A jackhammer is going off inside my head.
I roll toward the pillow and press my face into it. The pounding keeps up: thud, thud, thud. A voice comes through the dark.
“Everybody decent?”
My eyes open to a room in the dull gray light of morning. Rain lashes the roof, and the open window lets in the smell of wet stone and salt water.
“I’m coming in!” Livia calls through the door.
I take in the room one piece at a time. I’m in the middle of a king bed, wearing only my underwear and my Virgin Who Can Drive T-shirt. The spare sheets are in a heap on the floor. Beyond them, one golden-brown leg sticks out, followed by an arm disappearing beneath a spill of sun-streaked blond hair.
Livia starts counting. “Three…”
I fling a pillow at Rhys. He jerks awake.
“Two…”
His eyes focus on me, then widen. He grabs the bedding and scrambles onto the mattress, dragging half the pile after him.
“One. I’m opening this door. Cover up whatever you don’t want me to see.” I point frantically at Rhys.
The door swings wide. Livia takes in the bed, the sheets, and the mess we’ve made of both. Her mouth twitches.
“Breakfast was twenty minutes ago,” she says. “Did nobody check the itinerary?”
“Our novelty itinerary?” Rhys asks. “For the rough schedule we always follow?”
Dane appears over her shoulder, his hair still damp. “Come on. We have a schedule to keep.”
“Are you two taking steroids?” Rhys asks. “Buying Adderall in an alley?”
“Cocaine,” I suggest.
“Pixy Stix and cough syrup,” Rhys says.
Livia claps her hands. Each one lands somewhere behind my eyes. “Up. Now.”
“Can one glass of wine do this to you?” I groan.
“Once you’re thirty, yes,” Dane calls, and the two of them disappear down the hall as abruptly as they arrived.
Rhys lets out a breath. He stands and rubs his face, blanket creases pressed into his cheek and stomach. I catch myself staring at the marks, as though I’ll be tested on them later.
He glances over his shoulder. “Want the shower?”
The last of my sleepiness vanishes. “The shower?”
He looks confused. “Do you need it, or can I use it?”
Right. Alone. Obviously.
“I’m fine. I’ll get my things and get out.”
He laughs and steps into the bathroom. Water sputters on. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before, Mara.”
I climb off the bed and dig through my suitcase for jeans.
“Except for the new tattoo,” he adds.
I turn before I can decide whether that was a joke. He is already tugging at his shorts. I yelp and face the suitcase again.
“You could wait thirty seconds before taking those off.”
His laugh comes out low and rough with sleep. “Close your eyes if it bothers you.”
I step into my jeans and hop them over my hips. He hasn’t switched on the fan; steam gathers behind me, and I can picture his hair curling at the ends.
“What if I close mine?” he says.
“How would that help?” I pull out a clean shirt. “Maybe you’d…”
I take off my sleep shirt and toss it onto the bed. With the fresh one held against my chest, I look back at him. “Maybe I’d what?”
Rhys clears his throat and turns to the shower. “Feel like I wasn’t here.”
“Not necessary.” I pull on the shirt. “I think I’m done.”
He waits until I’m out of the room before turning around again.
A drawn-out groan of “Maraaa” makes me double back and peer into the kids’ room. Bianca and Jules are in the twin beds they pushed together, just as Rhys and I used to be. Bianca looks rested, her braids tucked into a rust-colored bonnet. Jules is sprawled in every direction, freckles visible beneath smeared glitter eyeliner, her hair in a tangled nest. At least she remembered to take out her contacts; her dark-framed glasses are on.
“Save us,” Jules moans.
“Save you,” Bianca corrects. “I feel great.”
“Save me,” Jules amends.
Bianca pats the narrow space between them. I flop down as if they were my parents and it were Christmas morning.
Not my parents, exactly. In my house growing up, their bedroom might as well have been sealed by the FBI. We weren’t to enter, look inside, or even mention it. It was the one room allowed to get messy—if folded laundry counted as mess—and I suspect Mom would have chosen witness protection over letting anyone see it.
Rhys’s family did Christmas differently. When he and his sisters were little, the Callahans had a rule: nobody could start until the sun came up. So the kids waited by the tree, then rushed into Irene and Hank’s room at first light and piled onto their bed, shouting until their parents got up.
Thinking of Irene and Hank always leaves me with a homesick ache, though it’s strange to call it that. As a kid, I felt it most often while I was at home.
“I’m hiring someone to take Livia out for ordering that last round of Fireball,” Jules says, laying her forearm across her eyes. “Send me money for the fee.”
“I was beginning to think you couldn’t get a hangover,” I say.
“It’s the half-drinks,” Bianca says. “She tries to drink less that way, then loses count.”
“I did not lose count. I blurred.” Jules holds up her arm. A row of lipstick marks has run together.
“Right,” Bianca says, hiding a smile. “My mistake.”
“I need nine more hours of sleep.”
“Aren’t you two farmers used to getting up early?” I lean across Bianca to see her bedside clock. It’s unplugged and lying several feet away, as if someone yanked it off the wall and threw it.
“Do you know what time we go to bed before those early mornings?” Bianca asks. “Nine. Not climb into bed at nine. Unconscious by nine. Deep sleep.”
“I don’t remember seeing deep sleep on this week’s schedule.”
Jules sits up so fast I expect her to be sick. Instead, horror spreads across her face. “Did I dance the worm on a table last night?”
Bianca and I burst out laughing.
“No,” I say. “You didn’t.”
“But you were worried you had,” Bianca adds.
Jules gasps, pretending to be offended. Bianca leans over and kisses her. “I love you too much to lie. You couldn’t do the worm if my life depended on it. Some of your other moves were pretty good, though.”
From downstairs, Livia shouts, “Get your bodies down here!”
“Hit man,” Jules mutters.
Bianca springs to her feet, balanced wide on either side of the bed frame. “Babe, who am I?” She plants her hands on her knees and gyrates without rhythm.
“If that’s how good I looked, I feel better,” Jules says.
An air horn blares from somewhere below us, possibly beneath the house itself.
• • •
We usually eat at Bernie’s outside, where the harbor is in view and the seabirds have no manners around a plate of fries. A fleece is sometimes necessary, but the patio is worth it.
Today the storm has returned. From the car to the entrance of the red-shingled diner, we get soaked. We find a table at the back. Beyond the windows, the patio sits under a flat gray sky; striped umbrellas are closed and shuddering in the wind. Lightning reaches down toward the water.