Free Love All: A Novel by Callie Wright Page A

he’d said almost, he almost did.
    “Why are you staring at me?” he asked.
    I settled next to him on the couch and tucked my legs under the blanket. “Carl,” I said, “what happened between Sam and Megan?”
    He held a French fry in midair, then set it back on his plate. “I don’t know,” he said. “Not really anything, I don’t think.”
    “Sam said they kissed.” Carl shrugged and I turned to face him. “Did you see it?”
    “There was this boardwalk by the beach—I saw them down there. She was pretty Perkins, to be honest.”
    “Really?” I asked.
    “I don’t know,” said Carl. “She was okay. Do you want me to quiz you?”
    “No.”
    “Come on,” he said, poking my ribs. “The quiz is Wednesday. Quadratic formula.” Carl pushed his math book onto my lap, then pointed to the equation and said, “Memorize it.”
    But I couldn’t concentrate. His first night in Myrtle Beach Sam had written to me, and I wondered now if he’d been trying to tell me something, not about speeding tickets or random girls named Megan but about possibility.
    “Carl,” I said quickly. “Did they sleep together?”
    “Jesus,” said Carl, his cheeks flushing. “I told you, I don’t know.” He stood up, knocking the blanket off us. “Why does it matter?”
    When I didn’t respond, he disappeared into the kitchen and I heard his silverware clattering in the sink and his plate shuttling across the counter, but I didn’t go after him. He was angry, or annoyed, but I was thinking about how Sam had touched my leg on the porch swing after practice and how he was home now. If not Megan, someone else; if not Myrtle Beach, Cooperstown. My chest tightened while my pulse raced ahead, counting out the hours till homeroom, history, then seventh-period study hall. I’d offer Sam my arm and he would ink my skin with a thousand blue lines.

 
    3
    Hugh couldn’t remember the last time he’d left school in the middle of the day, but after his run-in with Caroline he acted on an impulse that told him he needed fresh air, a brisk walk, and a lobotomy. Back in his office, he grabbed his ski hat and gathered the mail from his desk and didn’t stop when Mrs. Baxter rose from her desk and called his name.
    At the Doubleday Cafe, Hugh waved to one of the owners, then to Randolph DeVey, a local lawyer whom Anne couldn’t abide, sitting alone in front of the mute jukebox. A trio of Yankees fans in matching caps drank coffee at the bar; it was too early for tourist season but still a few found their way. Hugh recognized the older couple in the window seat from church, and they nodded to him, and Hugh returned the gesture, then continued to watch them for a moment. The woman held her coffee cup with both hands, making knots of her knuckles, while her lanky husband stared resolutely out the window. Neither spoke. Something about the way the woman worried her cup reminded Hugh of his mother. Ten years ago his father had lost a short battle with lung cancer, and three months after that, his mother had followed his father into an early grave. Yoked together for more than half a century by a common sorrow, theirs had been a marriage of loss, not love, and it made Hugh sad to even think of them now.
    He took a seat at a table for two near the back of the restaurant.
    “You want to see a menu?” asked Missy, leaning across Hugh’s table to lay down a set of stainless-steel silverware.
    “I guess not,” said Hugh. The specials were chalked on the wall. Hugh consulted the board, scanning for his breakfast. “What’s the omelet?” he asked, squinting.
    “Cheddar and bacon.”
    Hugh shrugged. “The omelet, please, and coffee.”
    “You got it.” Missy turned and walked to the kitchen, her generous backside swinging in her black pants.
    “Nice day,” said Randolph from across the room. He had the Daily Star open in front of him alongside a mug and four empty creamers.
    “Beautiful,” Hugh agreed. He shuffled through the stack of