I don’t get it.
One second, everything’s fine. The next…
Donovan is acting like I shot his dog.
He won’t look at me. Won’t talk to me.
I’m good at a lot of things. I’m good at school. I’m good at swimming. I’m good at finishing a fight. I’m even good at cooking, believe it or not.
I’m not good at pretending things are okay when they’re obviously not.
The next time I see them, Kenzi and Donovan are sitting together on the field that overlooks the marina. They’ve made themselves comfortable on one of the picnic benches and it looks like they’re enjoying lunch together.
When I get closer, I see they have a whole taco-building station set up. Little tin boxes filled with shells and toppings: cheese, shredded chicken, beans, sauces. They even have little plastic cups with jalapeno peppers and cilantro. You have to go off-island to get decent Mexican food, so I’m going to go ahead and guess this setup is the work on Kenzi’s mom.
Kenzi and Donovan are sitting side by side. Donovan is focused on picking apart his taco. Kenzi’s eyes meet mine, but she quickly adverts her gaze and looks away.
Okay. Enough is enough.
I walk over to their picnic table. When Kenzi sees me, her eyes get wide.
“Hey,” I say. “What’s up?”
Kenzi motions to her spread. “Taco Tuesday.”
“I love tacos. Room for one more?”
“Uh…yeah.” Kenzi says.
Donovan ignores me.
I sit, but I don’t touch the food. “So, what? You’re just going to give me the silent treatment? Because I called you a pansy?”
“That,” Donovan says. “And a million other things.” He looks at me and those dark eyes of his are steely, like daggers. “If your posse was around, you wouldn’t be talking to me. Or Kenzi.”
I press my lips together. “What’s it going to take for you to forgive me?”
Donovan lifts his eyebrows. “How long have you got?”
My eyes scan the table. I spot that little plastic cup of jalapeños—it’s filled to the top. I put it on the table between us. “If I ate this whole thing. Right now. Can we be cool?”
He lifts his eyebrow dubiously, but his eyes don’t leave mine.
“Um,” Kenzi says. “That’s like…a lot of jalapeños, I don’t know if you should…”
Too late. My gaze locked on his, I put the cup to my lips and tilt it back in one go.
Kenzi’s eyes go wide. So do Donovan’s. “Holy shit…” he says.
“Not so bad,” I say, crunching through the slices, the tiny seeds.
And then my mouth explodes.
I just make it to the trash can by the pool, where my body rejects the peppers and I hurl.
Dock Master Richard Donovan grabs me by the shoulder and drags me into his office, even though I tell him I’m fine.
And I am fine. I mean, my mouth is on fire, my throat feels like it’s closing up, but Donovan and I are cool. I think.
I hope.
He gets me a milk carton from the kiddie supply and I sip on it. It settles my stomach a little. When my throat is working again, I’m able to beg him: “Please don’t call my dad. I’ll do whatever you want. Just please, please don’t call my dad.”
I see where Donovan gets his stern gaze. He hands over the office phone. “He’s already on the line.”
I’d take the jalapeño sting over this lump in my throat any day.
I take the phone. “Hey.”
“The harbor master said you were sick.” My dad’s voice is strong and steady. Controlled. “Is that true?”
“Uh…no. It’s fine.”
“Do you need me to come get you?”
He doesn’t say it, I can hear the disappointment in his voice. I knew you couldn’t cut it. Disappointment. Loser. Pansy.
“No, sir. I’m good.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re not giving them any trouble, are you? If you were…you know how that would look on us.”
“No, sir. No trouble. Just something I ate. All good now.”
A pause. The silence makes my stomach knot. Or maybe it’s the spice. I hold it back either way.
“Should I be concerned?” he asks finally.
“Huh?”
“First, there was the incident with the boat. Then, I have to hear that you’re running around in women’s underwear. Now, this.”
“It was a prank, dad. We were just being idiots.”
A labored sigh on the other end. “You’re nineteen. Not a child. You act like that, people are going to think you are a—”
And then he said a word I’d heard him say a thousand times before. It still felt like knives in my chest every time he said it, though.
“Yes, sir,” I responded, the phrase automatic. “I understand.”
“You understand that everything you do reflects on our family.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” There’s a pause. “Come home tonight. Your mother wants you there for dinner more than once an eon.”
Then the call ends. But my nerves won’t untangled.
I hand the phone back to Donovan’s dad. “Thanks.”
“Feel better,” he says in a growl, which sounds more like get out of my office.
My throat thickens and I feel myself wanting to get sick again, but I swallow it back. He walks me down the dock and back to the Healing Touch. Makes sure I have everything I need. I get inside and count to five until I can’t hear his footsteps on the planks anymore. Then I dive to the bathroom and puke until nothing else will come up.
I sleep it off for a couple hours. I’m still feeling a little clammy that evening, but I leave the shelter of the boat and head up the docks.
There’s a family a couple boats down. A kid, maybe six, is sitting with his dad, who’s teaching him how to fish. The kid looks fascinated as his dad globs a mess of bait on the end of the hook. It makes me grin. And feel sad for some reason I can’t place.
Kenzi and Donovan are still hard at work. They’re buffing and polishing one of the yachts at the far end of the marina. Kenzi is bent over. Not for the first time, I notice how nice her ass looks. The curving arch of her foot when she stands on her toes. That small dip where her shoulder meets her neck. I love that spot on women—I love kissing it. She’s got her hair pulled back today and, as though she feels me staring, she rubs the sweat from her neck, right there.
Which is when she turns and I smile. Kenzi lights up.
“Man of the hour!” Kenzi calls out.
My heart swells, but I try to play it cool. “Sup?”
“Grab a sponge, Hotshot,” Donovan says.
There’s an extra sponge and bucket on the dock, so I grab both and climb over the railing to join them.
Kenzi hops over to me and glances around fugitively before she pulls something out of the bikini bra of her swimsuit. “We made you something,” she whispers.
It’s a piece of paper. I unfold it. When I do, there’s no more playing it cool—I can’t help the dumb grin I feel spreading across my face.
It’s a drawing of me (and pretty damn good drawing, too) with flames coming out of my mouth like a dragon. I’ve got a star attached to my chest like a sheriff, only it says: “#1 Hotshot” with a hot pepper drawn on the badge.
“Aw. Thanks, guys. I look like a superhero.”
“We’re like the Three Musketeers!” Kenzi says.
“The Three Muskets,” I chime in.
“No,” Donovan says, “The Three Muskrats.”
We burst out laughing at that.
