The Sea of Tranquility(67)
Author: Katja Millay

“We have an agreement.”

“Break it,” I tell him, even though I have no right.

“Why?”

“Because you’re all over her all the time. You make her look like a whore.”

“First, I hardly think I’m the only thing making her look like a whore. Second, if she asks me to stop, I’ll stop. Otherwise, why should I?”

“Because I’m asking you to stop.”

“She and I have a mutually beneficial relationship. Kind of like you and Leigh but we don’t have sex. It works. Why would I give that up?” He’s not hiding the subtext.

“Because it doesn’t mean anything to you.”

“Why does it mean anything to you?”

“Because she’s mine and I don’t want you touching her.” I’m a five year-old fighting over a toy. I feel like an idiot as soon as I say it, but it’s said and it’s true. And I don’t want it to be.

“I know,” he says arrogantly.

“You know?”

“I’m not stupid Josh. The two of you have been eye-fucking each other since the beginning of school. I wasn’t going to do anything with her and she was never going to do anything with me.”

“Then why all the bullshit tonight?”

“Just wanted to hear you say it.” He smiles and heads back toward the house. I’m too relieved to be pissed at him.

“What’s with you and Tierney?” I ask when he gets to the porch.

“Trying not to screw each other. Trying not to kill each other. Same thing that’s always with me and Tierney.”

***

I’m at Sunshine’s house at nine o’clock the next morning. We’re supposed to have plans, but after last night I’m not sure if we still do. I wait in the driveway because Margot probably just went to bed and I don’t want to knock and wake her up.

When the door opens, Nastya comes out wearing a pink, flowered sundress and flat white sandals and I wonder who she is today. She gets in the truck and shuts the door.

“Shut up. It was a birthday present,” she says before I can even comment.

“Doesn’t mean you had to wear it.” But I’m glad you did.

“I figured I should get something out of the intervention since I didn’t take the phone. Besides, I spend so much time doing your laundry that I haven’t gotten to any of mine.” She buckles her seat belt and we’re off without a word about last night.

We hit three antique stores by noon and I still haven’t found anything remotely like the console table I’m looking for. If she’s true to form, Sunshine will start complaining around store number five. That’s where her antiquing patience tends to run out. Store number four is a high end one, two towns west of us, and I have to promise her ice cream after this one to get her to leave the truck.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to just find what you’re looking for on the internet?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” I ask. She’s right. It would be much easier, but I like the looking.

“Where’s the fun in this?” She pulls open the door and exaggeratedly drags her feet inside.

“You know you like it.”

“I do?”

“You do.”

“And you know this, how?”

“Because I know you, and no one makes you do anything you don’t want to do. If you didn’t want to come, you wouldn’t come. And if you didn’t come, you wouldn’t be here. So it follows that if you didn’t want to come, you would not be here right now. But you are here, so by the transitive property of Sunshine, you want to be here.”

“I hate you.”

“I know that, too.” I say nonchalantly and one side of her mouth turns up in response.

“It was worth coming just to hear that many words leave your mouth at one time. That may never happen again.”

“Probably not.”

“So remind me again why you can’t join modern society and use the internet.”

I shrug because it’ll probably sound stupid. “I like finding things no one else is looking for. Things that got lost or forgotten, shoved in a corner. Stuff I never knew existed. I don’t even need to buy it. I just like to find it and know that it’s there. That’s the part I like.”

“Is any of this stuff even worth what they’re charging for it?” She looks at the price tag on an ornate mahogany sideboard.

“Depends on how badly you want it. It’s worth whatever you’re willing to pay for it.”

“Can you even afford any of it?”

“Yes.”

“You sell that much furniture?” She looks impressed.

“No.” I do okay with selling the furniture but not even close to this well. I don’t have enough time.

“Oh.” She doesn’t ask anything else, but I tell her anyway, even though it’s the thing I hate mentioning the most.

“I have a lot of money.”

“How much is a lot?”

“Millions.” I watch her face. Millions. It sounds absurd. I’ve never told anyone before. The only people who know are the ones who have always known. It feels weird to even say it out loud. I don’t talk about the money. I try not to even think about the money. I have a lawyer, two accountants and a financial adviser who worry about it for me. If they handed it all over to me tomorrow, I wouldn’t know what to do with it. I’d probably end up hiding it under the bed.

“No wonder you didn’t have a problem getting emancipated,” she says dryly.

“No wonder.”

Her eyes narrow. “You’re not lying.” She studies my face and I shake my head.

“You don’t spend any of it.” It’s not a question.

“My dad never wanted to touch it so I try not to as much as possible. I use what I have to for paying the bills because I can’t make enough to live on while I’m in school.” I can’t say I hate that it’s there, because I do need it. But I hate what it means, and I’ll never let myself be happy about it.

“Did you buy anything with it?”

“I bought my truck last year when my dad’s old one finally kicked it. And I bought an antique table.”

“Which one?”

“The dark one on the far wall of the living room near the sliding glass door.”

“The dark one? That’s it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Usually you get all flowery and descriptive and talking about the curves of the wood and the symmetry of the lines and the marriage of form and function.” She puts on a pretentious tone and waves her hand around in the air.