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“I have a question.” I retract my hands from his arm and turn to face him more fully. He shifts toward me, waiting.

“Quint?” I say.

“Yeah?”

“No, that’s my question.Quint?Your mom—your sea-animal-loving mom—named you afterthatguy? Not just a shark hunter, but some surly, cranky, reclusive shark hunter?”

Quint is laughing. “He’s a war hero!”

“He’s a jerk. He does nothing but mock and bully that poor… what was the other guy’s name?”

“Hooper.”

“That poor Hooper the whole movie, and then he gets devoured by a shark! Honestly, were your parents trying to traumatize you? Why couldn’t they name you after the main guy? Chief…”

“Brody.”

“Brody! They should have named you Brody. That’s not a bad name.”

“It is a fine name. Unfortunately, it was already taken.”

“By who?”

“Our dog.”

“You have a dog?”

“We did when I was little. Brody the golden retriever. My parents worried that if they named me Brody, too, people wouldn’t get the reference and they’d think I was named after the dog. So… Quint it was.”

I almost can’t comprehend this. Shaking my head, I swing my arm toward the rolling credits. “He. Hunts. Sharks! It’s like the embodiment of everything your mom is against!”

“I know, I know. But believe it or not, she really likes this movie. And she was a big fan of Peter Benchley, the guy who wrote the book, because he ended up becoming a huge advocate for the protection of sharks.” He lowers his voice to a secretive whisper. “I think he had a lot of guilt to work through. Oh, and also, my parents’ first date was to seeJaws. An anniversary showing, right here at the Offshore Theater. So… there was that.” He shrugs. “I’vecome to terms with it.” His eyes are shining. The theater is quickly emptying out. Some of the employees have begun making their way through the front rows, sweeping up popcorn and stray candy wrappers. We should probably go, but I don’t want to.

“So what happened to Brody?” I ask, hoping it isn’t a touchy subject. “The dog, I mean.”

“He went with my dad after the divorce,” says Quint, munching on another handful of popcorn. We’ve barely made it halfway through the bucket. “He passed away a few years ago, and my stepmom replaced him with”—he pauses for dramatic effect—“apug.”

“Oh?” My eyebrows rise at his dramatic tone, but I have no idea why. “And that’s a bad thing?”

“It’s hilarious,” he says. “My dad hates lapdogs. At least, he used to. I’m pretty sure if you asked him now he’d say they’re the best thing ever, because what’s he gonna do? She loves that dog! He was a rescue from Guadalajara, which she brings up every time I visit. I think it might her way of bonding with me. Like—hey, you rescue animals? Me too!” He shrugs. “I mean, she’s trying.”

“Do you like your stepmom?”

“She’s not bad.” He chomps through another handful of popcorn. “I can tell they really love each other, her and my dad, so I’m happy for them.” He pauses to side-eye me. “You’re fishing for that childhood trauma story, aren’t you?”

I squeeze one eye shut, feeling like he caught me. “You were just so adamant before that you’re totally cool with your dad being remarried, living in San Francisco… It just seems like maybe you’re hiding something.”

“Well, maybe you can meet them someday, and then you can decide for yourself.”

My heart jumps, and Quint, as if realizing what he just said, immediately looks away. “My dad is actually kind of unhappy with me right now.”

“Oh? What for?”

“I usually spend the last two weeks of summer vacation with him. But I called him yesterday and told him I didn’t think it was going to work out this year.”

It takes me a second to realize… “Because of the gala?”

He nods. “I want to be here to help you with it. It didn’t feel right to leave.”