“You bake, Mommy. We have work to do! Can I write the lists, Tessa?”
“Why don’t you read Lacey’s notes to me?” she replied, coming around the table and sharing a long look with Crista.
Neither of them spoke, but they didn’t have to. They locked gazes, and in that weird space of two seconds…connected.
“Thank you,” Crista mouthed.
Tessa smiled and pointed at the mixing bowl. “I like chocolate chip. None of that oatmeal stuff.”
“Done and done,” Crista said, looking down and fighting a smile.
July 10, 1990
I. Am. Dead. Not literally, of course, but I might as well be because Peter McCarthy just ruined my life in the best possible way.
Okay, let me back up.
It was supposed to be just a normal, completely uneventful afternoon. Kate, Tessa, and I were heading down to the beach, just goofing off like always, and we saw Eli and Peter near the boardwalk, messing around with a volleyball.
Then Tessa—being Tessa—yelled something to Eli about how he wished he had her serve, and Eli—being Eli—immediately challenged us to a match.
That’s when everything started unraveling.
Because, you know me. I am not athletic. I am especially not coordinated when Peter McCarthy is ten feet away. But did I say no to playing? No. Of course not. Because I am a fool.
So there we were, an actual game forming, with teams being picked and stakes being raised (nothing serious, just pride and bragging rights). And somehow—I don’t know how—I ended up on Peter’s team.
I nearly died on the spot when he asked me to play on his side of the sand court.
The first serve came straight toward me, and instead of bumping it like a normal person, I spun my arm like a broken windmill and completely missed. The ball plopped in the sand. And I wanted the ocean to swallow me whole.
Eli thought it was HILARIOUS. Tessa laughed, too. Kate tried to say something encouraging but I was too embarrassed to hear.
And then Peter—PETER—stepped next to me, put a hand on my shoulder (!!!!!), and said, “Hey, no big deal. We’ve got this.”
And just like that, I could breathe again.
But then it got worse. I was determined to not make a fool of myself for the rest of the game, but no such luck. When the next ball came my way, I ran for it—way too fast and not exactly like a gazelle—and completely tripped over my own feet. And wiped out. Face-first into the sand. I didn’t even try to get up right away because, honestly, what was the point? My soul had already left my body.
Eli was dying. Kate and Tessa were not helping.
And then Peter McCarthy dropped to his knees next to me—not laughing, not teasing—actually concerned.
“Viv?” His voice was so gentle. “Are you okay?”
I could not respond. I could not basically breathe.
Then, before I could regain consciousness, he—he brushed sand off my cheek.
Let me repeat that for the people in the back.
PETER MCCARTHY BRUSHED SAND OFF MY FACE.
With his actual hand. His literal fingers. Not in some casual, careless way. But in a slow, sweet, totally unnecessary way.
When I finally managed to move, I sat up too fast and headbutted him.
That’s when he laughed.
