Page 62 of The Beach Trap

Again, that flip in my stomach. What does he mean? This man has sent me some borderline dirty texts and now he wants tohang out.

“Sure,” I say. I slip on my flip-flops and follow him out to the pool area. The sky is dusky overhead and the landscaping lights have turned on, making the pool water shimmer like there’s glitter sprinkled on the surface. Noah’s brought out a couple of beers, and we sit poolside and dangle our feet in the water.

I catch him up on my progress on the house since Kat left the day after the Fourth.

“Tomorrow I’ve got to finish painting the main-floor bedroom,” I tell him. “I did the first coat this morning, and it took forever—such a pain going up and down the stepstool to reach the top part of the wall.”

“Want some help?”

“Typical,” I say, grinning. “You waited until I was on the last coat to show up. But yes, I’d love some help. How was Chicago?”

He apparently drove there to visit a friend from college, which seems odd to me. It’s a thirteen-hour drive and he’s been evasive about his reasons for the trip, just like he’s been evasive about pretty much everything in his past.

“It was great,” he says. “Stuffed myself with pizza, hot dogs, and Italian beef. How are you? Everything going okay with Kat?”

I’m not sure how to answer that. At times, I’ve gotten thesense that something is shifting inside Kat. Not only in person—she was so helpful in getting the dog back safely—but even on Instagram there’s a smidge more depth behind her posts. But then she made that comment about how I wasn’t missing much by not having our father in my life. As if the fact that he was a workaholic and missed a few of her school functions is equal to being completely abandoned.

I take a sip of beer, trying to figure out how to articulate what I’m feeling. “She has no idea what a privileged life she had. No idea how hard it was growing up without a father. She’s so clueless sometimes.” It’s not Kat’s fault that our dad was an asshole, I remind myself. And it can’t have been easy for her, knowing that her father had cheated on her mother.

Exhaling, I lean back and look up at the sky, navy blue and speckled with stars. It’s easier to say things like this if I’m not making eye contact. “I’m still so angry at him. My dad, I mean. But I’m realizing that being angry at him isn’t going to hurthim—but it’s hurting me. I want to try and let that go.”

“Good for you,” Noah says, turning serious. “Like, for real. Not sure I’ll ever get there.”

I glance at him, hesitating. I desperately want to ask what the story is with his family. He’s made so many references like this but never follows up with any actual details.

“What happened?” I ask. “You can tell me if you want. No pressure.”

“It’s a long story.”

I shrug. “I have nothing else to do tonight. Can’t work in the beach house until tomorrow afternoon.”

He looks over at me, and there’s so much sadness in his eyes that I wish I could give him a hug. “I’ve been meaning to tell you for a while, but... I’m not exactly proud of myself for how it went down.”

“I won’t judge,” I say, brushing my hair away from my eyes and tucking it behind my ears.

He takes a long swallow from his bottle. “I think I mentioned that last year I was working a boring professional job?” I nod, motioning for him to continue. “Before that, when I was in grad school—wait, let me go back even further. I haven’t told you about my family. Let’s start there.”

“I’m listening,” I say.

He winces, like this is hard for him to get out. “My family is—”

My phone rings, and I pull it out of my pocket. “It’s Kat,” I tell him. “Sorry. Hold that thought.”

“Hey,” she says when I answer. “Sorry to bother you. I have a quick question.”

She sounds a little awkward, and I realize that this is the first time we’ve spoken to each other over the phone.

“What’s up?” I say.

“I got a sponsorship with a local company in Atlanta. They’re going to give us rugs for the dining area and living room, but I need dimensions of the rooms. Do you mind measuring them?”

“Oh, sorry—I finished staining the floor and can’t go in until tomorrow.” I pause. “Actually, I have the floor plan sketched out with dimensions. I’ll text you a picture.”

“Thanks.” There’s another awkward pause, and I get the sense that she wants to say something else. But then she clears her throat. “Okay. Have a good night. Bye.”

After ending the call, I go into the casita and snap a picture of my floor-plan sketch, then text it to Kat. When I come out of the casita, Noah is standing in the shallow end of the pool, the water halfway up his calves.

“Going night swimming?” I say.

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