19. Cat
The short driveback home to the BB is a blur. The streets are full of a montage in my head—Olive at thirteen mocking my hair, Olive and her friends at school turning their backs on me and not talking to me, Olive in the Belacourt house now, looking like Barbie and saying my name like it's an accusation. Back and forth, my brain jumps around in an unpleasant cycle between the past and now. It's been more than ten years, but I see her once and I'm back in that uncomfortable, gawky age before braces, when Olive made me feel low and poor and inconsequential.
I thought it was in my past. It was in my past. I have a solid support system in Otto and excellent friends: Ivy, Holland, Jane. There are people in my life who love and appreciate me for me and always have. Olive doesn't deserve the brainspace she steals, and she doesn't deserve to send me into a panic merely by existing in the same room.
That doesn't stop my brain from doing its thing, hyper focusing on her and how I feel around her.
I slide the golf cart right into place between Otto's cart and our house, then grip the steering wheel with both hands and lean forward until my head is resting on my fists.
Distraction. That's what I need right now. I sit up and toss my belt bag over my shoulder. I'm going straight to the bookstore to load up on delicious Sunny Palmer romances and forget myself in them tonight. Maybe they're not realistic, but I need a little less real life right now and a little more fantasy.
I can't stop thinking about kissing Noah, which makes me walk even faster. I thought there was a connection when we kissed, which is just ridiculous. How could I honestly fool myself into feeling anything for a Belacourt? Self-preservation alone dictates I'm better off considering Noah off-limits. I only set him up with Jane to force a barrier between us, and I'm feeling better about that decision now. I can't fall for a guy who's dating my friend.
I'm halfway to the bookstore, but I pull my phone out and find Jane's contact while I walk.
She picks up after one ring. "Hey, Cat."
"You need to go out with Noah Belacourt."
"Come again?"
"For your dating thing. You're still doing it, right? Trying to date the entire island."
Jane laughs. "It's not really like that."
"I know. You have a whole system for testing romance tropes." When Jane first told me her plan a few weeks ago, I thought her idea was a guaranteed way to get her heart broken. But maybe she's onto something. She's more likely to find Mr. Right by dating consistently than I am by burying my head in work. "Have you found the one yet?"
She hesitates. "Not yet."
"Okay. Perfect. Want to try the billionaire trope? Noah fits the bill. Or you can go with my favorite plot device: only one bed."
I shut my eyes. Why did I suggest that of all things?
"I've already done that one. Not so successfully." Jane sounds distracted. "What happened? Is the personal assistant thing not working out?"
"He's a great boss. He's really kind, actually. I think you'd get along and, if nothing else, he would be a considerate date. He won't talk about himself all night or make you pay for him because he pretends to leave his wallet at home or smell like over-fermented cheese. Also, he said he'd be interested in going out with you. Sooooo?.?.?."
"Done and done. Send me his number?"
"I'll text it to you. How's the Fourth of July bash coming along?"
"It's coming. You'll be there right?"
"Of course. Otto's been talking about the breakfast all week. I think it's the one day every year someone else makes breakfast for him."
"He'll have to load up on the pancakes. There will be plenty."
"Don't tell him that or he'll bring Ziplocs to take home extras."
"Okay, noted. Listen, I've got to run. Thanks for the Noah tip."
"Let me know how it goes!" I say, because I'm a glutton for punishment. Now that this is proceeding, I need every single detail I can get. I hang up the phone when I reach The Book Isle. It's one of my favorite places on the island since it's stuffed with books in an inviting way. It's full of cozy nooks and reading crannies, comfortable chairs and places to curl up and read. It's no big store just wanting your money, though I'm sure they do want my money.
The bell chimes above my head when I step inside and go straight for the romance section. Sometimes I really can't put up with the whole genre in general. My realism steps in and makes me want to throw the book when the guy is being more amazing than men really are, but on days like today, I just want to feel some dang butterflies, okay? Sue me.
"Hey, Briggs," I call, rounding the bookshelf out of sight and scanning the spines lined up on the shelf.
I hear him lower his cup to the counter. "How's it going?"
"Oh, you know, just need a little escapism tonight."
"In the romance section?" I can hear the smile in his voice. I've known him too long not to hear it.
I pop my head back around the bookshelf until I can see him—sandy brown hair, glasses, T-shirt draping nicely over his chest—and point right at his face. "You don't get to judge me, Briggs Dalton. I remember when you tried to kiss Britney Keegan at the homecoming dance."
His laugh rings through the empty bookstore. "I'd never been rejected so publicly. Bring it up again and I'll tell Noah Belacourt you used to have a crush on him. How's that job working out for you?"
Island gossip is its own living, breathing, active little thing.
"A crush on Noah? Oh my gosh, never," I call, locating Sunny's books and pulling out the two I don't own. I make my way toward the checkout counter, wrinkling my nose. "You're mixing me up with half the cheer squad."
"Right. Of course. You dated Jake Humphries." He takes the books and starts to ring me up. "How is he? I haven't heard from him in years."
"Jake turned out to be a tool." Luckily, his parents sold the family mansion and moved to Connecticut a few years ago, so I don't ever have to see him again. After he chose sorority girls over honesty and fidelity, I cut him off and never looked back.
Maybe sometimes I glance back a smidge, like small peeks, just to remind myself why it's a bad idea to mess around with rich, entitled men.
"Good riddance?" Briggs asks.
"Yeah, good riddance." I pay for the books and take the bag from him. "It's good to see you, as always."
"Same, Cat."
I walk into the warm, humid air and swing my bag on my arm. A text came in while I was talking to Briggs, but I hadn't noticed it.
Holland
I haven't seen you in days. Are you still alive?
Cat
No.
Holland
Cause of death? You're being overworked? Not enough Holland time? Lack of information about the craziness that is my situation with Phoenix?
Cat
All of the above. I need a debrief. Has the wedding happened? Fake wedding? Is it a real wedding when it's a fake marriage?
Holland
Not for a few more days, but yes, it's a real wedding even though it's a fake marriage. It's a lot. I'll call you later.
How are things with Noah?
I stop walking and look down at my phone. Should I tell her the truth? We kissed and I saw stars—in a good way—but he stepped back so fast when it was over that I'm pretty sure he doesn't see me that way. Then, to solidify my point, I suggested he go on a date with Jane to put some space between us, and he agreed. If that doesn't say "I'm just not that into you," nothing else will. I need to be wise and read the signs and back off.
Besides, he's a Belacourt.
Let's focus on that side of things.
Cat
Olive is back. I saw her today.
My phone immediately starts to ring. I answer it and continue walking home.
"My gosh, Cat. Why didn't you lead with that?" Holland says.
"Because I want to put it from my mind."
"Hold on to it for a second longer so you can give me all the details, then put it away. Did she see you too?"
"Briefly."
"Did she immediately apologize for being your middle school bully and ruining your life?"
"My life isn't ruined."
"It felt that way in seventh grade though, right? Eighth grade? Whenever that was."
"Eighth. It's in the past, Holls. It's not still affecting me." Or was it? I straight up froze on that staircase when she walked into the house. Seeing Olive sent a flash of anxiety and fear through me. Which is weird, since anxiety isn't something I face on a regular basis.
"Have you quit your job? How long is she here for?"
"I don't know. I kind of ran away before I could get any useful information out of her or Noah. But I'm not working for Olive, so I'm not quitting. I need this money too much, anyway."
"Cat, my client's here," Holland says, her voice dropping to a whisper. She must be at the salon. "I have to run."
"Okay. I'll talk to you later."
I hang up the phone and slide it into my pocket, then stand in front of my happy yellow house. Otto and my dad bought the house together fresh out of high school, using an inheritance from their grandmother. It was the perfect partnership, because my dad was the responsible one who crunched numbers and ran the business, and Otto was the free spirit who made guests feel like family. Dad went off to California on vacation, met and fell in love with my mom, and brought her back to Sunset Harbor. She was pretty much the female version of Otto, so they became best friends straight away. The three of them managed the BB and turned it into a successful, viable business that had been running strong for a decade before I ever entered the picture.
I can't help but look at the BB and see the love.
My parents are in the bones of this house. They're in the yellow paint and white shutters and azaleas that bloom bright pink in the spring. They're in the hammock out front—the best place to read at the end of winter—and in the view from the back window looking out to the ocean. It was open all the time when my mom was alive so she could smell the beach. They're so ingrained in every inch of this property that the idea of losing this house gives me a stomachache.
Which is why we won't.
I walk up the porch stairs and push the door open. The house is quiet. Our next guests don't arrive until tomorrow, then we'll have a full house until the week after the Fourth. Otto's probably around here somewhere, and after the mental jungle gym I went through today, I'm kind of craving the reassurance he so openly gives me.
Water is running in the kitchen, so I head that way until my feet come to an abrupt halt in the doorway. Otto is by the sink filling up his reusable water bottle. That's not the strange thing. He's also wearing all black. And shoes. Actual shoes that fully cover his feet.
I didn't know he even owned full on tie-the-laces shoes. Even when he skates, he's either in flip flops or Vans slip-ons.
Who is this funeral director and what did he do with—wait. There was one time Otto dressed up like this. One time. We have a picture together in front of two caskets, and he's wearing these exact shoes.
"Otto?" My voice is little more than a whisper.
He turns to face me so fast, water flies from his bottle and douses the counter. "Cat."
I want to ask him who died, but my tongue stopped working. I'm staring open-mouthed. His black button-down has long sleeves that are rolled up the forearms, and those are unmistakably slacks.
His wide eyes are pinned to me. "This isn't what it looks like."
"Then what is it?"
"I just?.?.?. I, uh?.?.?."
"Otto, you look like you're about to attend a funeral."
His shoulders visibly relax. "No, it's nothing like that. Well, maybe a funeral for my pride." He quirks a smile. "I thought it was time I started acting like an adult."
Okay. That's weird. "You've been an adult my entire life."
"Well, now I need to act like one. I had a meeting today." He's looking around the room, searching for a way out of this conversation while I stand in the doorway and stare.
I'm so uncomfortable. This is not us. This is not the basis of our relationship. Otto built a strong foundation of trust with me from the beginning, making it clear I can go to him for anything, that I can bring him my questions, and he'll answer them implicitly. The day I asked if he filled my Easter basket or if the Easter bunny did, he looked me in the eye and replied, "Do you really want me to answer that?" and I knew I didn't. Because Otto would never lie to me.
Until now, I guess? Or do lies of omission not count to him? Why isn't he telling me the truth? That hurts more than whatever secret he's trying to keep firmly wrapped up and close to his chest.
The pain in his face is vivid, mottling his cheeks and shifting his eyes all over the place. I want to let him free of this situation as much as I want to run and bury my head under my pillow and cry.
"I thought we had a banker at our kitchen sink. You should probably warn a girl before you dress like you have a desk job."
A smile falls over his tanned, wrinkled face. "You wouldn't believe how uncomfortable this is. My feet need to breathe."
"Can they breathe elsewhere?" I try to joke, to lighten the heaviness on my shoulders. "We don't all want to deal with the ramifications of those being cooped up in shoes all day."
"You got it, Cattywampus."
Okay, we're back. But there's a chink in my comfort I don't want to think about. A chip in the perfect fa?ade that was once our relationship.
Otto brushes past me to head upstairs.
"Hey," I say, because I can't help just digging the teeniest bit. "I saw a letter from Killigan Hammer the other day. Everything okay?"
His face is blank. "Of course."
"The cancer isn't back?"
His head tilts to the side, his eyes softening. "I'm free and clear, Kit Kat."
"It looked official. We don't have any bills or anything? I should look at the budget if we do, and arrange?—"
"No bills. Sheesh, Cat. You're starting to sound like your dad." His eye has a bit of a twinkle—I love hearing when I remind him of either of my parents—and he keeps trudging up the stairs. "We paid them off over a year ago. We're good." His voice disappears with him.
It's bittersweet, though. Now I know, without a shade of doubt, that my uncle is lying to me.
But why?