“Andie,” Tom called from where he was sitting with Palmer on the side of the pool, “remind me to tell you the definition of the word ‘secret’ one of these days.”
Despite our best efforts—including my dad at dinner—Clark hadn’t given up any real details, though from the few comments he’d made, I was pretty sure that the new book was about Tamsin’s ne’er-do-well older brother, Jack.
But I was beginning to understand just how spoiled I’d been, having a boyfriend with no job and no responsibilities, one who was usually happy to walk dogs with me or hang out all day. Now I had a boyfriend who spent most of his time working feverishly on a new book, his hands flying over his laptop keyboard, like if he didn’t get the words down, they might disappear and not come back again. I was glad that he was working, mostly because he was so happy about it—relieved and terrified and excited all at the same time. But it did mean my summer of Clark having nothing but time on his hands was over. Since he’d started working some nights, we’d been scheduling our dates.
And there was one date in particular that we’d both blocked off. It was this coming Saturday, and I’d marked the date off in my phone with no subject, just a series of exclamation points. It was the night that we’d decided we were going to take things to the next level. It had been my decision. While Clark let me know in no uncertain terms that he was more than okay with this, I didn’t feel any pressure from him. This was what I wanted, and now that we had a date marked off, I wasn’t so much scared as I was really excited.
Since I knew that if I had nothing to do all day, I would just obsess about what was going to happen that night, I’d packed my schedule full. I had early-morning walks, and then Toby and I were going to Mystic Pizza for lunch—we’d all slept over at Bri’s the week before and had a Julia Roberts Rom-Com fest, and when I’d found out that it was an actual pizza place just an hour outside Stanwich, I’d made plans to go immediately. Toby was equally insistent on going, though I suspected mainly because she wanted the T-shirt. Bri and Palmer were busy, so it was just the two of us on a mini road trip. That would take up most of the day, so hopefully I’d be able to go home and get ready and not have too much time to let my thoughts run away with me. Clark had planned a date for us, but he wouldn’t tell me what it was, just that it was a surprise, and—I’d made him swear to it—didn’t involve either mountains or bikes.
DAD
Hey, hon. Make sure to get some gas
on your way home from Clark’s.
I don’t want you to run out on the way to Mystic.
ME
Sure. But what do you mean “Clark’s”?
I’m at Palmer’s. We’re watching educational television.
DAD
Don’t make me GPS the car again.
ME
Gas. Sure.
Clark says hi.
DAD
Get me a summary of his new book and all is forgiven
ME
I’ll see what I can do
Clark says if you promise no
Secret Service agents he’ll think about it
DAD
Tell him he’s got a deal.
? ? ?
“Hey,” I called on Saturday afternoon as I kicked off my flip-flops in the entryway and dropped my bag by the door. I glanced at my phone, then picked up my pace. I just needed to take a quick shower. One of my dogs today had been Rosie, who always insisted on sitting on my lap and putting her head out the window while I drove, which meant I was pretty much covered in dog hair and drool—the last thing I wanted before going to eat lunch, especially because I had a feeling Toby would be making comments about it the whole drive up to Mystic. “I’m home,” I called as I headed into the kitchen. My dad’s car was in the garage, so I assumed that he was either in the kitchen or in his study. “Okay. I looked into bringing you back pizza, and I’m just not sure . . .” The rest of my sentence died halfway to my lips.
Peter was standing in our kitchen, leaning against the counter, a mug in his hand, looking like he’d never left.
“Andie,” he said, looking over and smiling at me, which was almost as off-putting as seeing him there in the first place. “How are you?”
“Fine,” I said, looking from Peter to my dad, who was standing across the kitchen from him, trying to figure out what was happening. My dad wasn’t wearing what had become his summer uniform of jeans and a T-shirt (he’d grown particularly fond of the Captain Pizza one we’d gotten on the scavenger hunt). He was wearing a crisp button-down and khakis, and his hair was sharply parted. It was like the father I’d spent the summer with was gone, and the one who was usually there had just come back. “Um . . . how are you?”