Page 20 of Summer People
I shift on my stool at the image that’s taunted me for at least the fiftieth time today. Fuck, what is wrong with me? I don’t like her. If only my damn dick would get on board.
If all that isn’t bad enough, Libby has gotten in the habit of feeding the damn birds. Every day she throws bread onto the rocks out in front of the house. I don’t understand the need she has to turn our yard into a bird sanctuary. All I know is it’s driving Bing insane. He whines at the door all day, and when I can’t stand the noise anymore and finally let him out, he chases the gulls away, only to return covered in bird shit.
After one very large white glob of shit landed in my hair this afternoon, I’m pretty sure I developed a twitch.
Libby’s laugh floats above the noise of the crowd, but I refuse to look over to the table where she is sitting with Maggie and Wilder’s sister Eddy. Libby has invaded enough of my life. I’m not giving her my free time.
Not that she would want my time or attention anyway. What interest would Elizabeth Sweet have in someone like me?
“Fisher?” Wilder’s voice brings me back to the moment. And the brewery. “I’m seriously worried about your teeth.”
“My teeth?”
My best friend throws his head back and laughs. “Yeah, you’re grinding them to dust.”
The man thinks he’s funnier than he is.
“Jeez, tough crowd.” He tips his number seventeen mug at me.
I have a mug too, every islander does, and they’re all numbered. I don’t use mine; the whole thing is ridiculous. I want my beer in a bottle or a can just like I’d get it at any bar in Boston, not a ceramic thing that never gets run through thecommercial dishwasher inside. But Wilder takes pride in the cup that proves he’s a Monheganer.
Although I could have sworn he’s number twenty-five.
“What happened to your mug?” I ask.
“Nothing.” He shrugs. “Old man Wayne died over the winter.”
I frown. Although common knowledge, I don’t see how it relates to his beer mug.
“So I get his.” He says it like it’s obvious. “I made a deal with Rip—every time someone dies, I get their mug. I’m moving up in life, man.”
With a shake of my head, I scoff.
“What? I’m shooting for the one spot.”
“You’re telling me your life goal is the Monhegan Brewery mug number one?”
He shrugs again. “We can’t all be Boston hotshots.”
The statement makes me want to cringe. Maybe I was a big city hotshot back in the day, but I haven’t been that guy for years. I roll my shoulders in a vain attempt to rid myself of the constant unease I feel at the loss of the life I built for myself. “Right, but someone has to die for you to reach your goal.”
He nods, his lips pressed into a serious frown. “Sixteen someones.”
“Jesus.”
“It’s not like I’m waiting for you to die, Mr. Fifty-Five.” He eyes my cup where it’s still hanging on the wall and shudders, then turns back to me, his grin growing wide again. “So like I was saying, this is the start of the good times. New women and a summer full of weekend fun.”
Unlike most of the islanders—who put up with the summer people for the income they bring us—Wilder loves the fresh blood. He lives for new faces and new people. Just like Hunter was, Wilder is a people person. The asshole should be the sheriff.I petitioned for it when I moved back, but no one listened to me. Even Wilder is insistent that it’s my job. No one seems to mind that I have no qualifications or patience for it.
“Yay for new people,” I mutter into my beer.
“I like that group.” Wilder tips his mug to six women huddled together around the picnic table closest to the heater. “They’re out for fun.”
“Looks like a bachelorette party,” I grumble. Too much giggling and screeching.
“Exactly.” His lips kick up on one side. “And I happen to be the fun they’re looking for.”
“Better get over there, then, or those guys will beat you to it.” I tip my bottle to the two men about our age across the space. One of whom is already pushing to his feet.
