1

LOST

WEDNESDAY

I tend to lose things.

Keys, sunglasses, shoes. Opportunities. An entire carton of eggs once (don’t ask me how—I still don’t know what happened to those eggs). But losing two prize-winning Pomeranians in a single afternoon feels like I’ve somehow leveled up in the wrong direction.

“Jovie,” Marge says. She is a large woman, big-boned and tall, and she is standing over me in the doorway. “Can you please tell me how you managed to lose not one but two dogs in a single day?”

“Those things are shockingly fast and crafty for tiny decorative dogs,” I say, waving my hands. “I think they plotted the whole thing. The escape was practically choreographed—”

“Stop talking,” Marge says, raising a beefy palm at me. 

“But you asked me to tell you—”

“I changed my mind. Your explanation is making it worse.”

“Can I go look—”

“Jenny is looking for them.”

The dogs’ names are Chanel and Dior. Their rhinestone collars say so. I took them outside for what was supposed to be a brief, supervised, uneventful walk around the block. But those collars are slippery and, I suspect, far too loose. Chanel spotted something in the hedges, threw herself into reverse, slipped free in one smooth motion, and Dior, displaying a textbook little-sister copycat move, performed the exact same escape maneuver two seconds later.

I spent the next half hour combing the surrounding blocks, making the kind of sounds one makes when trying to coax a small animal out of hiding. Clicking, whistling, saying their names in an increasingly desperate variety of tones. Making threats. A child on a bicycle slowed to stare at me when I was crouched with my head in the bushes and my butt in the air. My hair caught in a branch as I turned to look at him. I offered him five dollars to help me find two very fluffy fugitives. He rode away fast. I did not blame him.

Now, looking up at Marge, I do what I do best. Talk.

“Cookie was late and they needed a walk. And those collars were clearly designed more for fashion than function. And if you let me go right now I can keep looking for them—”

Jenny bursts in the back door, two little dogs on leashes.

“Oh, thank God,” I gasp in relief. 

But my moment of relief is gone very quickly. These are not the same dogs.The two dogs I lost looked like tiny rich-lady cotton balls. These look like rats wearing expensive wigs who have just survived some unspeakable weather event.

“They were three blocks away in the park,” Jenny says breathlessly, like some kind of hero expecting an award.

“I’d like to point out I also would have found them there. Eventually.”

Apparently they were doing something inadvisable in or around the duck pond. The evidence is sitting right in front of me: two animals that, less than an hour ago, had been immaculately groomed, bow-adorned, and fit for a dog show. Now one bow is missing entirely. The others dangle from clumps of damp fur. Their once-pristine fluffy coats hang limp and muddy. One has a leaf stuck to her forehead. The other is proudly carrying something in her mouth that might be half a hot dog.

“In my defense, ‘lost’ is a strong word. This was a collar malfunction, not a negligence situation,” I say quickly. “Because I’m normally very responsible, and this does not accurately reflect how deeply I care about—”

“Jovie,” Marge says. 

I stop talking. She has one of those voices that makes you immediately reconsider your choices. 

Chanel is now eating the hot dog. Then Dior shakes, sending a fine spray of tannish pond water across the grooming station. Several freshly bathed dogs in the nearby kennels receive the blast. Jenny screeches. I take a small step backward. Marge closes her eyes like a woman who is seriously considering early retirement.

“Cookie will be here within minutes,” she says in a terrifyingly calm voice. “And you will not be.”

“I… won’t?” I ask, wincing. “Are you sure? Because I’m quite helpful in emergencies. I can wash the dogs again. Or I can distract Mrs. Lassiter while someone gets them cleaned up, and if you really want me gone I can hide in the bathroom while she’s here—”

“Jovie. You will not be here. You will not be washing anybody. Or distracting anybody. Or hiding anywhere. You will be far, far away.”

“Like… on a break?”

“Like unemployed.”

She says it quietly, with a touch of pity, which is definitely worse than anger. Marge is not a cruel woman. And if this was the only thing lately, I would keep begging. But last week I had that incident where I knocked the shampoo over by the sink that was still running and I walked away and got distracted and by the time we all noticed, there were three inches of suds on the floor and then Carol-Ann slipped in them and now she’s on worker’s comp. So… I’m going to take this with grace. 

“I’m sorry, Jovie. I truly am. But this is a business... and this is too much.”

I nod fast and too agreeably. Like someone trying to look calm and understanding when inside they are embarrassed and deeply rejected. My voice may or may not be coherent as I mumble, “Thank you for this opportunity, it’s been an honor working with you,” as I collect my bag from the lockers by the back door, and my voice cracks in a regrettable way. I see her face fall a little as I walk out of Pampered Paws with as much dignity as a recently fired groomer-slash-doggie-daycare attendant can reasonably be expected to display.

Then I sit down on the curb next to the employee parking lot and fall apart a little. Not a full breakdown. It’s more of a brief but sincere acknowledgment of the situation. Six minutes. Maybe seven. My forehead on my knees, the afternoon sun warm on the back of my neck, a couple tears trickling down my calves. It isn’t just the job. I have another job, one I like considerably more, and I am so close to finishing my veterinary assistant certification. It’s the sense that I am always arriving one beat behind where I am supposed to be. That no matter how hard I try, how many notes I write myself or alarms I set or good intentions I start the morning with, something always slips. Something always gets away. The eggs. The dogs. The better version of my life that I keep almost managing to grab hold of and then don’t.

I give myself the seven minutes. Then I stand up and walk to my car.

The elevator in my building takes one full business day to arrive. I have made my peace with this. I use the time to decompress and organize my thoughts. I’m feeling pretty good, all things considered, when the doors open on my floor.

And then I see Mrs. Abernathy. (She insists we call her this, I once called her Doris, and she looked at me like I had committed a crime.)  She is stationed in her doorway the second I step off, which means she has either been watching through the peephole or has developed some kind of sixth sense for my arrival. Her fists are planted on the hips of her purple quilted housecoat printed with tropical birds. Her expression suggests she has been waiting a while and has used the time to prepare her case.

I let out the nice deep breath I’d been enjoying a moment ago and briefly consider getting right back on the elevator.

“Jovie,” she calls, her voice carrying down the hall with a shrillness that makes my shoulders tense. “He’s done it again!”

I inhale slowly. 

I am a patient person. 

I am a kind person. 

I am a grown-up. 

And this day truly can’t get any worse. Can it?

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Abernathy,” I say, walking toward her with what I hope is an expression of calm innocence.

“Don’t you good afternoon me,” she says, as I try to slip past her quickly in the hallway while pretending that isn’t exactly what I’m doing.

“What has he done?” I ask. “Allegedly.”

“Allegedly?” she barks, following me toward my door. “This isn’t a court of law. This is a respectable and highly coveted apartment complex. You should feel privileged to live here. I know I do.”

I reach my door and slide my key into the lock.

“Why yes, Mrs. Abernathy. Especially this very moment—I feel so privileged.”

I crack the door just enough to squeeze through and try to shut it fast. But she is like a ninja. A shockingly reflexive arm shoots out. A slippered foot wedges in. And before I know it, she is inside my apartment.

“Was that a sarcastic remark?” she demands.

“No,” I say sarcastically.

“Do you know what makes me feel less privileged?” she asks, following me into my kitchen.

“I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

“Living next door to a murderer!”

“Don’t you think that’s a little dramatic? He’s not a murderer. He’s just a sweet little—”

“Sweet!” she exclaims. “I already called Dudley. He’s on his way up. And need I remind you, I’m on the board, so my word is practically final.”

Right on cue, there’s a soft knock at my door, and Dudley lets himself in and enters the kitchen with his round-face and mild manner, like he isn’t currently responding to a homicide report. 

“Now then,” he says to the room. “What’s all this?”

“He’s done it again!” Mrs. Abernathy shrieks. “I can’t live like this.”

“Allegedly,” I say as I plonk my bag onto the kitchen peninsula.

“All right, all right,” Dudley says, already moving into mediator mode. “Let’s see if we can sort this out. Where is he?”

They both look at me. I sigh. “Radicchio!” I call. “Radicchio, come here right now!”

“What exactly has he done?” Dudley asks soothingly.

Mrs. Abernathy, who moments ago forced her way into my apartment with the strength and reflexes of a martial arts expert, now collapses dramatically onto a stool, wilting. Dudley starts fanning her with my placemat.

“He’s killed them!” she cries. “He’s killed them all!”

“Who did he kill?” Dudley asks, still fanning.

I roll my eyes.

“The birds!” she wails. “The sweet, innocent birds that come to my feeder. They come thinking it’s a safe place—a place to eat—and instead—” Her voice hitches, her chin wobbles. She takes a deep, shuddering breath and nearly slides off the stool. “They get eaten.”

“Now, now,” Dudley says. “Jovie, why don’t you get her a nice cold glass of water?”

I don’t move.

Dudley raises his brow, and nods toward the sink. I sigh, fill a glass with tepid water, and slide it across the counter, letting it slosh.

“How do you know it was Radicchio?” I ask. 

Mrs. Abernathy takes a pitiful sip and sniffs. “Who else would it be?”

“Radicchio!” I shout, making both of them jump.

For a moment, nothing. Just the sound of Mrs. Abernathy whimpering like this is the end. And then he appears. Strolling in through the cracked-open sliding glass door with the easy, rolling gait of a cat who has never once in his life felt guilty about anything. A big, flat-faced silver-white Persian, dense as a throw pillow, wearing an expression of supreme smugness.

“I just don’t see how we can know for sure,” I say. “There are a lot of predators in the world. Hawks. Coyotes… mountain lions… territorial bird gangs. All I’m saying is, we’re leaping to conclusions here. And without proof…” I trail off as Radicchio jumps onto the kitchen peninsula between me and his accusers, then looks at me with half-lidded golden eyes, radiating innocence so completely that I almost believe him.

Who, me?

He steps forward, expecting affection. I reach out to stroke him, and that’s when I see it.

One small gray feather. Sticking out of the corner of his mouth. Unmistakably, inescapably there.

Mrs. Abernathy gasps. “See!”

She sways, hand to her chest, and begins to slide off the stool. Dudley catches her. I briefly close my eyes. When I open them, Radicchio blinks at me slowly. Offering nothing. I half expect him to burp. 

“That could be from a pillow, or a down comforter,” I say, grasping at literally anything. “Or a… dreamcatcher.”

“Jovie.” Dudley’s voice shifts into something with slightly more steel in it, which for Dudley means he is being about as firm as he ever gets. “This is the third complaint this month. And we are only a week and a half into June. If the cat cannot be kept indoors, the board is going to have to make a decision.”

“He hates being kept indoors,” I say. “You don’t understand, he becomes completely unhinged. Last time I locked him in he scattered an entire basket of laundry, then he pooped in a decorative bowl and ate my kitchen sponge.”

“You are not making a good case for this animal,” says Dudley.

Mrs. Abernathy rallies. She sits up straight on the stool, color returning to her cheeks, lifts her chin, and points a finger of pure conviction at Radicchio. “As a member of this board,” she announces, “I hereby declare that cat formally evicted.”

I look at Mrs. Abernathy. I look at Dudley, who does not contradict her. I look at Radicchio, who is now washing his paw with absolute serenity. The feather breaks away from his whiskers, then drifts dramatically down to land on the counter at his feet. I let out a long breath. 

As soon as they leave, I call my mother.

“Hello, darling!” She answers on the second ring, like she always does, breathless and delighted.

“Hi, Mom.”

One would think, with how scattered my mother is, she’d never know where her phone is. But she is so afraid of missing a call that she keeps it strapped to her chest in a cross-body contraption she made out of one of Dad’s guitar straps, ringer on full blast, so that every time it rings she startles—ah!—right before answering. 

There is a heavy thump somewhere in her background.

“What was that?”

“Oh, nothing, just the men moving my sculpture—Don’t drop him down the stairs! That’s Jesus! We don’t want the Lord taking a tumble.” Then she cracks up, and I think I hear the men groaning under the weight of Jesus in the background, a muffled “got it, got it, easy—”

“You’re moving Jesus downstairs?”

“Yes, he was getting too much sun in the conservatory.”

“So many questions I’m just not going to ask.” I scratch Radicchio’s belly as he lies sprawled across my lap on the couch, suddenly the poster child for docile good behavior. “So… I have a problem.”

“You’re pregnant.”

“What? No, Mom. I don’t—”

“Interesting. Good girl. Continue.”

“I need a favor.”

“I’m riveted. What can I do? How can I help?” The pure, instant, undiluted enthusiasm in her voice is both comforting and mildly alarming.

“Okay, Mom, calm down. The thing is, Radicchio got evicted just now.”

“Really? What did he do?”

“He ate my neighbor’s birds.”

“How exciting! Okay, let me guess the favor—don’t tell me! You need me to come to court and be a witness of his good character.”

“No, I—”

“You need me to help you bake three dozen cupcakes with which to bribe the building manager.”

“Mom.”

“Hold on, I have to tip the men.” There is a muffled sound as she moves the phone. “Excellent work, young men. Not everyone can say they’ve carried the Son of God successfully down a spiral staircase without dropping him.”

I wait patiently as she continues chatting with the men, now asking them if they know Jesus, personally. Thankfully I hear them say, “Yes ma’am, yes ma’am,” or else this would be a much longer wait.

“I’m back. Such lovely young men. And strong, too. Anyway—where were we?”

“My cat. Homeless.”

“Oh, right. Yes, yes, of course. Bring him right over. I always wanted a cat. We will get along just fine. I don’t have to feed him, right? He can eat as many birds as he wants here. There is no shortage. Although, they might fight back. Canyon birds are a different breed—”

“Mom. I cannot leave him with you. That’s not the favor.”

“Why ever not?”

“You can’t keep things alive.”

“I beg to differ. Your father is still alive.”

“Yes, well, Dad can fend for himself. And remember the cactus incident?”

The memory flashes through my mind, returning from that month away to find my cactus somehow both overwatered and sunburned to death. A biological achievement I have never been able to fully explain to anyone, including an actual botanist.

“Everything has an appointed time, honey. It was just that cactus’s time.”

There is a loud crash.

“What was that?”

“Wooo hoooo! The wall just came down.”

“What wall?”

“The one between the kitchen and the dining room.”

“Like—it fell down?”

“Oh no, they’re tearing it down for me. Good work, guys!” she shouts, somewhere off the phone entirely now. “I can already feel the open concept.”

I press my fingers to my temples. The thing about my mother is that she has spent her entire life treating chaos as a decorating style. Most people experience a construction zone as a temporary inconvenience, something to be endured on the way to a finished room. Birdie Marx experiences it as a lifestyle choice. Our house has been under renovation in one form or another since I was four years old—probably before that, but four is where my memories start—and not because anything is wrong with the house. It’s a midcentury modern art-piece built into the hillside in Topanga Canyon, all redwood and glass and good bones. But it has never once in my lifetime been allowed to be finished.

I have long suspected my mother prefers things in progress. Finished projects make her restless. She likes beginnings, possibilities, the messy middle where something is becoming something else and could still become anything. Completion has never held much interest for her. Every room has been moved at least twice and painted ten different colors. The studio has expanded three times. At one point I swear there was a koi pond in the laundry room, but nobody else remembers it. 

“So the favor is—” I laugh, and the sound comes out both desperate and borderline hysterical. “I wonder if I can move back in for a little while. Me and my cat. Into your house.” I’m becoming more and more frightened the more words I say, watching the request leave my mouth and immediately regretting its existence.

“Of course! I would be in heaven to have you here. I’m hosting another silent painting and prayer retreat next week. You can join us!”

“Um, weren’t there complaints last time that you talked through the whole thing?”

“Yes, well the facilitator still has to guide. The silence is for them.”

“Apparently not, if you’re talking. Also, is your house ever silent?”

Another crash. This one is larger. With possibly the sound of glass shattering along with a heavy thwump.

“What was that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Should you be concerned?”

“Nah.” And then brightening considerably, like she’s just remembered the actual point of this call: “So! You’re coming home! I’m so excited. Let’s see, your room is slightly overtaken at the moment.”

“Overtaken. Why does that word bother me more than if you’d just said ‘roach infested?’”

“Well, my extra paintings are in there, for starters.”

“For starters?”

“And a tree came through the ceiling during the last storm.”

I sit upright. Radicchio, displaced, makes a sound of protest and resettles.

“A tree?”

“Yes, but Dad put up a tarp, so the rain shouldn’t be an issue. And actually, if you ask me, the foliage that’s growing down the wall adds to the ambience—”

“Are you kidding me? It’s not livable.”

“That’s a little dramatic. And plenty of wildlife begs to differ.”

“Oh my gosh. I can’t stay in that room.”

“Well, you can stay in the walk-out downstairs. With Jesus.”

“Oh, Lord.”

“Exactly.”

“Okay. Mom. Let me get back to you on that. I gotta go. Love you, bye.”

“Love you, bye!”

I hang up. Then look down at Radicchio, who blinks back at me, supremely unconcerned. No idea he’s possibly the first cat ever to receive a formal eviction notice because of what he had for lunch.

“Well,” I tell him. “That’s an option.” 

I swallow. 

“Sort of.”

He just purrs.

2

LOST

THURSDAY

“Inhale, upward-facing dog! Exhale, downward-facing dog!” Sage shouts over the music.

This is not your typical Zen, Om, rest-in-the-pose yoga. This is something designed for glute results. For suffering. Ninety-seven degree room. Mirrors along one wall reflecting two dozen people moving in perfect choreography who apparently pay to do this willingly and on purpose. The music pulses around us like the soundtrack for an inspiring transformational docu-series, while I am actively considering lying down and saying no, thank you.

Sweat drips from my forehead onto my mat. Then drips again.

“So, I got fired,” I say, largely into my own armpit, as Priya and I transition back to downdog.

“Seriously?” She doesn’t even sound winded. Or hot.

“Yes,” I grunt through a side plank. “Also, I’m getting evicted.”

“You’re getting evicted?”

“Well, technically Radicchio is getting evicted, and we might end up living in the basement with Jesus.” I wobble. Recover.

We change sides. Priya lifts into hers like an individual who has never lost her balance in all of her life. I lift into mine the way I approach life: with deep conviction but questionable execution.

“Why,” she says, over her shoulder, “does every statement you make come with more questions?”

“I like to be mysterious.”

She snorts and her plank wobbles. I feel a small, petty flicker of satisfaction.

“Shhhh.” This from the woman two mats over, purple scrunchie in her hair, who regularly scowls at us in class like we’re kids licking the museum exhibits.

“Jovie!” Sage, our instructor, says behind us. She’s terrifyingly fit, smells of patchouli, and looks like she drinks green juice voluntarily. “Less talking! More balance!”

“Sorry,” I puff.

She glides onward.

Priya and I have been coming to this class three mornings a week for seven years, since right after Ash was born. It was Priya’s idea, which of course it was, and she technically makes me come or I probably would’ve quit long ago. Aside from the fitness benefits, she believes movement is also emotionally regulating and that I specifically require regular regulation.

And she is right, as Priya is usually right—there is something deeply regulating about one hour devoted to absolutely nothing but moving, breathing, and trying to stay upright.

Though today, staying upright is taking everything I have.

“Back to plank!” Sage calls. “Micro-bend your elbows. Lower all the way down, slow, controlled.”

Groaning Man, on the mat behind us, makes his sound, the one that falls somewhere between agony and delight.

“Inhale, baby cobra!”

The whole room lifts.

“Exhale, release!”

We all come back down together. Two dozen bodies. One breath. This communal breathing is actually quite beautiful. Except I’m pretty sure the girl beside me in the neon leggings had sausage for breakfast.

“What exactly happened?” Priya asks as we flow back up.

“Which thing?”

“Start with the job.”

“Two Pomeranians escaped.”

“Two of them?”

“It’s a long story,” I grunt.

“It always is.”

“Shhh,” says Purple Scrunchie.

“Sorry,” I say. “But they deliberately set me up. Small dogs are psychologically complex and a little devious and I think they’ve been planning this for weeks.”

“Mm,” Priya says. “I actually saw a documentary once, on the evil genius hidden within the minds of small dogs. Very compelling. The Chihuahua episode alone.”

I reach over and flick her shoulder. A small arc of sweat goes with it.

Purple Scrunchie slowly turns her head. “Some of us are trying to center ourselves.”

“You’re doing amazing,” I tell her warmly.

Priya folds in half trying not to laugh.

“Ladies,” Sage warns. “Warrior two—find your power!”

We lift upright into warrior two. I plant my feet and try to assume some form of power. The room is thick and hot around me. My face is really hot.

“Look into your own eyes in the mirror—at your badass self!” Sage calls out.

“You know what you need?” Priya says.

“My job back. Neighbors without bird feeders. A complete personality restructuring.”

“A reset.” 

We settle into goddess pose. Sage begins the pulse sequence and I consider pretending to faint.

“Pulse! Pulse! Pulse—”

“Where—” I manage, between pulses, “—might–one–find–a–reset?”

“Some–where–new.” Priya is barely breathing hard. Truly insufferable. “Maybe–with–fewer–small–dogs.”

“Inhale, star pose!” 

I stretch my arms up wide, fingers splayed, and think about floating in a pool, on my back, eyes closed, letting the water hold me for a while instead of me having to hold everything else. I have a sudden ache, a deep longing to be fourteen again, in the Haddix pool. All of life still wide open and uncomplicated.

“I’ll have a reset soon,” I say. “Moving back in with my parents, into the house of perpetual renovation.”

“You could come stay with me for a bit.”

“I’m not sure which part of your life will make me feel best right now. Your gifted surgeon husband, your gifted children, or your gifted dog.”

“The dog, for sure,” she says. “He’s only mildly gifted.”

“Revolved crescent lunge! Inhale, lengthen—exhale, twist.”

Groaning Man releases a long, reverent “yesssss” as he twists, which feels like TMI. I almost lose it completely. My lunge wobbles.

A few minutes later, Sage calls, “Final chaturanga! Last one! Make it count!”

We flow through this together as the music softens.

“Oh,” Priya says, as we glide into updog. “I should probably tell you—”

“What?”

“Levi’s coming home for Mom’s fiftieth.”

Nothing changes around me, the music keeps going and the air remains thick with heat and twenty-four people transitioning gratefully from the last updog to the last downdog. But inside, something goes completely and totally still, the way a room goes still in the moments after a glass shatters on the floor.

His name flashes through my mind.

Levi.

Suddenly it’s like no time has passed. I’m barely seventeen and he’s looking at me across a bonfire.

Come here.

I become aware, in a distant way, that I am no longer performing chaturanga correctly. I collapse sideways directly into Sausage Girl, who lets out a small sound of surprise. Several heads turn.

“And savasana,” Sage says, “is your release.”

We all collapse gratefully onto our backs.

I stare up at the ceiling, made of those speckled white ceiling tiles like in elementary schools. The one above my head is water-stained in one corner.

“Well,” I say. “I’m leaving the country.”

“Jovie,” Priya says.

“Nope.”

“It’s been ten years.”

“Has it? I genuinely hadn’t noticed.” My voice comes out a little squeaky. “Good for him. Exciting news. I’ll send a card. Maybe an edible arrangement.”

She turns her head to look at me. I can feel the exact look she is giving me without looking back.

“You can’t avoid him forever,” she says.

I keep my eyes firmly on the water stain. “Watch me.” I can feel my heart thumping in my whole body.

“You know,” says Purple Scrunchie, “this is my break from my kids.”

“I kinda need to know what Levi did, though,” says Sausage Girl.

I feel the entire row turn their heads in unison toward me.

“Savasana,” Sage says, and there’s something in her voice that suggests she is very close to her limit, “is a practice of stillness.”

I close my eyes. “No one,” I say carefully, staring hard at the inside of my eyelids, “needs to know what Levi did.”

3

NOT YET LOST

TWELVE YEARS OLD

The thing about Priya Haddix is that she always smells like coconut sunscreen and she always, always has a plan.

Today the plan is the pool. But not their backyard pool. The big community pool at Pepperdine that has the good diving board and the opportunity for her to maybe catch a glimpse of Luke Marshall.

We have claimed our loungers early. Prime real estate, full sun, optimal sight lines. I’m stretched out on mine in my new pink bathing suit with my library book and my creamsicle from the snack bar.

The book is about marine biology. I’m currently in the chapter on octopuses. They can open jars, navigate mazes, and recognize individual human faces, which honestly puts them ahead of a few people I know. I am reading about their distributed nervous systems—three hearts, nine brains, ink as both defense and communication—when Priya sits up beside me with the sudden alertness of a meerkat.

“He’s here,” she says.

I don’t look up. “Who?”

“Luke Marshall.”

I keep staring at my book. Priya is madly in love with Luke Marshall, and in classic Priya form, she has a plan. Which is to marry him one day. I do not doubt her ability to accomplish this.

“And there’s Levi,” she says next.

“Huh?” I look up now. Because Levi arriving means the afternoon is about to become more interesting. Levi just makes everything better without even trying.

He comes through the gate with Luke and Jake Jones and another boy I recognize from the team, lacrosse bag over one shoulder, towel over the other, still sweaty from practice. Fourteen and already tall and sure of himself in a way that seems like the rest of us haven’t gotten the memo yet. He is scanning the pool area in that way of his, taking inventory, and when his eyes find us, he just changes direction. Comes straight over.

“Hey,” he says, dropping his bag by our chairs. He sits at the foot of mine. My toes graze his leg. Neither one of us bothers moving.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey,” says Priya.

And then Levi looks at his sister, who’s still staring at Luke like she’s planning their wedding in her mind. He scratches the back of his shoulder. “Pri, did Mom say anything about Nana Jewel’s thing on Sunday changing? Because she told me noon for a week then today she texted four.” He looks over his shoulder at her. “Mom typo?”

“No, it is four,” Priya says. “Nana has dance class at two.”

“Ah. Just checking. Since she also texted me to eat my socks after practice.”

We snicker. Fran is horrible at texting but she does it with gusto anyway. And lots of emojis.

Levi drops his towel onto the concrete, stands up, looks out at the pool, and says nothing else. Which is normal.

Priya lets approximately four seconds pass. Then she stands up and throws herself at him like a missile. She is small and fast and has the advantage of surprise, but Levi is ready. He is always ready, which says something about him, but also about the certain brand of survival skills you develop as an older brother. He catches her, spins once, walks three steps to the edge of the pool, and drops her in.

Priya’s shriek cuts across the entire pool deck. Several people turn. Including Luke Marshall. The lifeguard looks over, then away again.

Priya surfaces, gasping, her dark hair plastered across her face, laughing so hard she can barely tread water. “LEVI HADDIX—”

“You walked into that,” he says. He is almost smiling. For Levi, almost smiling is basically the same as anyone else laughing outright.

“I did not!”

“You did.”

I have put my book down at some point during this. I am already standing. I take three running steps and launch myself at him from behind, arms around his neck, legs around his waist, full commitment, no hesitation whatsoever.

He catches me.

Of course he catches me. He always catches me. That’s just a thing that’s true about Levi, the way certain things about certain people simply are. The way Priya always knows what to do, my mom always burns the toast, Fran texts badly, and the ocean is always there beside the Pacific Coast Highway. Levi catches things. Catches people. It’s just how he’s built.

His hands grab me under my legs, the automatic movement of someone who has done this a hundred times. Then he shifts my whole body around from his back to his front in one smooth movement.

And then something happens, once we’re chest to chest. Something slightly different than anything that has happened before.

Time slows. A jolt of something new and terrifying passes from his fingers into my skin, travels the length of me. He goes still. Barely perceptible, so quick I wouldn’t have registered it, except I know his patterns like my own heartbeat and there it is, a moment of pause. Like a skip in a song you’ve heard a thousand times. Something catching. His grip shifts, just a little. And then before I can wonder about it, he has walked us both to the edge of the pool and, instead of just dropping me in like usual, he jumps in with me still in his arms.

We hit the water, going under together.

I open my eyes and find his open too, looking at me.

I come up gasping and delighted, the moment forgotten, and immediately begin splashing Priya, who splashes back, and then Levi is tossing us around and splashing us and we are screaming in delight. I laugh so hard my stomach muscles hurt.

We spend what feels like hours in the pool. That is how it always is with the three of us, what starts as a moment becomes a whole lost afternoon. Levi swims laps for a while while Priya and I practice handstands and argue about whose is straighter, and then he floats on his back in the sun doing absolutely nothing, which is another thing about him. He can be completely still in a way that most people can’t, just existing without fidgeting, without needing to fill the space or escape it. Then Priya convinces him to let us climb on his shoulders, which devolves into an extended and increasingly chaotic game that doesn't really have rules and ends with everyone underwater.

At some point Priya gets out to reapply sunscreen and find Luke Marshall, with what she imagines is great subtlety, and Levi and I are left floating near the ladder in comfortable silence.

That strange moment pops back into my head briefly, but I easily shake it away. It was nothing. Just my imagination. 

Soon, the sun dips low. The pool sparkles. We have gotten out, pruney and thirsty. Someone’s radio is playing. The little boy who had been crying earlier is now sound asleep on a lounge chair while his mother reads a romance novel, one hand on his back.

The pool is quieter now. The day getting sleepy. We are all piled on two lounge chairs pushed together. You would think Levi would rather hang out with his friends at the pool. But he’s spent the whole afternoon with us, like always. Like he prefers it. 

He’s in between us, mainly because he is the self-sacrificial one and someone has to lie on the crack. But also because this is our normal configuration. Priya is sprawled on her back on his other side, one arm up, partially resting on his shoulder, one leg stretched out over his leg.

I’m back in my book.

“Is your book okay?” Levi asks.

At first I think he’s asking if it’s a good book, but then I see his face and realize what he means. Some kid splashed it with water earlier. I didn’t know he even saw.

“Yeah, it dried.” 

He nods. “What’s it about?”

Priya lets out a tiny snore from under her giant sunglasses. We are talking low now, almost whispering.

“Octopuses.” 

“Octopuses?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me,” he whispers, like he’s asking for a bedtime story. His eyes are closed against the setting sun. It’s warm on us, but farther away now. Not hot anymore.I am curled up on my side, turned slightly toward him, and my face is close to his ear.

“They have nine brains,” I whisper.

“Hm.”

“Distributed through their arms. Each arm can basically think for itself.”

He is quiet a moment. “Sounds exhausting,” he murmurs, half-asleep, but still somehow fully focused on what I’m saying.

I laugh.

Priya snores again and twitches. Her hand lightly hits him in the face. That small half-smile appears on his lips again, but he does not move. It’s almost like he wouldn’t rather be anywhere else but right here.

“Tell me something else,” he says. “About octopuses.”

I nuzzle closer to him, suddenly feeling chilled. I am instantly warmer.

“They have three hearts,” I say. “Do you think that means they fall in love easier?”

He doesn’t respond right away. His face is totally still and I think maybe he has fallen asleep.

But then he says, “Or maybe… it takes them a little longer.”

I put the book down.

We fall asleep like that as the sun sets.