I decide to stop by the public beach on the way home, where I know Harrison lifeguards full-time during the summer. When I reach the public beach, the late afternoon has just begun to melt into the evening hours. The sun has gone orange and smolder-y, its outer edge gently kissing the horizon where it will slowly continue to melt into the world’s largest puddle. European tourists with their tight Speedos and sunscreen-painted noses are collapsing their umbrellas and preparing to drag them up to the parking lot, which won’t be bearable to walk on without sandals for another hour.
I kick my shoes into the thick reeds growing near the boardwalk and cross the beach toward the blue lifeguard stand near the shore. A green flag flutters in the breeze, letting beachgoers know that the water is calm and there have been no signs of aggressive sea life. But as a local, I never swim at dusk on account of the fact that it’s dinnertime for sharks.
“Harrison!” I yell through cupped hands as I get closer. “Harrison!” The surfboard and orange rescue buoys are buried halfway in the sand, so I know the guards are still on duty. “Harrison Vines!”
A head pops over the railing of the stand—a small hutch on stilts that is painted blue. The boy lifts his reflective sunglasses and nestles them into a thick crop of dirty-blond hair. “Lake?”
“I’m coming up,” I say, and scale the sandy steps of the ladder, my palms scratching against sun-baked wood on the way up. Harrison is waiting for me, wearing a tank top and a pair of white shorts with a red cross on the side. A whistle dangles over his chest.
“Is everything okay?” he asks in a way that sounds like he’s genuinely concerned.
“No, everything is not okay.”
“Right.” He puts his hands on his hips and nods, understanding. “I heard.”
“I know you heard,” I say.
He pinches his chin between his thumb and forefinger until it dimples. “Listen, I’m on duty for another ten minutes. Until then I’m not supposed to have visitors on the stand. Would you mind, like, waiting inside the hutch?”
I roll my eyes. “Seriously?”
“Believe what you want, but I’m good at my job, okay? So in or down, pick your poison.”
I huff. I don’t like Harrison, but I’m also remembering how I haven’t really talked to him much in the past four years. In fact, I haven’t talked much to anyone other than Penny and Will, and that’s exactly the way I’ve wanted it.
I move past Harrison into the hutch. He stands in the doorway, looking out at the ocean. There are a few swimmers still paddling in the shallows. He drums the wood with his fingers. “We keep a cooler,” he says. “Not for while we’re working or anything.” He meets my eyes as if to make clear that he means it. “But there are a few beers in there and wine coolers. You can help yourself.”
I start to object. I don’t drink. Here and there a few sips, maybe a glass, but then I remember that my only two friends are dead, my brother hates me, and my life blows like a category five hurricane, so I fish in the ice until my fingers freeze and I come up with the slender neck of a tangerine wine cooler. I borrow the bottle opener from on top of a stack of crates that doubles as a desk and settle into an open lawn chair to wait.
The taste of fruit and alcohol is tangy and delicious on my tongue. I notice that I’m halfway through the bottle and that the fizz is already traveling to my head before I remember I have to drive and force myself to stash the remainder underneath my chair, out of sight.
At last Harrison blows his whistle. He takes the flag out from its holder on the railing, gives it a ceremonial wave, and then lays it horizontally on the wooden landing outside.
He ducks into the hutch and we stare at each other like we’re each from some alternate universe and are recognizing alien life for the first time. Harrison removes the whistle from his neck and hangs it on a nail.
“Am I supposed to guess the reason you’re here, Lake? I’m sorry about Will and about Penny. The team’s planning on doing a memorial or something for Will, but, well, they’re waiting to see what happens.” Harrison and Will are on the school’s lacrosse team. They don’t hang out much, but it’s impossible not to like Will, so I know the two get along and I believe Harrison when he says that he is sorry.
“Why did you say I won’t choose Will?” I ask, and to my surprise I don’t sound that pissed, more like curious. Like Please, tell me the answer, tell me why I choose Penny instead. As if Harrison Vines is some kind of oracle.
“What are you talking about?” But Harrison angles his muscular shoulders away from me.
“On ChatterJaw. Why did you make that post? Trouble in paradise?” I repeat and let my hands fall in exasperation to my bare tan thighs.
His brow line twitches down for a split second. “ChatterJaw is anonymous.”
“Not, it turns out, if you know the right people.” It feels good to be in control of the situation, even if it’s one step in a completely crazy out-of-control process. “So don’t bother messing with me, okay? We both know I’m on a short timeframe here.”
Harrison sighs and leans against the crate. He has pale sunglasses-shaped tan lines around his eyes. “Why do you think?”
“I don’t know, you have some crazy, weirdo stalker crush on me? You’re mean? You like to torture small animals and dance on headstones?”
He lets his head droop and stares at me, deadpan. “I’ve been dating Maya for a year, Lake.”
“Oh.” I press my lips together. “I didn’t know. Congratulations. Maya’s nice.”
He lets out an irritated laugh. “Yeah, she is.” Then he runs his hands through his hair and it stays put from all the air’s sea salt. “I shouldn’t have posted it. I’d take it down if I could. It was stupid.” ChatterJaw posts are permanent. Whatever goes on the virtual bulletin board stays there. Period. One of the reasons the drunken Saturday night threads are so good to peruse on Sunday morning.
“But you did,” I press.
“I—look, I don’t know what I saw. Maybe it was nothing. Maya thought it was nothing. She kept saying that I was butting in where I didn’t belong. But, I don’t know, it was just this one day, I was in the locker room, running late for practice because I had to tape up my knee. Will must have just set his phone down on the bench because the screen was still on and all these messages started coming through. From ChatterJaw. His phone was blowing up. I wanted to know what was going on because I figured, I don’t know, maybe it was something big. I couldn’t help it—okay, fine, maybe I could have—but you know it alerts you when there’s a response to a thread you posted on. Well, I checked the thread and there were only two people responding to this one. I read through some of the messages and they just seemed—well, it’s hard to say, I guess.”
“They seemed what?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know, Lake. Will was a good guy, one of the best, so I’m not saying there was anything, like, scandalous. I figured you probably knew, honestly, but then—look, you can read the thread for yourself. Check in the ‘Spilled’ forum, about a month back. The title of it was Love is for Fakers.” The title alone makes me sit up straight in the chair. “I think they went private,” he says.
“Who?” I ask.
“How should I know? It’s anonymous.”
My lips purse. I don’t know what to say. Love is for Fakers? Will Bryan wouldn’t be caught dead in a thread like that. Unless he was joking or arguing or I don’t know. Harrison Vines didn’t know Will. I did.