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

Anders had no idea what imprinting was, but he stepped back. The turtle’s path skewed more left. “Wait!” Piper said. “I have an idea. Go stand at the ocean and turn on your flashlight!”

Anders did, and whether it was the beam of his light, or Piper’s continual gentle prodding and encouragement, the turtle finally found its way down the beach to the water, until it was swept away in a gentle wave.

“Oh my gosh!” Piper said, throwing herself at Anders. Startled, he wrapped his arms around her tiny body, which he could feel vibrating with pure delight, and then he was further startled when he realized he didn’t want to let go. She stepped out of his embrace, her face completely flushed with pleasure. “That was amazing!”

Anders would have responded in the affirmative—that it was absolutely amazing—but he found he could scarcely breathe, he was so mesmerized by the sight. Not of the turtle making it to the ocean, but Piper’s pure joy. Adrenaline pulsed through his veins and his brain scrambled.

“It was,” he finally said, finding his voice. “It was amazing.”

“Right?” she said, her face so bright, the moon paled in comparison.

And then a thought hit Anders as hard as if Piper had picked up a rock and leveled it at his head. Piper left the turtle nest when she saw them hatching and came all the way back to town . . . for him. “Why did you come get me?” he asked. “Why didn’t you bring Tom?”

She frowned, and Anders instantly hated himself for asking. “He was asleep,” she said, but Anders could have sworn that her eyes shifted before she spoke. And he thought this might be it: an entrée to gently press her and make her face the fact that Tom wasn’t actually in her house. Asleep or otherwise.

“I was asleep, too,” he said carefully, while staring intently at her face. And this time he wasn’t imagining it—she squirmed uncomfortably, as if her brain was overloaded.

He knew he should change the subject, that if he pushed too hard, it could agitate her unnecessarily and undo the small progress he hoped he was making. But he was like a dog with a bone and didn’t want to let it drop. He opened his mouth to ask another question, but she beat him to it. “Let’s go make sure there aren’t any other turtles left.”

Her face had found its light once again, and Anders found he didn’t have the heart to dim it.

—

Anders and Piper rode side by side back to town at a much more leisurely pace and in a comfortable silence, giving Anders the opportunity to replay the events of the evening, or event, really, as he couldn’t stop thinking of Piper hugging him—and the way her body felt pressed against his.

“How’s the podcast going?”

Anders slowly turned his head to her. “What?”

He noticed she gripped one handlebar on her beach cruiser loosely, letting her other arm hang casually by her side. She blinked at him, repeating her question. “How’s it going? You’ve been recording so much, but you haven’t said how it’s doing.”

He opened his mouth. And then closed it. The guilt pulsed through his veins and he wanted to tell her the truth. So badly. How he had messed up. Made the podcast about her, without thinking about the repercussions, about how it would make her feel. But he couldn’t. Not yet. “It’s going well, actually. The last few episodes have been especially good, I think because of you. You’re kind of a natural.”

“Really?” she said, her mouth turning up in a half grin. They pedaled in silence a few more feet. And then: “Are you ever going to tell me why it’s so important to you?”

Anders crinkled his brow. “What do you mean? I’ve told you. Because I was born with a single-minded drive to be the most successful journalist of all time. Remember—Clark Kent, Spotlight, the whole bit? And now, I’ve added Sarah Koenig and Julie Snyder to that list—they’re the podcasters who created the first Serial. It’s this whole murder mystery thing . . .” He trailed off when he realized she was staring at him with a cocked eyebrow. “What?”

“Tell me the truth,” she said.

And if she had used any other word, Anders might have just brushed it off, changed the subject, but it was as if she could read his mind—could see how badly he wanted to tell her just that. And the least he could do was tell her the truth about this. He squeezed his handlebars tighter and then loosened his grip and sighed.

“It’s for my dad.”

“Right, you told me that. How your dad is the only one who listens to it.”

“No, I know, but . . . it’s actually my stepdad, Leonard, who listens to it. It’s my real dad that I want to listen to it. They were never married—him and my mom. And we don’t see him much.”

“Where does he live?”

“Chicago. He’s a CEO for a logistics firm. I don’t even really know what that is, except he strolls around in custom-tailored suits and says things like”—Anders lowers his voice to a deep baritone—“‘Success is walking from failure to failure with no loss of enthusiasm.’”

“Ah,” Piper said, as if that explained it all. Maybe it did.

“Anyway.” He squeezed the handlebars once more. “Leonard came on the scene when I was around six. Kelsey took to him immediately, even started calling him Dad when it became clear he was sticking around, but I was . . . more difficult. We already had a dad—even if we didn’t see him very often— and I thought he would be as appalled, offended, as I was that Kelsey was calling Leonard that. But when I told him, you know what he said?” Anders half chuckled at the painful memory. “‘That’s probably for the best. You could just call me Rob.’”

“Ouch.”

Anders nods. “He’s kind of a walking stereotype, my dad. And I guess I am, too, because no matter how shitty he is,