Page 59 of The Vacation Mix-Up
My throat goes dry, so I pick up my beer and take a long swig, mentally calming myself to say, “No. I’m single.”
Her enthusiastic munching stops, and she mumbles, “But you said?—”
“I didn’t say I was or wasn’t.”
“Wait!” She swallows, sauce dripping onto her chin. “So you don’t have a partner?”
“Not exactly.”
“What does that even mean?”
“I’m getting a divorce.”
“Oh.” She dips her head and takes another bite. “I’m sorry.”
I dunk a fry in ketchup and pop it into my mouth. “I’m not.”
Riles doesn’t insist I elaborate, even though I can tell she’s itching to by how her eyes—swimming with the reflection of the water in the pool—bounce back and forth. But she doesn’t request further information, and I appreciate it.
Everyone I know knows the truth. The pastor. The coffee shop owner. The local handyman. Every damn person in Buxtonville. They know about Krystal and Finn, about Imogen and how neither of us recovered from losing her. They know everything. All I want is a conversation with someone who isn’t aware of the deepest, saddest parts of me.
And I finally have that.
She takes another sip of her soda, and the sauce on her chin glares at me like a beacon. I have the overwhelming urge to wipe it off for her, so I go to reach out when she collects her napkin, presses it to her mouth, and hums, “Yum. You chose good.”
I chuckle. “I can see that.”
“Don’t judge me. I’m starving.”
“How can you be starving? There’s an endless supply of food on this ship.”
“I know! But all I’ve eaten today is that bagel I had at breakfast. Oh, and a juice.”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah.” She swishes her hand at me. “I was too busy seeing all the things I wanted to see in Halifax.”
“And you forgot to eat?”
She shrugs. “I’m used to it. Happens all the time. As long as I get my coffee first thing in the morning, I’m fine.”
For as long as I can remember, Mom made it herpriority to make sure Roni and I had a hearty breakfast and ended our day with an even heartier dinner.
“A full belly leads to a full day and a good night’s rest, kids. Eat well, live well,”she often said while placing home-cooked meals on the table. So hearing Riles “forgets” to eat as if it’s perfectly acceptable churns my well-nourished stomach.
“You shouldn’t skip meals,” I remark.
Her brow bunches. “It’s not like I do it on purpose. Most days, I grab something on the run. Other days, I’m too preoccupied. Like today.”
“Food is important.”
She steeples her fingers, one solitary eyebrow hiked. “Are you saying I’m too thin? Because thin-shaming is as bad as fat-shaming.”
“I’m not body-shaming you, Riles. Your body is perfect.”
Her cheeks flush pink, her jaw dropping just slightly before she snaps it shut and awkwardly rubs her neck.
Enjoying my ability to make her blush, I control the satisfaction that wants to burst onto my face and continue speaking so she understands what Iamtrying to say. “Food is fuel, and we need fuel to function.”
