Jonah jogs down to the end and gives her a thumbs-up. You can’t really catch someone once they go flying, but Leah doesn’t know that.
Leah nods, sitting down at the top. She slides gently, bouncing right into the pool and giggling herself silly. I go backward, saluting just for the laughs, and the other littles follow behind me, shyly at first and then wildly, fearlessly. Our squeals attract some neighbor kids, who rush back home to put on their bathing suits.
Everyone has taken at least two turns before I get Jonah to try it. I spray him square in the stomach with the hose. “C’mon, sailor. Your turn.”
“All right, all right, I’m going.” He peels off his T-shirt, and my thoughts about this are as follows: Um, hello.
He sits at the top of the tarp and turns back to me. “Give me a push?”
Hmm. I figured he was a run-and-dive type, but whatever. I set the hose at the top so it gushes downward, and I place my hands on Jonah’s shoulders.
Before I realize what’s happening, he grabs me with him, and we’re both sliding, and I’m shrieking with laughter. We’re a tangle of limbs, slick against the soap, whooshing so fast from the velocity from our combined weight. We roll through the baby pool—shockingly cold—and past it until we land on the grass. I lie faceup, crying from laughing, and I lean my cheek against the blue plastic side of the pool.
“You guys okay?” Silas calls.
“Yeah!” Jonah’s voice is right beside me, and then he’s looking down at me, his face blocking the sun. The beams make a halo around him. “Viv? You okay?”
“Perfect!” I gasp out the word, still laughing. “Never been better. I told you. Otter.”
His hair falls across his forehead, and he smiles down at me. Not a shy smile, not that hesitant, lips-clamped thing he did all of yesterday. No, this is a real grin, the first he’s given me.
You wouldn’t believe the things I’d do to get this world-weary boy to smile like that. Today, it took a Slip ’N Slide, and tomorrow will be something different. Oh, my—do I have plans. I’m going to spend my whole summer changing the expressions on Jonah Daniels’s face.
The next morning, I go about business as usual: throw a pill into the ocean, feel the breeze on my face, and thank the constellations that I can feel things. But then, as I’m taking out my keys to unlock the pottery shop, my gaze catches on the bench outside the store. There’s a brown paper bag sitting there, with my name on it in black marker. Intrigue! I glance around, looking for conspirators, before I settle onto the bench. The bag has a bit of weight, a square shape pushing out the bottom. I’m hesitant in unrolling the top, ready to lean back if something explodes out. But it’s a restaurant to-go box, it seems.
Inside, a sandwich with layers of juicy tomato, soft mozzarella, and fresh basil, on thick sourdough bread. Or maybe something fancier I don’t know the name of—focaccia? Ciabatta?
Jonah.
I stare down into this little cardboard box like it’s a trunkful of jewels glinting back at me. He . . . packed me lunch?
I can imagine his hands, delicate on the knife with sure movements of his wrist, slicing through red tomato, white mozzarella. Stacking them into restaurant-perfect presentation. Golden potato chips settled around the sandwich. And a homemade cookie, slid into the side.
Was this some attempt to woo me—foodie flirtation? It must be, right? Even though making a lunch is something a parent does for a child? I don’t want to be another person he has to care for. I want to be someone he cares about.
I flip this around in my mind all morning. When it’s time to eat, I peel back the bread as if the sandwich will reveal the answer. Are you a romantic Roma tomato? Or is this a platonic plate, a kindness between friends?
“I ran out of the lavender paint.”
“Huh?” I blunder, looking up at the customer. I almost forgot I was at work. “Oh. Sorry—there’s more in the back. Let me get it for you.”
The first bite reveals a bit of balsamic vinegar somewhere and a sprinkle of salt, against the near-sweet tomato and the freshness of the basil. It’s heavenly and hearty and somehow creamy. And I feel . . . cared for. Like part of a family. What a simple need, to eat—and to have someone prepare a meal for me with such care, such love? It’s like I can taste it.
Like it’s not just the meal that fills you up, but the feeling.
On my way home, nearly bursting with that feeling, I stop by the restaurant, which is homey and like seeing another big piece of the Daniels family puzzle. Here, in a well-loved brick building—beautiful but with untapped potential, outdated decor, worn edges—I understand a little better.
“Hello there,” I say, extending my hand to the man making notes behind the host station. “Is Jonah Daniels in?”