I’m hugging my arms around my knees now, bracing for the rest. I have never wanted to have this conversation before, but I’m ready for it now. I turned my back on the whole mess with Wyatt, and I turned my back on myself, but ever since my dad sat in that car and witnessed Wyatt and me digging up what was lost, I feel like something’s cracked open between us. I feel like he sees me, and I’m ready to see him.
“You cheat because you think it’s going to make you someone else, that it’s going to save you from your own damn misery. And that’s the lie you’re telling yourself. I guess that’s the point, Sam. Another person is not going to turn you into anything but who you already are. Make sure you’re not trying to turn yourself into someone else for Jack.”
“I’m not,” I say. “I mean I like having my act together.”
“As long as it’s not actually an act.”
Guitar music comes from the treehouse and it occurs to me that I have never lied to Wyatt, not once.
“Speaking of liars, can you believe how sneaky Wyatt was about being a big shot?”
“I wasn’t completely surprised.”
And then I just ask it, because why the heck not. “Do you ever still think about her that way? Marion?”
“That’s the weirdest part, Sam. Absolutely never. I can’t even conjure up a memory of what I was feeling at the time, like it was temporary insanity. Getting caught was such a shock to my system that I had to take a hard look at my life. I don’t lie to myself anymore. Or your mom.”
“I really do want to live like that,” I say. Then, in a practicing voice, I say, “I blew off looking at the napkins because I stayed up all night and then had a sugar crash.”
“Was that so hard?”
54
“My goodness! The bounty!” my mother says that night as Wyatt walks up the back porch, clutching three bottles of wine to his chest. My dad, Travis, and Hugh are all sitting around a big platter of cheeses and meats outside. I smile at the sight of them all together. Maybe this is possible, this whole impossible group. It’s my life plus Wyatt, which I have to admit feels more like my actual life. Just seeing Wyatt standing there practically within reaching distance makes me feel like everything is going to be okay.
“Maybe stick this in the fridge,” he says, handing me a bottle of Chablis.
I look at the label and back at him. “This feels awfully grown-up. Is this something we do now?”
“Yes. I also file a tax return.” He looks over my shoulder and says hello to Travis.
“Did you nap?” I ask.
“Like the dead,” he says.
“Can we go surfing tomorrow?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Was surfing on your wedding checklist for this weekend?”
“Right,” I say. “Linens and flowers.”
We turn to see Gracie walking home through the dunes with Andy Bryant from two doors down. They’re both carrying surfboards so it’s a tight squeeze. He says something to her and she lowers her head and looks away so he doesn’t see her smile.
“Did you see that?” I ask.
“I did,” Wyatt says. “That kid should run for his life.”
I want to laugh, but it doesn’t feel like Wyatt’s kidding around anymore. It feels like he’s pulling away. It’s subtle, but Wyatt’s pulling away is imprinted in all of my cells, like my body remembers.
* * *
When chicken and corn are served, my dad makes a toast. “To old friends,” he says. “And to summer’s end.”
Gracie moans. “School starts Tuesday. Two more days at the beach and then it’s over.”
“Ugh,” I say, and everyone looks at me for an explanation. “It’s just that I’m on this mind-numbing assignment where I’m trapped in my cubicle all day making charts that prove there’s really nothing we can do to improve the client’s situation.”
“That sounds like hell,” my dad says.
“Your life is my worst nightmare,” says Travis, gesturing with an ear of corn.
“Maybe you can use your extra brainpower to focus on the wedding,” says Hugh. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world for you to have a little extra time over the next month.”
“True,” says my mom.
Wyatt’s quiet, and he won’t meet my eye. He asks my mom, “Is there a lot to do?”
She laughs. “To put a wedding together in eight weeks? I’d say.”
“I swear I’ll actually go to the florist tomorrow,” I say.
Wyatt still won’t look at me. My mom says, “And we’re going to have to get these invitations in the mail next week. Maybe you can come over Tuesday night and we can get them all assembled and stamped.”
“I like the painted ones,” says Gracie. “I think we should glue little shells to the bottom corner.”
“And maybe even a little sand,” my mom says.
“Mom,” I say.
“I know, sorry. I can’t help myself,” my mom says. She pours everyone some more wine.
Gracie gets up from the table and runs inside to get a few of the painted invitations to pass around. I get one with a pale yellow swoosh of color and I finger the corner where there really should be seashells. I pass it across the table to Wyatt.
He takes the card from me and holds it with both hands. He runs his thumb along the yellow, over our names. I’m trying to read his face, because in a way he seems surprised, like maybe he didn’t expect Jack’s and my names to be there. I want him to look up at me, but he’s just staring at that card.
Gracie says, “What do you think? Better with the color, right?”
He says, “Much.”
“I’m telling you Jack would never go for it,” I say. “So don’t get too attached.”
Wyatt finally meets my eye and shakes his head. He gets up from the table and answers his phone, which I did not hear ring. When he’s back, he doesn’t look right.
“I have to get going. Like back to LA,” he says.
“Did something happen?” my mom asks.
“Yes. It’s fine, but Missy’s on a tighter deadline than we thought to record her new album.” Wyatt looks at me, and then at my engagement ring. I haven’t noticed him do that before. “Anyway, I’m going to see about a flight and all that. Thank you for dinner.” Everyone is on their feet to say goodbye. He hugs Gracie and tells her to knock their socks off in eighth grade. He hugs Hugh and then Travis.
My dad hugs him too. “Well, son, now that we know you’re rich and famous, we’re going to have to come see you in California. Maybe do a little Rollerblading.”
“Oh, God help us,” says my mom.
“That would be great. Michael would love that too.”
He turns to me and I grab both of his hands. “I wish you were staying,” I say. “This really feels like the last night of summer now, and I hate the last night of summer.”
“I know,” he says. “See you, Sam.” He walks down the porch steps into the dunes, and everyone sits back down and carries on with their conversations. This isn’t right. Hours ago we were laughing and tasting cake. Hours ago there was no space between us.
I’m on my feet and running down the steps to the dunes. I have not thought through how my family is going to perceive this, but I don’t really care. I can’t let Wyatt leave this way.
I catch up to him as he’s about to walk through the sliding glass door into his house.
“Hey, what’s going on?” I say.
He turns and sees me and actually looks annoyed that I’m there. Wyatt has been happy to see me my entire life.
“I’ve got to get out of here,” he says.
“Why? I thought you were staying the weekend and we were going to do stuff tomorrow.”
He seems agitated and is looking over my shoulder at the dunes. “You know what it is, Sam? I hate your cake. Your cake sucks.”
I smile because this must be a joke. “My cake sucks?”
It’s no joke. “Yes, it’s boring and you don’t like it that much. But you’re going to choose it because you think it’s the right cake for this life you’ve buried yourself in. And Jack just lets you disappear, maybe because he doesn’t care or maybe because he doesn’t even know who you are. If it were me—and it was me, so I know—I’d want you to be everything you could be. I wouldn’t be putting rules and constraints around you, I’d just love you and let you move through the world the way you wanted to. You’ve just given up, Sam. You’re hiding, and it’s pathetic.”
“That’s so mean.” The words are so quiet coming out of my mouth, like it’s my last breath.
“Well it’s true. And I can’t believe no one else has called you out on it. What the hell is wrong with your family? I can’t believe your dad thinks you’re being honest with yourself here.”
He doesn’t, I don’t say.
“You’re the cake that looks normal until people dig in and find out it’s spectacular. You’re the chocolate fucking cake, Sam, and you won’t even choose it.”
I’m looking up at his face, and I see something that looks like disgust. I reach out to take his hands in mine, and he puts them in his back pockets. “You’re angry at me because I didn’t pick the chocolate cake.”
“You’re the most important person that’s ever been in my life, and you’re not even the most important person in your own.”
“That’s not true,” I say. I reach out and rest my hand on his forearm.