Page 76 of Sucker For You

Her chin jerked.

She never lied, did she? She simply didn’t answer. She led the way to Baby.

Later that day he posed questions about her MORI shift, like what animals she’d transported into the facility’s calming tanks for timeouts due to schooling stress—and whether Dr. Solomon had been rude—and if she’d managed to spy-hop her way past any Do Not Enter signs. She responded: rockfish,yes, and, “The computer lab has a Keep Out notice posted now. I meant to enter this morning after I’d de-loused a tank of flounder. But the other volunteers were stopping for coffee, and they asked me to join them in the break room. There’s a direct line of sight between that room and the computer banks. I couldn’t refuse without risking their curiosity about where I was going instead.”

So: she’d respond to direct, factual inquiries.

But if he didn’t ask?

The silence was heavy.

Why?

When he’d come back to Old Fisherman’s Wharf yesterday after spending ten minutes at the tie-dye shack, she’d swung around fast from a shrimp vendor to see him returning to her; an anxious haze in her eyes had blazed into sunlight and she’d crashed into his arms like a tidal wave, seizing his shirt, burying her nose against his neck, her mouth and shoulders trembling—but with no one watching—and he’d thought. . .

It doesn’t matter.

Whatever he’d thought, he’d been wrong.

After he ran out of inquiries about fish food and grouchy researchers and inconvenient break times, however, Wes didn’t ask her what this fresh problem was. He didn’t ask what he’d done to set her back. What if Isabel told him something he couldn’t fix? He couldn’t stand that. Instead, he posed questions from her napkin list. Questions related to that list, anyhow. He didn’t need to inquire whether she drank coffee or tea, or what brand of toothpaste she used. He knew these things now—even if he’d had to be quick in catching his glimpse of her dental hygiene products before she stowed them in a toiletries bag, all evidence of paste, floss, and brushes removed from the bathroom.

“If you could snap your fingers and be an expert on any subject, what would you choose?” he tried while she fed the two-spot that night. “An expert on any subject that’s not octopuses.”

“I’m not an expert.”

“Could’ve fooled me. Plus the nerds at MORI. The Seattle Aquarium people, too, right?”

Her left shoulder lifted and dropped. Only after failing to interest the juvenile in cracking open a mussel did she answer, “I’d choose immigration law. I know some. But not everything.”

It wasn’t a conversation, and she didn’t smile, even at his next joke.

“How many times do you need to tickle an octopus like ourOctavia. . . no, I still likeThalassabetter—to make it laugh?Ten-tacles!” he grinned.

Or tried to.

“Mmm.” Isabel paused while replacing the tank’s dive weights. She studied her hands and their dozen sucker kisses. Then shescanned a few rubber bands abandoned on the submerged gravel. “Is. . . is she less engaged today? Less interested in her food?”

He hadn’t made her laugh. He’d worried her.

She retreated into the bedroom. Alone on the couch, he cursed. He didn’t knock at the door.

*

On Friday afternoon, he hazarded a new subject.

“Adrian shared his final travel schedule this morning. He’s arriving in San Francisco next Tuesday. September twelfth. He and Erin are renting a car and driving to Santa Cruz on Wednesday. They want to ride the Giant Dipper roller coaster.”

“Oh.” Isabel watched the coastline whip by in a blur of sand and fog-drenched pines.

“The boardwalk’s famous. Lots of old-timey charm. Like I said—churros and funnel cakes. Even sunshine. Tie-dye. It’d be a good place to take photos. For the interviewer. But—” and now he was talking too much and too fast, his tongue running ahead of his brain while he flicked Baby’s turn signal and exited the highway, “they’re coming on a weekday. Not ideal. It won’t be crowded, though, and there’ll be discounts for food and rides. Santa Cruz is about an hour’s drive north from here. Can you get off early from volunteering? If not, I’ll ask Adrian to swap dates or—”

“I can.” Baby braked for the Del Monte Avenue stop sign, and Isabel stared ahead at the intersection. “It’s not a real job. Anyone else could do the work. But even if I couldn’t go to Santa Cruz, you shouldn’t change the date because of me. This day on the boardwalk, it’s for you and your siblings, isn’t it? For your family?”

“Maybe Ethan, too.”

“Family,” she repeated with a little shrug. “And I’m. . .”

Not?