I frown. “Fishman?”
She shrugs. “Your boyfriend.”
It takes me a second to realize she calls him Fishman because he works at the aquarium. I’m surprised that she knows I’m dating Jake – or rather,wasdating Jake. I’m not sure where we stand now. Her out-of-the-blue statement seems to confirm that Joel told him about the letters. I’m so frustrated that I could cry, but I’m not about to let myself break down in front of a kid.
“How old are you, Caitlin?”
“I just turned eight.”
“Happy belated birthday. Why do you call them Fishman and Mr. Pickles?”
She shrugs. “I’m bad at remembering names. It’s easier when I make them up.”
I feel like I’m talking to a young version of myself. “No one is going to know who you’re talking about if you call everyone by nicknames that you made up. Do you do that at school, too?”
“Oh. Sometimes. I just don’t know how I’m supposed to remember everyone’s names.”
“You don’t have to remember everyone’s name right away. There’s no shame in saying, ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch your name, can you remind me what it is?’ It’s better than just making one up and then not knowing.” I know that this is hypocritical considering I called her Caterpillar Kid for the longest time, and I had no idea that my boss’s last name was Pacey and not Facey. I figure I can help her learn from my experience now so that she doesn’t have to make the same mistakes I did. “You know what my real name is, right?”
“Uh. Naomi?” She stumbles over the syllables.
“That’s right. And Mr. Pickles is…?”
“Joel,” she says. “But his last name sounds close enough to Pickles. Can’t I keep calling him that?”
I think about it for a moment. Joel doesn’t seem bothered by her calling him Mr. Pickles. “Yeah, I guess that’s fine. What about the guy you call Fishman?”
She gives me a rueful smile. “I can’t remember.”
“It’s Jake,” I tell her.
“Oh. What’s the puppy’s name?” she asks.
“I don’t know. What do you think his name should be?”
“I can make it up?”
“Sure.”
“Bruno,” she says.
I look at the puppy. He’s waddling ahead of us, stopping every few paces to chase a leaf or sniff an old black piece of gum hardened into the sidewalk. “He does look like a Bruno,” I agree.
“Don’t you want to know what they were saying?” Caitlin asks.
“Who?”
“Mr. Pickles and, uh…” She hesitates, looking up at me for help.
“Jake,” I supply.
“Oh, right. Mr. Pickles and Jake. Don’t you want to know?”
As much as I don’t want to talk about this with an eight-year-old, my curiosity gets the best of me. “What were they saying?”
“They were talking about you and your letter. I think Fish— sorry, Jake – was mad, because he didn’t say hi to me or my mom. They were arguing about it. They said a lot of other things, but that’s all I can remember. What did you say in your letter that made him so mad?”
I’m not sure which letter Joel showed him, but it can’t be good. No wonder he’s avoiding me. I think I might throw up. I’m sweating, yet I feel cold at the same time, despite the Miami sun beating down on me. Anne was right. I should have just told him about Luca. Now it’s too late, and I’ve probably lost both of them.
