Rogue Wave by Isabel Jolie (reading eggs books txt) 📕

habit, and I had to believe lottery tickets were cheaper than the cartons of Marlboros he used to buy back when I was little. “So, how many nests did you end up with this year?”

“One hundred and fourteen.”

“How many babies you think made it? Not just into the water, but out into the ocean?” Those statistics weren’t so promising. Tiny turtles faced a world of predators. “Probably the same odds as my lottery tickets.” He pounded the table with his fist, and his smile stretched across his face, entertained by his own humor. “But you still keep trying.”

“Dad. It’s not something to smile about.”

“I know that, baby cakes. Those turtles are key species…that’s what you call ’em, right?”

“Keystone species.” If turtles became extinct, it would cause declines in all species whose survival depended on healthy seagrass beds and coral reefs. But I didn’t need to go on about it. My dad played the I’m-not-so-smart card, but he taught me. I owed my love of nature and passion for conservation to him.

“That’s right. Keystone.” He grinned. “Brandon stopped by. Dropped off some material for a few events going on over the next few weeks. It’s all up there on the counter. There’s a Christmas Eve Manatee Run.”

“Oh. That’ll be fun. A 5K?”

“Yeah. Like your Turtle Trot you do over there on your island.”

“Those events are great fundraisers. Did Brandon get it going here?”

“I believe he did. He’s working for some group…” He scratched his head.

“Sanibel Island Conservation.”

“Yep.” He sighed. “He also mentioned some job opportunity he thought you should apply for. Something in the Virgin Islands. Don’t know what he’s thinking. If he wants to win you back, sending you off to a gig in the tropics doesn’t sound like a good plan. That boy never was right in the head.”

“Dad, Brandon and I broke up two years ago. I think he’s accepted we’re not getting back together.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you’re right. He comes by here every week ’cause he likes to see my smiling mug. Has nothing to do with keeping up with you.”

I glanced around the kitchen, searching for a topic to change the conversation. A calendar hung on the side of the fridge, and I noticed Mom’s handwriting in all caps and multiple exclamation points. Therapy. Do not forget!!!

“Do you have physical therapy today?”

“Oh, shit. Your mom is gonna to be so mad at me.”

“What time is the appointment?”

“I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. I’d rather be here with my little one.”

“Dad, they charge you when you miss.” I huffed out my frustration as I searched for his phone and the calendar app. An alert rang out, which helped me to find his phone under the kitchen towel.

“Your appointment is in thirty minutes. Come on, let’s go. I’ll drive.”

Later that evening, Nova returned home. She had flour remnants in her hair and over the front of her jeans, and dark stains dotting her jean skirt, t-shirt, and even the leather straps of her Birks.

“Does Mom have you working in the kitchen now?”

She proudly put her arms up in the air and pointed down at herself. “Pastry chef. Right here. Promoted.”

I laughed. Growing up, we helped at the diner counter, bused tables, and cleaned dishes.

“Where’s Dad?” she asked, looking around. I had the pamphlets Brandon dropped off spread out on the kitchen table.

“He went back to rest after his physical therapy.”

“He made it this time?”

“Yeah. I think it’s hard on him. You know, painful. I made him ice when we got home. Now I think he’s avoiding me in case I make him do something else he doesn’t want to do.”

“Sounds about right.” She plopped down at the kitchen table with me and picked up a brochure.

“How’s Mom?” I asked.

She dropped the paper and fell back against the chair. “She’s Mom. Powerhouse.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I think she’s close to leaving him.”

“Really?” We’d thought this so many times in the past. More than I could count.

“She hardly ever comes home. I mean, I bet, even with you home, she won’t make it home until, like, eleven at night. She’s back up at four a.m., out the door before five.”

“She can’t maintain those hours.”

“No, but I think when Dad’s not working, it drives her crazy and she can’t bear to be around him. Either that or their financial situation is precarious, and she picks up extra hours at the diner to supplement Dad’s missing income.”

“But Dad’s getting workman’s comp, right? He was injured on the job.”

“If that’s true, then he drives her crazy.”

“Well, we know that’s true.”

Our eyes met across the table, and we both half laughed. The state of our parents’ marriage was both funny and not funny at all. We worried but couldn’t do anything about it.

“Hey, did you ever hear from Tate?”

“No. Still no response. One letter. I still can’t believe it.” The ache in my chest remained. An odd mix of emotions swirled day to day, ranging from hurt over being discarded so easily, to concern over what could be going on, to guilt for hurting Brandon when I broke up with him, because now I knew the pain of being on the dumped end of a break-up. It sucked.

“You doing okay?” she asked. I didn’t miss the tilt of her head or the way her eyes squinted, focusing in, analyzing me.

“I’m fine. Sad, you know?” Sad wasn’t an accurate description. I’d cried buckets. It hurt before when relationships ended, but never like this, this ongoing ache.

She gave an understanding nod and waited for me to say more.

“I thought we had something real. And he seemed so different from all the other guys I’ve dated.”

“You mean Brandon?”

Brandon was actually a younger version of Tate. Only he wanted to stay right in Florida. He never wanted to leave. And I always struggled to explain it, but I wasn’t attracted to him anymore. We grew apart. He liked different kinds of parties than I did. He found friends I didn’t really like. He