Page 32 of The Beach Trap

“It’s in the garage—you know, the place where cars are placed to protect them from the elements?” She folds her arms. “You didn’t answer my question—what are you doing in my kitchen so early?”

“It’s my week. Sorry for interrupting your beauty sleep”—she obviously needs it—“but I have work to do to getmykitchen remodeled so I can sell this shithole and return to a life that doesnotinclude having to deal with your temper tantrums.”

Okay, so that last part was not delivered very calmly, but I do feel proud of myself for delivering a zinger. I’m normally not the zinging kind—I’m the kind to slink away in shame and spend the next eight hours replaying the conversation in my mind. Maybe fifteen years of built-up anger has made me a little spicy.

I brace myself for another barrage of shouting, but instead, Kat blinks a few times and I’m terrified she’s going to burst into tears. What am I supposed to do with that? I can handle a raging, entitled Kat—but not an emotional, sobbing one. I’m not great at handling my own tears, let alone someone else’s.

But then she throws her hands up in the air and yells, “Ugh!” before stomping back up the stairs.

Replacing my headphones, I remind myself to not allow her to derail my progress. I have a job to do, and I’m going to do it.

•••

An hour later,I’m removing the fronts from all the drawers when Kat returns downstairs pulling a suitcase the size of a small coffin. She’s wearing a gauzy summer dress that hits mid-thigh on her golden-tan legs, her hair piled in a perfect messy bun, her sunglasses in place so I can’t see her eyes.

“I’ll be back in one week,” she says, her voice brisk. “And I’ll be sure not to arrive until standard hotel checkout time so you don’t have to rush out the door. That’s eleven o’clock, bee-tee-dubs.”

Something about the way she says this makes me unreasonably irritated. Maybe it’s the haughty tone of her voice, or that stupid abbreviation for “by the way” that doesn’t actually save any syllables. Or maybe it’s the insinuation that I’m some kind of backwoods hick who’s never stayed in a hotel before.

I bite back a snarky retort and give her a thumbs-up and a big, bright smile. “Rightio,” I say.

That earns me an exasperated huff as she stalks out the door, hauling that gigantic suitcase behind her. Pretty soon I hear the sound of the garage door opening and her fancy car pulling out of the driveway.

The dog nudges his wet nose against my hand, and I absentlyscratch his head before turning back to my task. Still, I’m unsettled; I’m not proud of the way I acted toward Kat. She’s raw with grief after losing her dad, and I remember that pain, the hollow feeling in my chest that nothing could fill.

My sinuses start to burn, and I clear my throat. No time for tears. In go the earbuds, up goes the volume, and soon enough I’m singing along toLover, grateful that no one is around to hear my voice falter as I try not to think about my parents and the giant hole they left behind.

•••

By that evening,I’m exhausted. I make myself a sandwich—peanut butter with a sprinkling of brown sugar, my favorite—and plop down on the kitchen floor to eat. The dog curls up next to me, and I break off a piece and give it to him.

“We got a lot done today,” I tell him. “Maybe we should celebrate by taking a walk?”

He perks up and tilts his head.

“All right, let me finish eating,” I say. While I chew, I peel up the edge of the linoleum flooring to get a sense of how difficult it’s going to be to remove. The wood subfloor I saw under the carpet in the living room extends into the kitchen, too.

I pop the last bite of sandwich in my mouth and grab a hammer, using the claw end to pry up a couple of square feet of the linoleum. Yep. Hardwood. It’s stained and a little warped, but it looks salvageable.

Excitement bubbles through me. It’s a lot of work to refinish floors, but there’s nothing like the warm, lived-in feeling of old wood. I reach for my phone, hoping Martina can help me FaceTime with Granddad. I’d love to show him the subfloor and get his advice on refinishing it.

But then I remember that she’s not working tonight.Later, Itell myself, but my heart drops with disappointment. I miss him intensely—his warm hugs, his comforting voice—and for the second time that day, I’m close to crying.

Clearing my throat, I stand. “Ready for a walk, dog?”

•••

By Thursday, my body aches from five long days of manual labor, but I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished. I’ve gotten most of the linoleum floor up, but there are globs of glue or resin left behind that I haven’t figured out how to remove. I’ve finished prepping the cabinets and now it’s time to start priming. The guy at the paint store said I could get away with one coat of primer but two would be better, so that’s what I’m planning. I’ve laid all the cabinet doors out on two-by-fours in the garage, and I head out there with a paint pan and a can of primer.

The dog follows me; he’s been my constant companion, either flopped at my feet or watching my every move. I wonder if he feels abandoned by the Vanderhaavens and he’s worried I’m going to leave him, too. Because of that, I’ve given him a few extra pats and treats, though I draw the line at letting him sleep on my bed.

I’m prying the top off the can of primer when the dog trots off, tail wagging. I look up to see none other than Noah Jameson standing in the driveway, a plastic sack in each hand. He’s tall and angular and scruffy, dressed in his usual low-slung shorts and threadbare T-shirt. My stomach does a weird little swoop.

“You ogling me now?” I ask, walking out of the garage. “I’m here to work, not to be eye candy for some groundskeeper.”

He flashes me a grin. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m here for the dog.” He sets down the bags to greet the dog, who rolls over for the obligatory belly rub. “Hey there little Waxy man, wax on, wax off, little Daniel-san.”

He’s using that dopey voice he saves for the dog, and I laugh and shake my head. “That dog is going to be so confused about what his actual name is. You know it’s Max, right?”

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