The Invisible Husband of Frick Island by Colleen Oakley (autobiographies to read .TXT) 📗

Piper walked off, and Anders watched her retreat, until she passed the One-Eyed Crab and was out of earshot. He turned to BobDan, who was looking at him with steely eyes. “Not a word, Dan Rather. Not one word.”

“But—” Anders started. Surely that encounter warranted some kind of explanation from the old man. Anders felt a spark of excitement—this was the perfect entrée to finally ask about Piper and Tom. He opened his mouth to ask if he could record their conversation, but BobDan cut him off before he could even get a word out.

“It’s not any of your any mind what goes on around here. I want to be real clear on that. Looks like you’ve determined to be here for God knows how long, but I ’spect you to focus on your climate whatever and leave everything else the hell alone. Starting with her.” He stuck his bony pointer finger out in the direction Piper had gone. “She’s been through more than enough, ya hear?”

BobDan didn’t wait for a response. Just turned on his heel and hoofed it toward the marina office. Anders stood there for a minute, gawking in BobDan’s direction, something that felt a lot like shame creeping up on his face. He wanted to defend himself. He wanted to tell BobDan that he knew Piper had been through a lot—that he wanted to help her, which was more than it seemed like anyone else in this town was doing. But he was also lying about the actual story he was covering in his podcast and knew he didn’t exactly have the moral high ground.

“Hey,” Anders called after him, weakly. “I thought you said you needed help.”

BobDan just growled and waved his arm in a shooing motion behind him, which Anders took to mean he did not want Anders to follow—nor did he need his help.

Having nowhere else to go, Anders sat down on the bench to wait for BobDan to come back out for the four o’clock ferry departure. As he waited, rolling the incident over in his mind, how easily he had spoken to a man that did not exist, how fiercely protective BobDan, and everyone else apparently, seemed to be of Piper, it occurred to him—not for the first time that day, he thought, peering at his one muddy-sock-clad, shoeless foot—that perhaps he was out of his depth.

—

“Caldwell!” The booming voice from across the room made Anders jump, though he should have been used to Hector Ochoa’s baritone by now. The sports reporter sauntered over to Anders’s cube, smacking on his ever-present wad of gum. He paused in midchew when he noticed Anders glaring at him, his finger pointing at the cell cradled between his ear and shoulder.

Anders turned his attention back to the voice mail that had just clicked on in his ear. “You’ve reached the therapy office of Janet Keene. Please leave a message at the tone. If you are having suicidal thoughts or this is an emergency, please dial 911.” Janet Keene was a D.C.-area therapist specializing in delusional disorders. Anders hoped she’d be able not only to give him guidance on what he should do the next time he was face-to-face with “Tom,” but also to offer some great expert insights to weave into his next podcast.

After leaving a vague message requesting an interview, Anders turned his attention to Hector, who was towering over his desk, his T-shirt taut over his ridiculously bulging biceps (“Grass-fed New Zealand whey protein, man,” Hector had whispered to him once, as though he were offering him the secret to the universe, though Anders had never asked) and half tucked into the waist of his khaki shorts, which would look haphazard if the hem of his shirt weren’t tucked in at the exact same spot (two inches to the right of his pants button) every single day.

“Dude, ever hear of sunscreen?” Hector asked, his lip turned up in disgust.

Ping!

Anders glanced down at his arms, where the skin had begun to scale and peel off in thin white crumbles. He sighed again. “What do you need, Hector?”

“The camera. Log says you checked it out yesterday. I got a game tonight.”

Ping! Ping!

Anders dug in the shoulder bag beside his chair and produced the camera for Hector.

“Thanks, man.”

Ping!

“You gonna get that?” Hector nodded toward Anders’s computer screen. Anders glanced at the message box, even though he already knew it was his sister. He’d been so busy, he hadn’t spoken to her since missing Labor Day weekend, and if her last text messages were any indication, she was pissed. He moved the mouse and clicked on the X to minimize the box.

“Porn chat room?” Hector gave him a knowing grin.

“No,” Anders replied indignantly.

“Sure,” Hector said, still grinning, then his squirrel attention span got distracted by the five-inch stack of papers on Anders’s typically spotless and organized desk. “What’s all that?”

“Research.” Anders had decided if he was going to keep up this climate change story ruse, he should probably start digging into the studies Piper had given him, particularly in case she ever asked about them. But they were dense academic files and it took him most of the previous night to get through just two of them.

The one-word answer was enough to satisfy Hector’s limited curiosity. He turned and sauntered back to his desk across the office, his leather flip-flops slapping the industrial carpet with each step, causing Anders to roll his eyes at Hector’s ridiculous attire—this was a workplace, for Pete’s sake.

But on the other hand—Anders paused and gave his head a shake. God damn it, he muttered to himself. He knew he was going to regret what he was about to say. “Hey, Hector, wait up.”

Hector stopped and turned his head.

“Where do you get your . . .” Anders gestured his hand at his own shirt and pants. “You know . . .”

Hector cocked his eyebrows and grinned. Anders could see the gray gum squeezing out between his clenched teeth. “My effortless ability to be cool?”

Anders