Page 15 of Summer Romance

“Scooter,” I say, with emphasis.

“How weird is he with that dog,” Frannie says. “I mean, who adopts a dog with mental health issues and tries to fix her with circus tricks?”

“Me, I guess,” he says. His free hand is in his pocket and his shoulders are pitched forward. He is not even a little bit comfortable in his skin.

Mrs. Hogan calls to Frannie from the kitchen, and she leaves us there looking at each other.

“I’m sorry,” he says. In the daylight there are still little flecks of gold in his eyes.

“So what was last night? A joke?” I’m loud-whispering, but I sort of wish I were shouting. “Were you messing with me?” This thought tightens my chest.

“I’m really sorry. It was so perfect last night, and I knew it would be ruined if you knew who I was. I was about to tell you a bunch of times, but I didn’t want to give up how youwere looking at me. I don’t think you ever looked me in the eye in high school. And I wanted you to.” He takes a step toward me, as if he’s going to take my hand. He’s Ethan again, confident and in command, and I am struck by the fact that time is a powerful thing. It’s made him so strong and sure, and it’s made me unsteady. This must be what they mean by the law of conservation of matter: maybe he found everything I lost.

“Well, now I know,” I say, and sip my too-strong drink. “Scooter.”

“I should have said something after the game, and I was going to when we were on the boat.”

“Boat?” Frannie is back. “When were you on a boat?” She’s looking at Ethan, and then at me. And I see the realization roll across her face. “You said ‘sexy,’ ” she says to me.

“She did?” Ethan asks, eyebrows raised.

“Oh my God,” says Frannie.

Before I can defend myself, Marco joins us on the patio with Theo in a sling. “Is it me, or is this family getting weirder all the time?” He gives me a hug and I bury my nose in the top of Theo’s warm baby head. He smells like cheeseburgers.

Mr. and Mrs. Hogan are assembling plates in the outdoor kitchen and call for us to sit down. I find my palm tree place card and sit to the right of Mr. Hogan, who has now found and donned his fruit hat. Ethan is across from me and I try not to look at him.

Mr. Hogan raises his cocktail. “To Florida!” We all clink glasses.

“And to having Scooter here,” says Mrs. Hogan. “It’s so wonderful to have you back, sweetheart.”

“Thank you, Mom. It’s always good to be home.”

“Which is why you’re never here?” asks Frannie. It’s interesting to see this dynamic. I know Frannie as an adult and a mom and a restaurant manager. I don’t know her as an older sister, who’s potentially a little prickly.

Ethan rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his beer.

“His work is in Massachusetts,” Marco says. “It’s not like he can be popping in for Sunday dinner every week.”

Mr. Hogan cuts his steak and admires the piece on his fork. “Well, it was nice when he was a real lawyer and lived in Manhattan. We saw more of him then.”

“I am a real lawyer, Dad,” Ethan says in one breath, like he’s said this a million times already today.

“Of course, I know. I mean like with a firm. Like before.” Mr. Hogan reaches over and pats Ethan’s hand.

“It’s wonderful that you’ve found something to keep you busy, sweetheart,” says Mrs. Hogan. “Just wonderful. And I wish it was closer to home, but no one knows how great it is to start fresh more than we do. Right, Charlie?”

Mr. Hogan agrees. “We sure had fun in Florida.”

I look across at Ethan and see the tension in his face. It’s exactly as he described it, just without the two point five kids. I suspect this is a decade-old conversation in the Hogan family—Scooter, the problem child who didn’t move back home. He leans back and runs a hand through his hair. He catches me watching him and rolls his eyes the smallest bit. It feels oddly intimate, like he and I are the only two people at the table who know how he feels. But I look away because I don’t need to be sharing intimacies with a guy who held my hand under false pretenses.

Cliffy climbs onto my lap and takes off my charm bracelet. He lays it flat, like he always does, and runs his fingers over the events of my life, the tiny charms that my mom designed to document it: fairy, ship, soccer ball, graduation hat, University of Michigan, graduation hat, business suit, wedding dress, baby girl, dog, baby girl, little brick house, baby boy.

Frannie says, “Well, we’re glad you’re back. It wasn’t exactly convenient that you guys went away for the first time ever at the beginning of the inn’s busy season.”

Mrs. Hogan smiles and nods her fruit to her husband. He puts down his glass and says, “Well, that’s something we want to talk about, and partially why we wanted Scooter here.” He looks across at Mrs. Hogan for encouragement and she smiles. I feel pressure on my chest watching this silent communication. Pete and I were never like this. Not even at the beginning. For the most part, our communication bumped off our kids or was rerouted and diffused by my mother. I don’t think we ever talked with our eyes. This is something I should have known enough to want.Comparison is the thief of joy, honey.

Mrs. Hogan takes over. “We’re going back Monday.” And she smiles with the brightness of the tropical sun, clasping her hands together as if she’s waiting for us to cheer.

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