Page 81 of Sucker For You

. . . described by caregivers as—

The squeegee skidded out of her grip.

Maybe she should have pushed Wes away harder. A repulsed distance (his boat sailing off past the horizon) would have kept their arrangement clean. She would have been safe. Alone, and safe.

Yes, she should have been more brutal with herself.

With him.

He’d labored over transcripts of their legal forms all weekend and on Monday night, after his video call with his family—Erin had encouraged them to stay at the bungalow through next weekend, at least—while cursing and laughing. He still talked confidently about Isabel meeting his siblings, clearly happy at the thought of them together as he detailed the perils of boardwalk hot sauces, roller coasters, and carnival games. How could she explain that she shouldn’t join him in Santa Cruz after all? That it would be better if she stayed behind?

How could she disappoint Wes like that?

That was the problem, however: eventually, shewoulddisappoint him.

She always did.

But. . . maybe not just now?Right?she bargained with acluster of mindless moon jellies sailing in a transport tank. Maybe she didn’t have to disappoint him yet.

She wondered—hoped—feared—through the remainder of her shift while she rinsed her squeegee, stripped off her gloves, and recycled the computer lab’s sign. She wondered that night, watching hours of shadows pass over the bedroom ceiling, her eyes dry from the fumes of sterilizing chemicals, from exhaustion after parsing marriage license requirements—and from not glancing at Wes across the coffee table earlier that evening, not even when her vision blurred, when a throb at the base of her skull sent her stumbling past him to the bathroom, fumbling for water and her pills.

“Isabel? Everything all right in there?”

Keep Out.

“Fine.”

She was cold and aching.

Though without an answer to her own question.

So when Wes tossed a “Ready for game time?” over his shoulder on Wednesday morning, cleaning his camera in the sink after a dive in Elkhorn Slough, Isabel didn’t say no. Instead, she nodded.Yes. Or—almost. Following his shower and hers, she’d taken too long in selecting what to wear to Santa Cruz. Erin had sported a backless jumpsuit at the St. Francis Yacht Club, hadn’t she? Wes’s tall, confident, brilliant physicist sister, maneuvering her cue and her partner around the pool table, tossing a strawberry-blonde braid, nudging up her glasses, chalk smudging her burgundy-stained lips, laughing. . . Isabel doubled an elastic around her own plait and tugged on her otter fleece over work- and sun-faded jeans. Then she studied her cheekbones and pale mouth in the mirror. She nearly reached for her cosmetics bag, but—no. She rubbed a smear of sunscreenacross her nose and left the bathroom. These were the clothes and face she had.

And even after a brief confession about her silly, mistaken suspicions of the computer lab, Wes still hadn’t seemed disappointed in her. . .

Now she trailed him, his own sweatshirt, and his Nikon to the Jeep. She breathed through their merge onto the Pacific Coast Highway, following signs north toward Santa Cruz. David Attenborough’sThe Trials of Life: A Natural History of Animal Behaviourplayed through their quiet and the staticky stereo. Isabel only realized she was fidgeting when her hair elastic snapped in her hands. A guilty glance sneaked at Wes showed his attention on the road.

He hadn’t noticed her twitchiness. In fact, he was biting his lower lip and his thumbs were drumming on the steering wheel.

Self-soothing behaviors.

Her question startled them both. “What’s wrong?”

The Jeep veered over the highway’s center divide. Just a few centimeters, though, before he corrected their trajectory and released his bite on his lip. Before he was smiling again. “Hmm?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

She almost believed him. When a Watsonville/Santa Cruz sign appeared through a cluster of dark pines around a bend in the road, however, his thumb gave another tap.

“You’re anxious,” she said. She finger-combed out the remains of her useless braid and tucked her hair behind her ears. Resisting the pull of her seat belt, she turned to face him.

He waved a hand. So close to careless. “I’m not—”

“Is it about today? About your brother and sister?”About me, she didn’t add when another sign outside Aptos flashed by.

They’d reach the boardwalk in fifteen minutes.