Page 37 of The Upgrade

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I arriveat the open-air bistro ten minutes early. There’s a thatched palm awning arching over the paved patio, with candlelit tables spaced far apart for privacy. A breeze laced with grilled meat and sea salt stirs colorful umbrellas by the bar. The sun’s easing into the ocean, tossing out ribbons of bright pink and gold.

I’m scouting the scene, hoping to score us a spot overlooking the water. Eve deserves the best view here.

“Kit!”

I turn just in time to see Eve wince. “Sorry,” she mouths as I make my way to the bar. “I’m not used to thinking of you asTopher.”

“It’s fine. Maybe avoid using Dr. Plier though.”

“No problem.” She crosses her legs on the barstool, her light-yellow sundress riding up one tanned thigh. “I’ve never really thought of you that way.”

She’s thought of me?

“Your sisters talk about you tons,” she says, as if reading my mind. “You’re practically a celebrity in their minds.”

All the more reason to keep what I’m doing here secret. No sense upsetting them, especially not this soon after our father’s passing.

“Topher’s a bit of an adjustment,” I admit. “I actually kicked around Chris or Chip or even CJ.”

“CJ?” Eve leans on the bar, holding a glass in one manicured hand. “What’s your middle name?”

“Jonathan. For my dad.”

“That’s right.” Sympathy softens her eyes. “I’m sorry for your loss. And I’m sorry you couldn’t make it to the funeral.”

“So am I.” It’s one of my biggest regrets. Here’s another. “The stupid thing was, Miranda didn’t even want me to stay behind.”

Eve blinks. “Her appendix burst and she didn’t want you there?”

“In her defense, she’s very self-sufficient. She finds the notion of one partner taking care of the other to be oppressive and patriarchal.”

“Wow.” Eve smiles a bit weakly. “Did she kick you in the junk if you held a door for her?”

“Don’t know. I never tried.” I don’t mean to badmouth my ex. “We just had different ideas of what we wanted. Miranda craved independence and autonomy.”

“And you?”

“Guess I’m more traditional.” I shrug. “I saw an opportunity to care for my partner the same way my father took care of my mom when she got sick.”

“I mean, yeah.” Eve looks baffled. “They were always so sweet about that. I remember when your mom had her hysterectomy. Your dad absolutely doted on her. Brought her flowers every day, cooked all her favorite meals. He took pride in being her caretaker.”

“He really did.” My chest squeezes tight, like someone’s standing on it. “Anyway, my decision to skip the funeral and stay with Miranda was probably a mistake. I know my sisters felt hurt.”

“They understood.” Eve offers a kind smile. “They were sad, but they loved Miranda.”

I don’t miss the use of past tense. My sisters adored Miranda. At least until our relationship tanked.

Casting about for a subject change, I survey the rest of the restaurant. Most of the tables are occupied. Couples sit talking, laughing, flirting over plates of fancy food. There’s an occasional table occupied by one woman and two or three men, plus one in the corner with half-a-dozen women all laughing. I spot Sybil among them and wave.

“This place is nice.” I look back at Eve, who’s lifting the world’s most colorful drink to her lips. There’s a small metal spear with six kinds of fruit skewered on it. “What on Earth is that?”

She laughs as a fat hunk of honeydew bumps her nose. “It’s called the Honeydew Me Hard. Want a sip?”

The white paper straw holds a hint of pink lipstick and I’m struck by an impulse to touch my mouth there. It’s an urge overpowering my dislike of sweet drinks, so I lean in and suck down a sip. “Not terrible,” I manage.

“I’m sure they’ll want that glowing testimonial for the menu.” She flags down the mixologist, who’s making a drink at the end of the bar. I smile so he knows there’s no rush.

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