“I’m glad you want to go back to work already,” she said. “But I want you to be prepared. Have you spoken with Eddie since the incident?”
Connie’s brother Eddie, the Cillos’ cousin Eddie, his oldest friend Eddie, now steeped in death’s perfume. Ben forgot he was going to have to face Eddie, never mind work around him to find more of Mira’s “words.” Not that he didn’t have experience. The Lattanzi-Cillo bad blood had kept his relationship with Mira secret from Eddie, who valued family loyalty and would’ve seen it as a betrayal from both sides. Though Eddie loved Ben and Mira both, he could not love them together.
Sangue. Cuz.
It was all so stupid.
“Because I imagine you’ll see Eddie today,” his mother nattered, oblivious to Ben’s darkening expression. “Give him our love and support, and let him know we’re here to help. You might even tell him about the scholarship Daddy set up in the girls’ names.”
Eddie had little to fear. After Connie’s wake, Mira had dumped Ben cold. Mira’s sudden silence was the first thing Ben thought of when he woke, and the last thing he thought of as he drifted off to sleep. In the mornings, he rose and stood at his window, staring at her house. Constantly, he checked his phone, though a text was as unlikely as the idea Mira might one day disappear from the earth. Later, he rationalized that girls were a headache, especially girls you had to see in secret, most especially girls who were complicated puzzles that often left him feeling dumb. He’d convinced himself that no longer having to hide their relationship from Mr. Cillo (and, truth be told, Eddie) was a relief. That the last time he and Mira had been together was sublime, and now it could never be corrupted by lesser, fumbling attempts.
Lie after lie after lie.
“Oh, bud.” His mother’s hand fluttered, producing another tissue.
Ben kneaded his fist against the spot between his eyes. “I want it on the record that I will not serve as the goodwill ambassador for the Lattanzi household.”
“I’m sorry. It was inappropriate. Give me five minutes and we can go,” she said. She knew Mira had been something more to Ben, though she was careful to talk about the “loss of his friend” and the “four stages of grief when losing a friend,” imagining she was minimizing Ben’s devastation by defining their relationship. Though it was only day seven, his mother had suggested there might be value in Ben speaking with someone—Saint Theresa’s Spiritual Director Nick Falso, for example—if only because she was running out of things to say.
Ben waited in front of a calendar encased in lucite on the wall. Someone had interpreted August to mean fireflies caught in a mason jar, with moody, Monet swirls, the flies whirring in useless motion. Ben had looked forward to this summer, because it had meant more time around Mira without the distraction of school and sports and activities (his; the girls had none). Days swimming at the club and the quarry had their allure, especially for guys who had no real interactions with the girls otherwise, and who planned their days around seeing them in their bathing suits. Ben preferred the early evenings, when the windows were open and the sounds from next door drifted in: upstairs, a shower running overlong, one of the girls washing the metallic funk of quarry water from her hair and skin. Outside, the thrilling vacuum rush of the gas grill, which meant they’d assemble at the picnic table soon, Francesca fussing over her father’s plate, Mira indolent from the day’s sun.
Ben wondered if summer would always be a tainted season for him now. Before he left, he touched his finger on August 8, leaving a smudge.
*
Ben made for the gate that led to the clubhouse, through shrieks and lifeguard whistles, and beyond, the tidal roar and squeals of gulls. The wooden shell housed a snack bar and locker rooms. Built around the tired pool and facing the ocean, it captured and amplified the noises of both. The manager, Kenneth Laidlaw, lingered around the entrance, waiting for him to arrive.
“Lattanzi!” he called.
Ben jogged past him with a wave and beelined for the locker room, rank with ammonia over urine. Boys tumbled in, first three, then five. One boy pushed another. Ben glowered at them, waiting until the last one had zipped his fly and left to begin his search for Mira’s note.
The manager stuck in his pustuled forehead. “You stroll in twenty minutes late and sit here catching up on your fan mail?” he whined.
Ben slid Mira’s letter into his bag. “I’m getting changed.”
“Looks like you’re dressed. Get behind the counter. The place is jammed and Eddie’s been alone for half his shift already. Have some sympathy, Benvenuto. The dude’s been fed a tragedy sandwich.”
Ben cringed. The manager was an ignorant putz who would never feel empathy for Eddie, but it was a convenient excuse to abuse Ben.
“I’m aware. Thanks though.”
“Then help the man!”
Ben knew the note was somewhere inside the clubhouse. Mr. Cillo might have had eyes everywhere, but not between their hands at the snack bar last summer. Ben had sensed Mira coming before he’d seen her, making her way through the kinetic energy of sugared and sunburned kids. Behind her, the sun glared white. It hurt to look at her. She’d worn her father’s button-down shirt over her wet bathing suit, and it clung in places. Ben had dreamed of her that morning and felt sure she knew. It seemed possible he was still dreaming and coming to the best part. Water beaded on her eyebrows and lashes. Ben wished he could fold her inside a towel and lead her away, wished he could tell her that’s what he would like to do, but the recurring theme between them was Ben sounding stupid, and so he almost always said nothing.
And then she was there.
“Hey,” he murmured.
Mira blinked. “Hey.”
“A real live mermaid!” Eddie boomed as he came out from the supply room. Ben stiffened, waiting for the cascade of hugs and kisses between cousins, a display that tapped the hollow in his chest. Ben wasn’t jealous that Eddie got to touch the girl everyone wanted to touch. It was that Ben had nothing like that in his life. No extended family that acted like every time they bumped into one another was the first time in a year. It was excessive and vulgar and lovely, and Ben ached for it.
“Ever hear of a towel, sweetheart?” Eddie said, pushing past Ben and leaning over the counter to plant a kiss on her cheek.
Over Eddie’s shoulder, Mira’s eyes fixed on Ben.
“I hate it here,” she murmured.
“Look at the bright side. Some of us don’t have a choice every day between the club and the quarry; we gotta work for a living. We’ll get you a towel. Benny, you seen any extra towels back in the lost and found?”
Ben slunk away for a towel, relieved for the chore. The exquisite pain of Mira’s closeness, especially when she looked slightly porny, was more than Ben could bear. He was certain his ears glowed hot.