“The heart is a hard flesh, not easily injured. In hardness, tension, general strength, and resistance to injury, the fibers of the heart far surpass all others, for no other instrument performs such continuous, hard work as the heart . . . enlarging when it desires to attract what is useful, clasping its contents when it is time to enjoy what has been attracted, and contracting when it desires to expel residues.”
—Galen, second-century physician, “On the Usefulness of the Parts of the Body”
RYAN’S CAR IN the driveway is the first thing I notice when I get home. I have a moment of worry that something happened to Dad again, but then he comes around the corner of the house with the garden hose. I get out of the car, relieved but confused.
“There’s my girl,” my dad says, rolling up the hose as I reach the front porch. He does a double take. “You’re glowing—either that or you got a pretty good sunburn.”
I look down at my bright-red arms. “Time got away from me. What’s . . .”
“You have a good day at the beach?”
Guilt over the half-truth in my note pings around in my chest, and I try not to make it worse by adding to it. “Yep!” My voice comes out higher than I mean for it to, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“That’s great.” He smiles and holds an arm out for me as I walk over. “It’s good to see you getting out and enjoying yourself,” he says, pulling me in for a hug. He kisses the top of my head; then his eyes fix on my lip. “You get everything worked out with the driver of the other car?”
I look at the sand that’s still dusted over the tops of my feet. “Yeah, I did. He was really nice. Said there wasn’t any damage to his car and that we didn’t need to call insurance or anything, so it’s all good.”
My dad eyes me suspiciously. “You get that in writing? Because people say that stuff, and then they turn right around and file a lawsuit.”
I shake my head. “He wasn’t like that. He’s just a local beach kid, and the van was kind of beat-up anyway. It really wasn’t a big deal.”
My dad raises an eyebrow without bothering to hide his smile. “Local beach kid, huh? Cute?”
“No,” I say immediately. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Oh. He’s homely then?”
I smack him on the shoulder. “No. He’s not— Anyway, what’s Ryan doing home? I thought she was supposed to be on a plane to Europe.”
“I saw what you just did there. We don’t have to talk about the not-homely beach kid.” He winks at me. “As for your sister, I don’t know what’s going on with her. Got here a little while ago. Hasn’t said much.”
“They broke up.”
He nods. “I’m guessin’.”
“This could be a long summer,” I say, glancing at the house.
“Yes, it could.”
Anyone who really knows my sister would understand. But most people don’t know the real her—they know the version she wants them to know. She is the girl everyone looks at when she walks into the room, and the girl who walks into a room like everyone should look at her. At her best she is the life of the party. The kind of person who can win anyone over with her wit and natural-born moxie. But at her worst, which she likely will be if a breakup is the reason she’s not going on the trip to Europe it took her two years to plan and save for, she has the ability to send the party packing. I’ve seen it. Lots of times.
I take a deep breath and pull my shoulders back. “Thanks for the warning.”
My dad laughs. “Go say hi—she’ll be happy to see you.” I reach for the door, and he gets this mischievous look on his face. “Just don’t mention the nose ring—or her hair.”
“What?”
“You’ll see.”
“Oh my god, Ryan, your hair—”
My sister stops chopping and holds up the hand with the knife in it. “Don’t,” she says. I stand there with my mouth hanging open at the fact that the hair she’s always worn long and wavy down her back has been cut into an angular, asymmetrical bob, chin length on one side, shaved up the back. Definitely breakup hair. Accentuated by a tiny diamond stud in her right nostril.
She tries to keep a straight face, but a smile starts at one corner of her mouth and then she can’t contain it. “I’m joking!” She flashes her full smile, the one that can get anyone to do anything for her, and sets down her knife, patting the back of her head and neck like it’s still a new feeling. “Do you love it?”
“I do,” I say, trying to match her enthusiasm, which is impossible. I’m staring, I know I’m staring, but I can’t help it. “It’s just so . . . different,” I say, “but it looks really good on you.”
I’m being honest—it does. The hair shows off the graceful curve of her neck, and the tiny stud highlights her cute little nose just perfectly. She looks beautiful and tough at the same time, which I’m guessing is the goal.
“Thanks,” she says, coming over and pulling me into a tight hug with her thin arms. She smells like the fresh basil she was chopping, and the same Body Shop perfume oil she’s used and I’ve swiped from her for as long as I can remember, and it makes me glad. At least she smells the same. “It’s such a stereotypical thing to do, I know, but I love it. It was time for a change.”
“So you and Ethan . . . I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be,” she says, releasing me from the warm grip of her hug. “I was done being his manic pixie dream girl, and I sure as hell wasn’t gonna follow him around Europe making sure he was content with life.”