Page 86 of Sucker For You

“It’s not for sale.” Wes pulled back the canvas. One step interposed him between Adrian and Isabel.

“No, definitely not. Notthismasterpiece.” Adrian’s mouth ticked in a smirk. He crossed his arms. He didn’t try to grab the drawing, and didn’t glance away at Erin joining their group.Neither did Wes, holding his gaze, defiant. “It’s interesting, though. Funny. These things are supposed to be caricatures, aren’t they? Jokes. Ethan would know. . . except—I see it now. I didn’t before, with the churros and the lemonade and the timeline. But here’s what I think the joke actually is:there isn’t one. Because the artist got you exactly right. They really saw how you—”

“God, why do you keep—Shutup, Adrian!” Erin tackled him.

“Ooof—”

Dangerous as it was, while Erin and Adrian wrestled under a flock of shrieking gulls, while Wes relaxed his grip on the canvas and made feints to either separate his siblings or push them into a spill of ketchup, shaking his head before bursting into laughter, Isabel couldn’t help smiling.

15

Laughter rebounds off glassware, tinkling in her ears. A night breeze wafts up from the Monterey Marina and across Osteria Al Mare’s outdoor patio, but it holds no chill. The table is warm, bright, noisy. Faces and conversations flicker under a heating lamp. Its illumination gilds leftovers on a mess of plates: mushroom ravioli, orecchiette pasta, two lasagnas, a fresh green salad with gorgonzola and poached pears.

Someone tells a story about wind tunnels and Frisbees.

A golden retriever perks up, nose inching toward the pastas.

Someone else mentions a childhood dog wolfing down the Thanksgiving mashed potatoes.

More laughter.

“Remember when—”

“Yes—”

She has nothing to contribute to the discussion. That’s nothing new, so she smiles. She’s not unhappy, because she’s here and Wes is laughing along. It’s been fine, like she promised, she hasn’t disappointed him yet—and for the moment, it’s all right, she’s all right. . . until one of the voices seated nearby addresses her. It asks her preference for dessert. A simple question, which she can answer correctly: Wes doesn’t drink coffee, so he won’t want tiramisu. Despite her confidence, however, when she tries to respond, her own voice cracks.

“What?”

She tries again. But the words break apart on her tongue.

And then, abruptly, horribly—it’s not just her voice, but herself that shatters.

“Ah!”

Choking on air and nothing, Isabel woke with a gasp. Her mouth was parched. Her hair was plastered to her scalp with sweat, her body contorted, arms and legs twisted, snail-like, her fingers fisted not in a dinner napkin but around a pillow, strangling it while she struggled to orient herself to a startling, shadowed quiet:the beach bungalow.

Alone.

Or almost.

The pain was with her.

No!

But it didn’t care if she didn’t want it. The migraine had burrowed into her body while she slept. Now it gained traction across her nervous system with horrific speed, throbbing at the back of her skull, splitting over her left eye socket. Its pressure intensified in her sinuses, pulsing. This wasn’t her imagination. Not a dream. Not even a nightmare.

Agony.

No, no—

She lurched off the mattress and crawled to her toiletries bag. A rug burn scorched her knees. Whimpering, she continued on all fours to the bathroom in the dark. Her hands shook when she dumped out a Ceretobicin dosage, swallowing the pill fast, dry.

It was too late, though.

The medication’s preventative effects couldn’t help her. The Ceretobicin was just a little lump of plastic in her throat.

She shoved her knuckles into her mouth after the pill, stifling her cry by biting down on her fist when a fresh waveof pain bucked up her spine. Thighs convulsing, toes curling, she slumped down onto the bathroom floor. Vertigo dumped heat and ice over her head and through her stomach. Her vision buzzed, blurred.