Page 46 of The Beach Trap

After I read Sunny a story about Morris the Moose and tuck her in, Henry comes in to kiss her good night.

“I love you to the moon and back,” he says, bending down to kiss her forehead.

“I love you to Jupiter,” Sunny says. “Or to Mars? Which planet is farther away?” She looks at me when she asks thequestion, and I look at Henry, hoping he knows the answer, because I have no clue.

“We’ll look it up tomorrow,” he says, pulling the covers tighter around Sunny.

“Careful!” Sunny warns when Henry accidentally jostles her bunny.

“I’m always careful,” Henry says. “But, sweetie, Nuh-Nuh isn’t going to last forever. One day, you’re going to have to give him up like a big girl.”

“I don’t want to be a big girl,” she says, squeezing the bunny tighter.

I want to tell Sunny it’s okay, and tell Henry to delay this life lesson as long as he can. Sunny will have plenty of chances to learn that the world is a big and lonely place, full of disappointments and broken promises and lies. For now, let her be little enough that she can find comfort in a well-loved stuffed animal, the way I did with Beary.

But it’s not my place to tell either of them any of that.

Instead, I say, “Good night,” and awkwardly stand to leave. Henry and Sunny don’t need an audience for this conversation, and I’m suddenly missing my own dad, wishing he was here to tell me everything will be okay.

Even though he’s the one who created this problem I’m living in the first place.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

BLAKE

Well, butter my biscuit, as Granddad would say: actual progress has been made on the beach house during my week at the Rooneys’ casita. The ugly box light on the kitchen ceiling has been removed, and in its place are sleek LED can lights. That was all Henry’s doing, of course. Kat’s contributions remain in the superficial realm, but I’m trying to practice gratitude. Her followers have chosen paint for the walls and cabinets in the kitchen and beyond, and I have to admit that the colors are pretty.

I also have to admit that Imayhave voted in several of the polls. Trying to sway them a little, because I didn’t want the living room to be painted avocado green. Let’s just pray that Kat doesn’t analyze the list of respondents too closely, because I don’t need her to know I was participating in her silly games.

But I do appreciate that she went to the paint store and bought the paint rather than leaving me a list and assuming I’d take care of it. It was nice to walk in and see the cans lined up, labeled in Kat’s swirly handwriting.Kitchen/dining/living room walls; Kitchen cabinets; 1st floor bathroom walls.

I’m walking into Lowe’s right now to pick out new baseboards for the main level. I removed the old ones—little two-inch strips, warped and unsightly—in preparation for sanding the floor, and I want to replace them with something more substantial.

On my way into the store, I take out my phone and send Kat a text, extending an olive branch:

Thanks for getting the paint

I’m oddly nervous while waiting for her reply, which comes a few seconds later.

You’re welcome

I stare at the words for a few moments, then pocket my phone, satisfied. We can be civil to each other. It’s a little thing, but it feels like a big deal. Maybe because she never responded to my letters after camp; even though that was a long time ago, deep down, I’m still that sad little twelve-year-old, waiting every day for the mail to come, never receiving anything.

I head to the area of the store where the baseboards and trim are located, and when an employee walks by, I stop him.

“Excuse me,” I say. His name badge saysKAVIN, which is weird. “I have a question. I’m planning to use a miter saw to cut my baseboards, but do you recommend coping as well?”

I read a home reno blog yesterday that suggested using a coping saw to back-cut the corners for a cleaner line on the inside corners.

Kavin is short, just an inch taller than me, and he has curly hair that reminds me of ramen noodles. He looks me up and down, his lip curled in an expression halfway between a smile and a sneer. A smear, if you will.

“Who’s helping you?” he says, looking around. “Your husband? Boyfriend?”

My face heats with indignation. I hate being underestimated. Henry lent me his miter saw and I am perfectly capable of using it, thank you very much. “I’m doing it myself. And I just need to know a little about coping—”

“You sure you can handle that? That’s not exactly abeginner-levelcut.” He says it like I’m a kindergartner trying to learn calculus.

Flames of anger lick the sides of my face, and I force myself to speak evenly.

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