Zoe’s mind must have churned as she slept because she woke up knowing exactly what she and X had to do about her father. The answer had been sitting in her brain for hours, waiting for her to awake. She knew X wouldn’t like it. She’d have to find the right time—and the right way—to tell him.
She sat up and leaned back against the wall. The place was one of those changing-room huts that families rented on the beach during the summer. It was tiny. There were hooks for clothes and rough wooden drawers. Otherwise the inside of the hut was stark, white, and empty. Zoe could hear the wind whistling outside. When she peered through the slats in the wall, she saw a line of snow-covered trees leaning almost horizontally over the edge of the cliffs.
She pulled her phone from her pocket. It was 8 a.m. There was a string of texts from her mother, beginning with one that read, What do you MEAN you won’t be home? There was also one from Dallas (Do you really like the quilt I got you? I got a gift receipt just in case), and one from Val (Why isn’t your butt at school?! Is your butt malfunctioning?!)
To Dallas, she texted: I love the quilt, shut up, go away.
To Val, she wrote, Loooong story. Who told you about my butt??
To her mother … Well, what could she say?
Zoe stared down at the phone, and began typing:
I’m in Canada, I think.
CANADA? YOU THINK?!
Road trip. Hard to explain. I will be home soon. Pls don’t freak.
Waaaay past freaked. Who are you with?
…
WHO are you WITH?
…
Zoe? Are you there?
I’m with X.
Zoe couldn’t explain the situation. Not in the state she was in. For all she knew, X was on his way back with her father right this minute.
She stuffed the phone in her pocket, put on X’s coat, and pushed open the door.
The hut turned out to be on stilts, and—because the tide was high—standing in three feet of frigid water. The outside walls were bright red. On either side of it, there were identical huts, painted yellow and powder blue. Zoe had planned to walk on the beach, but the ladder at her feet was so swamped with water it had begun to float. She might as well have been on a houseboat.
Zoe sat in the doorway, the cold sun on her face, the wind playing games with her hair.
She tried not to think about her mother. Her mom would understand—eventually.
She tried not to think about her father. When she did think of him, all that came to her was a rage so dark it was like a storm front. Maybe that was for the best. She was going to need her anger.
Zoe caught sight of X coming down the beach. He waded toward her through the water, his pants soaked, his shirt flapping against his chest like a sail in the wind. He was carrying two plastic bags. When he noticed her perched in the doorway of the hut, he lifted the bags high and shouted the most surprising thing she’d ever heard him say: “Breakfast!”
X climbed the ladder, and handed Zoe the bags. For a moment, he stood in the doorway, wringing the cold salt water out of his pants. His face was flushed from the wind. He looked weirdly happy. Giddy, almost. Zoe had seen him twirl Stan like a baton. She had seen him stagger into the ice storm to confront a lord. But she had never seen him as proud of anything as he was of having successfully ordered takeout.
She watched as X converted his coat into a picnic blanket—she made a mental note to get the thing dry-cleaned—and unpacked the bags.
They held three Styrofoam containers, which were still so warm that they perspired slightly. There was also a bizarre number of cans: a Canada Dry Ginger Ale, a Big 8 Cola, a Jolt Cola, an RC Cola, a tomato juice, and a Diet Dr Pepper.
“I demand that you explain this amazing triumph,” said Zoe.
X looked at her sheepishly.
“Surely there are more important matters before us?” he said.
“I can’t think of any,” she said. X seemed unconvinced so she added, “I need to hear something happy. Everything else is too awful. Let’s just talk about food for a little while? Please?”
He said he’d taken the money from Zoe’s pockets as she slept—he still felt bad about it—then wandered along the road until he discovered a restaurant. It was a bright, loud place, full of laughter and clinking glass. Everyone swiveled toward him when he walked in—partly, he supposed, because he wasn’t wearing a coat and his hair was not quite presentable.
Zoe snuck a look at X’s hair, and smiled. It pointed in every direction like a sign at an intersection.
X said that he’d panicked as the diners inspected him. He thought of fleeing, but a woman with bright yellow hair and a pencil welcomed him and set him at ease. X pretended he couldn’t speak English. The yellow-haired woman found this endearing. She toured the establishment with him, miming that he should look at everyone’s plates and point to what he wanted.
“Oh my god, she was flirting with you,” Zoe interrupted. “I may have to go back and have a talk with her.”
X had been telling his story excitedly—breathlessly, almost. He stumbled to a stop now, confused by Zoe’s comment.
“Never mind,” she said. “Keep going. This is my favorite story of all time.”
All the diners, X said, wanted him to choose their food. It became a game. They lifted their plates to him as he passed, hoping for his approval. Whenever he selected something, a cheer would go up, and the waitress would scribble on her little rectangle of paper. His only difficulty had been choosing the drinks because he couldn’t see what was inside the cans. He hoped she found something here acceptable?