventy years, students have celebrated the new school year with a bonfire on Bluster Beach the first Friday night of the semester. It’s a tradition and a rite of passage—and, like every other social ritual of high school, booze flows and weed wafts freely.
I had not been allowed to attend, of course, but I’d managed it twice: my sophomore year, when my mother was in the hospital for a few days for gall-bladder surgery (best days of my childhood), and my senior year, when I’d developed enough cynical crust to do it and not care about the punishment I’d get when I got home.
As it is a tradition, and as Bluster is the kind of town where just about literally every adult went to Bendixen High and experienced its rituals, the bonfire is pretty safe, despite the underage imbibing going on. The whole town keeps tabs, and most of the kids stay close to the beach through the night, either camping there if the weather’s warm enough or returning very late to their homes in the town proper (or couch surfing at the homes of their friends who live in the town proper).
My hesitation that night was that we didn’t live in town. We lived several miles outside of town. Roman lived farther out than we did.
Actually, there was more trouble than just that. Wyatt was brand new to Bendixen and Bluster. He didn’t have strong relationships yet. Nobody his age he could really trust. Nobody I could really trust for him. The Bendixen Bonfire was jumpinginto the deep end of high school—huge party, lots of drinking and general tomfoolery, and Wyatt would be surrounded by strangers.
“I don’t know, bud,” I said, hedging while my brain spun. “That bonfire gets pretty wild.”
Butgod, it’s such an important event in the school culture. I didn’t want to do something that made him an outlier. I had plenty of first-hand knowledge about how much that sucked.
“Mom, please? Bailey says it’s critical.”
It kinda was. I mean, not everybody goes, obviously, but those who don’t are known for not going. It definitely oxidizes one’s reputation. “I could ... I could go with you,” I offered, trying to come up a workable solution.
You’d think I’d told him I’d put him in a diaper and carry him to the bonfire like a baby. His eyes popped wide and his cheeks washed out.
“Mom! You can’t go to a high school party! You might as well sell me to a freak show!”
