“Yup!”
He handed me one, and I passed it across to Luke. “Your favorite breakfast.”
“And lunch and dinner,” he agreed, setting it in the holder. “We better head on. If I don’t get out of this tie soon I’m going to choke.”
“Just keep your shirt on,” I told him. He made a face, Jacqueline waved, and then they were pulling away, ending our first true run-in since the breakup. He seemed to be doing just fine. Which was what I wanted. Because I was fine, too. Right?
We had two cars in a row behind them, one with a million questions about vegetarian options on the island, the other a minivan that cleared out our remaining drink supply. Forget wiping my forehead; by the time we had another break, I was outright sweating.
“This is brutal,” I said to Benji. “I feel like we’re being punished or something.”
“Cold towel?” he asked me.
“What?”
He opened up the cooler and rummaged around before pulling a rolled-up washcloth from the ice. “Try this.”
I did, putting it to my face, and almost moaned it felt so good. “Wow. That’s amazing. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He shut the cooler, then sat down on it, propping his head in his hands. “Do you miss Luke?”
I always forgot, when I was with Benji, that at ten he had not quite mastered the art of the smooth conversational segue. I took the towel off my face. “Yeah. I do. Not as much as I did when we first broke up, but . . . we were together a long time.”
“He kissed another girl,” he told me.
I looked at him. “Who told you that?”
“Morris.” Also, apparently, not a whole lot of vagueness or dodging. If you knew it, you said it. “Were you mad?”
This one was easy to answer. “Yes. Very. And sad, too.”
Benji looked in the direction where the car had gone. “But you’re happy now, with Theo. Right?”
“Yep.”
All these answers, I realized, made the whole thing seem very cut-and-dry, when really it was anything but. Yes, I had kissed Theo the same day Luke and I split, and yes, I was happy with him. But even with that in play, I still had moments and even days when I was really sad about Luke. Who would have thought that grieving an old relationship and enjoying a new one could happen simultaneously, in parallel? Yet another thing you only find out once it’s happening to you.
We sat there for another moment, both of us silent. It was so steamy that across the parking lot, the cars looked wavery, the heat changing the very air.
“Emaline?”
“Yeah?” I said, wiping my face again.
“I don’t want go home.”
I glanced at my watch, then the road in front of the office. “Well, that’s good, because we have at least another hour out here. If we don’t die of heatstroke first.”
“No, I mean home. Connecticut,” he said, studying his hands. “I don’t want to go back.”
I looked at him, feeling a pang in my chest. “Now, I bet that’s not totally true.”
“It is,” he said glumly.
“You must miss your mom. And your friends. Right?”
He shrugged. “I don’t have a lot of friends. And my mom’s really sad right now, which makes me sad. So no.”
I hesitated, not sure what to say to this. Despite what Morris had told me about Benji knowing about it, I didn’t want to bring up the separation. I took a breath, then said, “I know how you feel. I don’t really want the summer to end, either.”
He looked up. “You don’t?”
I shook my head. “Because when it does, I have to go off to college, which is kind of scary. And I won’t get to see Theo anymore. At least not for a while.”
“He’s in New York.”
“Yup.” I pulled out the water I’d claimed earlier and took a sip. It was lukewarm by now. “That he is.”
“You could come visit him,” he said. He thought for a second. “Hey, you could stay with me! It’s a really short train ride to the city. We do it all the time.”
“Yeah?”
He nodded.
“That would be great. I’d love that.”
This seemed to cheer him up, at least temporarily. For a moment, we didn’t talk, and I just watched him pick at the chipping paint on the cooler, sending tiny flakes flying.
“My parents are getting a divorce,” he said finally, as matter-of-factly as he’d reported Luke’s indiscretion.
I blinked, then took another sip of my water. “Are they?”
He glanced up at me. “You didn’t know?”
“I knew that, um . . .” I looked over at the office, wondering when, exactly, my father and Margo would be returning from their latest trip to North Reddemane, this time to meet with painters before the house was listed. “I knew they were having problems.”
He nodded. “They fight a lot. And yell.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. She says his expectations are unrealistic. He says she nitpicks instead of focusing on the big picture.”
No question: these were direct quotes. “That’s no fun.”
“Do your mom and dad fight, too?”
I thought of my parents, their easy compatibility. Arguing was not something that happened much, if ever. My mom was so stubborn, my dad had learned to choose his battles, which were few and far between. “Sometimes. Not too much, though.”