And I swear to God, if my mother did what I think she
did . . .
Damn it, Rosie,
I scream at her inside my head.
He’s not sup-
posed to be within five hundred feet of you! And you’re doing this
with him!
By the time we round the block and pull up to our house
for the second time—“No, Joshy, keep driving,” Margaret
says—Damien Wick, the world’s largest asshole, is pulling
away, oblivious to the fact that we saw him.
“It’s okay,” I tell the twins. “He’s gone.”
“Gone forever?” Caroline asks.
“At least gone for now.” I pull into the driveway, kill the
engine, and unclip my seatbelt.
My sisters follow suit, silent, and slip out of the car.
I drop an inflatable beach ring around each of their bodies,
because I believe they should get used to carrying their own
things, and I grab the cooler and sandy towels. We take our
time to go around the house to the backyard, where we shake
out our towels and drape them on the line, and spill the melting
ice into the barren flowerbed.
We leave the cooler propped to dry out, and I stow the
floaties in the shed.
The girls are quiet as we take the back porch stairs.
“It’s okay,” I tell them again when they turn their scared
eyes up at me. “He’s gone.”
“Uppy,” Caroline jumps into my embrace. I hold her at my
hip, unlock the back door, open it, and lift Margaret in my free
arm, so we enter together, a united mass.
Two beer bottles and the remnants of a meal sit atop the
kitchen table.
A purple ceramic unicorn has made its way from the
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