“I’m sure I couldn’t stop you if I wanted to.”
“Why would you want to?” My voice is rising again. I don’t want to yell, but—gah—can’t he at least give me a chance? I’m tempted to take that brush out of his hand and smack him over the head with it.
He exhales noisily through his nostrils and ignores my question. Pushing the brush to the side, he grabs a hose and starts rinsing out the small pool.
Eons pass. He rinses it out three times before shutting off the hose and daring to look at me again. I’m still simmering, fingers digging into my hip. But he, at least, seems to be calming down.
I almost don’t dare to hope that maybe I’ve won him over. And only when I realize that do I begin to question why I’m bothering to win him over at all. This is his mom’s organization. She’s the one whose opinion matters.
But I can’t be fighting Quint every step of the way. I may not need him, but it sure will be easier if he’s on board.
“All right,” he finally says. His voice is rough, and I sense that this isn’t an easy concession for him to make. But I don’t care. Relief is already welling up in me. “I’ll hear you out,” he continues. “But not today. We’re swamped as it is.”
“Fine, no problem. I’ll go put on an apron and then I can help … clean. Or something.”
His cheek twitches.
“And maybe we can talk about this”—I hold up the folder—“tomorrow? I mean, the sooner we can get started, the better. Right?”
He sighs. A heavy sound, halfway to melodramatic. “Yeah, awesome,” he says. “I can’t wait.”
EIGHTEEN
Encanto has what Carlos generously refers to as a “patio” along the front of the restaurant. It’s actually just three small café tables in a little roped-off section of the sidewalk, but it can be a nice place to sit and people-watch. This is where I sit down to wait for Quint. I have my folder, plus a bunch of new material, mostly online pamphlets and statistics and reports from other nonprofits that I found online. I discovered one cancer research charity that brought in nearly a billion dollars in a single year. Their CEO’s salary was $2.4 million! Not that I think I’m going to be anywhere near that, especially not over just one summer, but it’s nice to know that it can be done. I guess it’s kind of refreshing to know how generous people can be with their money and how it can really add up to make a huge difference.
Well, not that we’ve cured cancer yet. But I have to assume that charity has done something worthwhile with all that dough.
Once I’m all set up for my meeting with Quint, my papers neatly organized and a bulleted list of talking points at my elbow, I check my watch. We’re meeting at noon. I’m five minutes early.
A waiter comes out to check on me and I order a sparkling water and some tostones, which is a Puerto Rican specialty and Carlos’s signature appetizer. It’s basically plantains, which are kind of like firm bananas, that have been squished, fried, and salted, and they are mouth-wateringly delicious. Crisp on the outside, tender on the inside. Plus, he serves them with both a chimichurri and a chipotle-mayo dipping sauce and my mouth waters just thinking about it. Jude and I usually order separate plates because they’re too good to share.
I consider ordering something for Quint, but that might be weird, so I don’t. The waiter disappears back inside. I take off my sunglasses and use the skirt of my dress to polish off a smudge. Slipping them back on, I relax into my seat, waiting.
Tourist season hasn’t fully kicked off yet, but already the town is feeling more lively than it did just a couple of weeks ago. Shopkeepers are dusting off their wares and washing their windows and putting out big CLEARANCE racks full of last year’s goods to entice all the new customers that are starting to arrive.
I grab my phone and check a few social media feeds, but no one I care about has posted anything new so I soon grow bored.
The waiter brings out my water and I drink nearly half the glass in one gulp. My nose tickles from the carbonation. I check my watch again. It feels like I’ve been waiting a long time, but it’s only 12:03.
I try to keep my mind occupied by seeking out people on the street who may be in need of a karmic confrontation. I’m catching on that once I start looking for wrongdoing, it seems to be everywhere—the girl who sticks her chewing gum on the underside of the next table. The man who doesn’t clean up after his dog.
A smirk and a tightening of my fingers, and next thing you know, the girl has dripped salsa down the front of her dress, and the man, distracted, puts his own shoe right into the pile of excrement.
It becomes a game, looking for reprehensible behavior. And there is plenty to see. I wonder if this strange power is somehow attracting abhorrent people, pulling them into my path so they can feel the wrath of the universe, or if there are truly that many inconsiderate people in this world.
Speaking of inconsiderate …
I check my watch. 12:39!
My teeth clench. I’ve been so distracted by doling out punishments to those around me, I’ve barely touched the plate of tostones that was brought a while back. I grab one now and shove it into my mouth. I’ve been sitting here long enough that they’ve started to get cold.
In my mind, this, too, is Quint’s fault.
I swallow, a little painfully.
For a second, I try to use Ari’s tactic and give him the benefit of the doubt.
Could he be stuck in traffic?
Um, no. Unless there’s some festival or something going on, traffic in Fortuna Beach is pretty much nonexistent.
Maybe he forgot the time? Or forgot that we were supposed to meet at all?
This seems likely, but it hardly makes it okay.
Maybe he’s sick?
Please. I would be so lucky.
Honestly, after seeing him at 8:00 a.m. at the center yesterday, I’d begun to think maybe I’d been mistaken about him. Maybe there is some part of him that can be responsible. That takes his obligations seriously. Maybe he’s not a total delinquent.
As soon as my watch ticks over to 1:00, making him an entire hour late, I feel my annoyance boiling over. It’s one thing to be late to class. Yes, it would have been nice to have a reliable lab partner, but whatever, I did the work myself. But to stand me up like this? On my day off? When I’ve put in all this work to help his mom and her center.
It’s inexcusable!
This rant continues in my head another ten … fifteen … twenty-two minutes, until I’m about ready to scream at the infuriating seagulls that are squawking around, searching for dropped food.
And then—then—I see him.
He’s strolling up the sidewalk, his eyes hidden by sunglasses and the afternoon light glinting off his dark hair. He’s wearing flip-flops, swim trunks, and a white T-shirt with a picture of a surfboarding octopus. He is not hurrying. He in no way looks anxious or apologetic. He looks relaxed. Too relaxed.
How is it that I can have such high expectations, for myself and those around me, while Quint can be so … so Quint. I’ve even spent the last year lowering my expectations for him, bit by bit, and still he manages to disappoint. I’ve truly asked so little of him. Just show up on time so I don’t have to explain the assignment to you every single day. Just read the chapter from our textbook beforehand so you have a clue what we’re talking about. Just take a few notes or take accurate measurements or do something useful rather than putting it all on my shoulders.
Somehow, he failed. Again and again and again. And now this. To not only be late, but to be so casual about it.
I’m positively fuming when Quint spots me and smiles in greeting.
Smiles.
That! Jerk!
My hand clenches under the table, squeezing until I can feel the pulse of my own blood in my knuckles.
Quint pauses, his eye catching on something. Please, oh please, let a seagull swoop by and drop a big one right on his head.
Or let some kid plant a half-devoured chocolate ice cream cone right into that Hawaiian-printed butt of his. (Not that I’m thinking about his butt. Oh, gross, stop it, Brain!)
Or … or … gah, I don’t care, just something horrible!
As I watch, my hand aching and images of vengeance swirling through my head, Quint stoops down and picks something off the sidewalk. I squint, trying to see what it is.
Paper? Green paper?
Hold on. Did he just find money?
Quint walks up to a nearby shopkeeper who’s sweeping his front stoop and shows him the paper. The man shakes his head. Quint steps away, looks up and down the sidewalk, but there’s no one else to ask. No one to talk to. He gives the facial equivalent of a shrug, then starts heading toward me again.
My fist slowly relaxes. What is going on here?
“Look,” he says, sliding into the chair opposite me. “I just found twenty bucks.”
I gawk at the bill in his hand. What?
He holds it toward me. “We’ll call it our first anonymous donation.” He grins. “See? We’re making a good team already.”
My brain feels like it’s shutting down. I can’t process what just happened. I feel like the universe betrayed me. I take the twenty, a little dazed, and stare at it. Maybe it’s counterfeit, and he’ll get arrested if he uses it?
But, no. I know it’s real. I know that, for whatever reason, he just got rewarded, after being nearly an hour and a half late to our meeting. Was that the universe’s doing, or just coincidence?
That would be an easy explanation, except I’m reaching a point where I’m not sure I believe in coincidences anymore.
I set the money down on the table between us.
“Wow,” I say, a little numbly. “Cool. I’ll … start a ledger.”
“Yeah. Or it can just pay for lunch. I’m starving.” He takes a tostone without asking, dips it in the chipotle sauce, and tosses it into his mouth. “Mm, so good,” he says. He doesn’t seem to notice that they’re cold. You know, because they’ve been sitting out for more than an hour.