Chapter Five

So I decided to try.

Back at Golden Doors, the windows were glowing—golden, even. A blast of music and laughter greeted me as I stepped inside. Someone was having a party, probably in the large room I’d had breakfast in earlier. I hesitated. It was only eight, which felt too early for hiding in my room, especially when normally I’d be headed out to a party or to hang with my friends. But I didn’t feel comfortable walking into something I knew nothing about.

“Jordan! How are you? How was your day?”

I looked up to see Ethan’s mom, Stephanie, coming down the stairs into the entryway. “Oh, hi. It was good. How are you? Are you guys having a party?”

“Just a few friends who came to the island for the week. The kids are probably hiding upstairs in the cousins’ room, if you’d like to join them.”

“Oh, um, okay…Where’s that?”

“This way.” She led me through a string of rooms off the foyer: a music room with a mini grand, a sitting room with ornate mirrors. We entered a hallway with a narrow staircase. “It’s up there, at the end of the hall, on the right. You’ll hear them.”

“Thanks.” I climbed the stairs, feeling somewhat fazed about crashing a roomful of cousins who’d known each other their whole lives. I might have tried to escape, but Stephanie watched, beaming, as I went up the stairs. And I wanted to try.

I took a deep breath and entered the room.

As expected, a dozen faces turned my way. They sprawled across couches and sat cross-legged on the floor, chatting and reading and playing video games. The Barbanels all had the same distinctive dark brown hair, thick and impressively curly, and liquid brown eyes with jet-black lashes. They were all very good-looking, which I—as a person best described as “striking”—found simultaneously fascinating and irritating.

Unexpectedly, every last one of them wore a spa mask plastered to their skin, holes exposing their mouths and eyes.

I picked Ethan out of the crowd right away. He sat on the floor, his back against a couch, game controller in his hands, damp white sheet massaged into his face. Something seemed very wrong about it, making him look like a monster with drooping eyes.

From her position lying prone on a couch, Miriam levered herself up. I felt lucky I could recognize her.

“Jordan! Hi.”

“Hi,” I said cautiously. “Am I interrupting something?”

“What? Oh!” She touched her mask. “Do you want one?”

My gaze unintentionally flicked toward Ethan, who smirked. And damned if I’d let him think I was too embarrassed to wear a face mask in front of him, especially with his own applied so badly. “Sure.”

“Iris,” Miriam called across the room. “Bring Jordan the basket.”

“Get it yourself!” a younger girl—one of the triplets?—replied.

“Iris!”

With a put-upon sigh, the triplet fetched a basket from the far side of the room. Dozens of packets filled it, rose-oil masks and peach masks and an oyster mask. I selected a lemon-scented one.

“Shira brought them from Koreatown,” Miriam told me. “Have you met Shira? Have you met everyone?”

“I don’t think so.”

On the other side of the couch, a girl sat up. “I’m Shira. Hi.”

Even with the mask, I could tell she was exceptionally pretty, with fine-boned features and thick lashes and an easy confidence in her posture. She scooted to the middle of the couch so I had space at one end. Unfortunately, this meant I’d be sitting with Ethan at my feet.

He watched, and I imagined he expected me to cede this room to him, to storm off like I had this morning at my dad’s office. But I’d ceded enough to Ethan Barbanel. I sat down, tearing my mask pouch open and attempting to plaster it to my face without a mirror.

Ethan smiled. “You look great.”

“Your mask is crooked,” I told him. “What did you do?”

A green-haired boy cackled. “I’m pretty sure he used the wrong holes.” He gave me a nod. “I’m David.”

“My brother,” Ethan said. “Got another one around here somewhere, too.”

“Oliver’s out sketching,” Shira said. Shira had oldest-girl-cousin vibes. “We’re deciding what movie to watch. Any preference?”

This acted as the signal for everyone to haggle intensely until the triplets steamrolled everyone into Lady Bird. “We’re working our way through Greta Gerwig’s oeuvre,” one of them told me.

With the movie on, the onus to fit in with the Barbanel clan lifted. Only one thing kept me from totally relaxing: Ethan on the floor at my feet, his shoulder and arm brushing my calf.

Don’t think about it, I told myself. I didn’t want to pay any attention to Ethan, to feel sparks flaring anywhere our skin brushed. He wasn’t some rando to make out with anymore. He was Ethan Barbanel, my father’s assistant, who I deeply resented and definitely did not lust after.

But I didn’t move my leg. And he didn’t move his arm.

I fell asleep more easily than usual and woke when the sun crept through my window, a little surprised I’d slept through the night. Stretching, I considered the expanse of pale, thin sky. I could see the ocean from plenty of Golden Doors’ windows—surely I could find my way there. Pulling on a red bikini (an excellent clearance-rack find) and a black cover-up, I grabbed my beach towel and slipped into the quiet morning.

Birds called, soft and gentle as the light. Conical pines edged the lawn behind Golden Doors; they parted at intervals, allowing people to enter the gardens. I stepped barefoot along stone slabs, gazing at the tree branches stretching into the sky. The path forked. To the right lay wild roses and the peaked roof of a gazebo, but I went left, toward the shimmery blue line of the ocean. The path ended at a bluff, the trees and flowers and undergrowth disappearing as dunes tumbled down toward the brief shore and endless sea. A stone bench, white and worn, perched at the edge beside steep wooden steps built into the yellow-orange sand.

I gripped the handrail tightly as I breathed in the view. The town beach yesterday had been nice, but this stretch of ocean struck me deeper, jolting me hard beneath my rib cage. My lungs inflated with salt and brine. The waves hit the long, thin beach with endless white curls, and the sea went on forever. I wasn’t used to islands, where the water curved around you instead of the land hugging the sea; I felt untethered. I imagined launching myself into the air to see if I could fly. My hand tightened on the rail, splinters of wood rough under my palm.

I carefully descended and stepped into the soft, deep sand. Dropping my towel and cover-up, I waded into the ocean. My whole body clenched as the cold water hit my ankles. It was so blue here, the sea paired with the cloudless sky, blue and rippling in all directions. I waded further, Aunt Lou’s voice reminding me not to go swimming by myself. But I wouldn’t go far, just a dip.

In one brutal, squeezing moment, I sank underwater and came up gasping, salt on my lips. I swam a few laps back and forth, failing miserably at doing the crawl in a straight line, and felt delighted anyway. Eventually, I flipped onto my back, buoyed by the salt and rocked by the waves, and let the water carry me where it would.

When I finally wore myself out, I retreated to the beach and threw myself down on my towel with abandon. This was the life: sun on my skin, cradled by sand, the lap of the water filling my head and gentling my mind. If I could get away with it, I’d peel off my bathing suit and soak in the sun everywhere. I closed my eyes and let my thoughts drift.

The sea rushed toward me and away; the sun sank through me, and I fell asleep.

“Hey.”

A voice startled my eyes open. Ethan Barbanel stood ten feet from me. I pushed myself up on my elbows, wishing I could tug at my bikini bottom to make sure any stray hairs were covered and adjust my top for maximum cleavage. “Hey.”

“Nice suit.”

Ha, it was, wasn’t it. I stretched my arms high, interlocking my fingers above my head. I felt a surge of satisfaction when his gaze fell to my chest. “You think so?”

“I do.” He dropped down on my towel by my feet, his long arms draped around his bent knees. “Did you go swimming?”

He wore a boring white T-shirt and board shorts—how did he still look so casually gorgeous? “Yeah.”

“You know about riptides?”

“Of course I do. I’m from Massachusetts.”

He raised his hands. “Just checking. I’d hate to lose my boss’s daughter.”

I watched the waves dash themselves against the shore. “You don’t have to take care of me.”

“I would never,” he said, hand over heart.

But apparently that was his instinct. Why? Because my dad had told him about my impulsive nature? Just like he’d told Ethan so much else.

“I can’t believe my dad told you about my dating life.” Dad could barely talk to me about my dating, and I was the one living it. Sure, he’d hugged me and rubbed my head whenever I got dumped, but we rarely had daylight conversations. “What did he say?”

“He didn’t really,” Ethan admitted. “He, uh…sighs a lot.”

“Excuse me?”

“Not in a bad or judgmental way,” Ethan said hurriedly. “More in a—I think the first summer he came here, you’d started dating a boy in a band?”

Oh, wow, I’d almost forgotten. I’d been fourteen at the time and the relationship had been a blip, notable only because Wyatt had been the first boy I’d gone out with who didn’t go to my school. It’d been my first summer staying with Aunt Lou, Uncle Jerry, and my cousins. Lauren, the youngest, was two years older than me. She’d let me tag along to parties with her classmates, and I’d met Wyatt at one of them. “I’m not sure either date or band is technically correct.”

“Yeah, well, I remember your dad talking about how excited you were, and then a month later, he was pretty stressed because the two of you had broken up. The next summer, if anyone asked if you were seeing anyone, he would sigh.”

“Who even asked?” I said, affronted. Who had I been dating then? Oh, Jason from work, in a messy on-off thing that lasted about three seconds. I’d caught him making out with Lisa H. in the walk-in freezer.

Ethan shrugged. “I dunno. The aunts? I think they thought it was interesting. And they like giving advice.”

How horrifying, to think the women at Golden Doors might have been keeping tabs on my dating life. “I’m pretty good at dating, I’ll have you know. Not necessarily at being in a relationship, but I can always find someone to go out with.”

“Is that so.” Ethan grinned and shook his head. “You’re a surprise.”

He’d mentioned before how I hadn’t been what he expected. “What did you think I was going to be like?”

“A really good, sweet girl.” He gestured at his shoulders. “Pigtails. Wide eyes.”

I snorted. “You’re joking.”

“A little. But yeah, I thought you’d feel a little younger and more—naive. Like you were swept up by these guys.”

“Maybe I am swept up.”

He lifted a shoulder and let it drop. “You seem pretty in control to me.”

“How so?”

He slid me a glance from beneath half-lowered lids. “You seemed pretty in control on the ferry.”

A silence stretched between us, hot and tight and tense, and I wanted to rip it open. I could feel the potential between us, how if one of us moved, the other would respond. I wanted to kiss him the way we had before, to close the gap between us and feel his skin on mine.

I stood abruptly. “I’m going for a swim.”

“I’ll come too,” Ethan said, which had not been my intention.

“Fine.” Then, because I was a child, “Last one in’s a rotten egg.”

“What—”

I ran in, plunging into the water.

“Are you crazy?” Ethan yelled when I surfaced. “It’s freezing! Save that shit for September!”

I laughed, pushing my wet hair up and out of my face, spitting out salt. “You a chicken?”

“How dare you. Call me a red junglefowl or call me nothing.”

“What—?”

Ethan let out a giant, ridiculous “Cock-a-doodle-do!” and charged screaming into the water. I yelped, falling down to my neck and pushing off the ocean floor, kicking away from him, unable to avoid getting splashed as he landed with what could not have been a comfortable belly flop. He emerged, shaking his hair and grinning.

“You’re so weird,” I said, both alarmed and a bit admiring. “How do you get away with being so weird?”

“It’s my dashing good looks,” he said. “Also, my family’s loaded.”

“You’re a lot,” I told him, but I couldn’t keep back my snorted laughter. “What’s a red junglefowl?”

“It’s a chicken before they were domesticated. Basically a chicken with better plumage.”

“Why do you know that?”

He gave his sopping hair another shake. The water weighed it down, straightening the curls. It felt oddly intimate to see him like this, like he’d been transformed by the water.

“I know everything.”

“Okay, bro.” I rolled my eyes. “If you say so.”

We swam for half an hour, bobbing and floating. Our conversation was scattered and lazy and easy. I kept telling myself I didn’t like Ethan Barbanel, but I knew if he hadn’t been my father’s assistant, I would have liked him a lot.

Eventually we headed back to shore and toweled ourselves dry. “Do you usually come swimming in the morning?” I asked.

“Nah, not really.”

“Just feeling inspired today?” When he hesitated, I realized my earlier snark about watching out for me had been spot on. “Wait, were you checking up on me?”

“Definitely not.”

“Oh my god. You and my dad. I’m completely competent, you know.”

“Your dad’s looking out for you.”

I bristled at Ethan explaining my own father to me—as though Ethan could possibly understand Dad more than I did. “Thanks for the info. I understand my own dad.”

“Do you?” His tone shifted. “Because your dad—he’s really smart, you know.”

“Dude.” Didn’t Ethan have his own parents? Why did he need to be my dad’s favorite, too? “I know. He’s my dad.”

“Right.” Ethan held up his hands. “Yeah.” His phone buzzed and he glanced at it. “Oops, gotta go.”

To Dad’s office, probably, to spend the day bonding. I tried to keep the edge from my voice and failed spectacularly. “Spreading the word about century-old mapping techniques?”

He flashed me a grin. “Someone’s got to.”

“Apparently.”

I burned with jealousy as I watched him go.

Then my phone rang.

A few hours later, I stood in the office of Dr. Cora Bradley, a cramped attic room on top of one of the houses downtown. She was a tall Black woman in a Cornell sweatshirt and leggings, and she studied me quizzically. “I hear you want a job.”

“I’d love one. Whatever you have available.” The woman who’d called me—the same one I’d talked to yesterday—had told me Dr. Bradley might have an opening and could meet with me at eleven. I’d thrown on a black skirt and shirt I often wore when hostessing at Lulu’s and googled the scientist on my ride over. Her bio on Harvard’s website linked to her graduate thesis and postdoc research, along with her current specialties. “Your research on classification systems sounds cool.”

Dr. Bradley squinted, like she wasn’t quite sure what to make of me. “You’re in high school still, right? With an interest in astronomy?”

“I’m starting at UMass in the fall. But yes, I’ve always loved space.” I felt like a kid saying this. Of course I loved space! Who didn’t love space?!

“What do you know about it?”

What did I know about…space? Not as much as I’d like to before an interview. My lack of preparation made me feel nervous and unmoored. “I used to watch meteor showers with my dad growing up, and I know the basics of, like, the Oort cloud and string theory and which planets and moons have ice on them.”

“Hm.” She leaned back in her chair. According to what I’d found online, she was thirty-eight; she’d done her undergrad in Ithaca and her PhD at Princeton. Her (unlocked!) Instagram account consisted of pictures of her dog and the sunset, and her tagged photos showed her at brunch, as a bridesmaid, on beach vacays, and at conferences. “The intern I was supposed to have bailed, so I have an opening and some funding. It’s not sexy work. You’d be doing a lot of data entry and QA—running tests whenever I make a change to my algorithms and comparing it to other people’s, generating test results and bug reports.”

“Sounds cool,” I said, because while I wasn’t entirely sure what everything meant, I really wanted this job. “What are all the, um, algorithms and data for?”

“Ah. Yes. I’m working on a comprehensive map of low Earth orbit space debris and the ability to calculate its location at any given moment.” She rattled this off like I used to reel off people’s orders at Lulu’s.

My eyes widened. “Oh. Cool.”

“If I can get it to work,” she said wryly. “Who’s to say.”

“And—sorry—QA is…?”

“Quality assurance. Making sure there’s no bugs or inaccuracies when you roll out a change. Come look.” She pulled up an image on her monitor of Earth suspended against darkness, haloed by a thick glow. Dots clustered around the planet, forming an almost solid golden aura. They became more scattered further out, like sand spread across the floor. The dots also tightened up in a distinct elliptical line around Earth.

“This is a depiction of all the space debris out there,” Cora said. “You’ll notice there are two distinct fields—the thick cluster in low Earth orbit, and the ring around Earth in geosynchronous Earth orbit. The Department of Defense tracks close to thirty thousand pieces, but there’s a lot in low Earth orbit not being tracked. That’s what I’m working on. It’s smaller, but still dangerous since it moves so quickly. Fifteen thousand miles an hour—about eight hundred times faster than a speeding bullet. Plenty capable of damaging satellites or the International Space Station or space flights.”

Wow, as though it wasn’t bad enough we’d effed up the earth and oceans, apparently we’d managed to pollute space, too. “That seems…bad. How did the trash get out there?”

“It’s decommissioned satellites, lost spatulas, paint flecks, all sorts of stuff.”

“And if we can track it…you could clean it up?”

“Yeah. We’d know where pieces would be at certain times, which would help both with avoiding collisions and cleanup.”

She showed me some of the programs I’d be using, and the type of data entry and reports I’d run to double-check her data and to check her predictions against those of other researchers. She didn’t ask a ton of questions about my experience, but I tried to shoehorn in examples of being detail oriented and a hard worker whenever possible. After an hour, she sat back. “I could use you three times a week. The pay’s not great, but depending on your school’s rules we might be able to swing it for credit. I can’t promise you’ll get to do any original research, though.”

“It sounds amazing.” My words fell over each other. Was this it? She actually wanted me? “Honestly, usually I seat people at restaurants, so this would be—awesome.”

“Great. I’ll email you the details and some paperwork to fill out, but otherwise sounds good.”

I blinked at her; she stared calmly back. “So…that’s it, then? I’m in? I have the job?”

A laugh burst out of her. “Yeah. You have the job.”