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“And maybe we can talk about this”—I hold up the folder—“tomorrow? I mean, the sooner we can get started, the better. Right?”

He sighs. A heavy sound, halfway to melodramatic. “Yeah, awesome,” he says. “I can’t wait.”

EIGHTEEN

Encanto has what Carlos generously refers to as a “patio” along the front of the restaurant. It’s actually just three small café tables in a little roped-off section of the sidewalk, but it can be a nice place to sit and people-watch. This is where I sit down to wait for Quint. I have my folder, plus a bunch of new material, mostly online pamphlets and statistics and reports from other nonprofits that I found online. I discovered one cancer research charity that brought in nearly a billion dollars in a single year. Their CEO’s salary was $2.4 million! Not that I think I’m going to be anywhere near that, especially not over just one summer, but it’s nice to know that it can be done. I guess it’s kind of refreshing to know how generous people can be with their money and how it can really add up to make a huge difference.

Well, not that we’ve cured cancer yet. But I have to assume that charity has donesomethingworthwhile with all that dough.

Once I’m all set up for my meeting with Quint, my papers neatly organized and a bulleted list of talking points at my elbow, I check my watch. We’re meeting at noon. I’m five minutes early.

A waiter comes out to check on me and I order a sparkling water and some tostones, which is a Puerto Rican specialty and Carlos’s signature appetizer. It’s basically plantains, which are kind of like firm bananas, that have been squished, fried, and salted, and they are mouth-wateringly delicious. Crisp on the outside, tender on the inside. Plus, he serves them with both achimichurri and a chipotle-mayo dipping sauce and my mouth waters just thinking about it. Jude and I usually order separate plates because they’re too good to share.

I consider ordering something for Quint, but that might be weird, so I don’t. The waiter disappears back inside. I take off my sunglasses and use the skirt of my dress to polish off a smudge. Slipping them back on, I relax into my seat, waiting.

Tourist season hasn’t fully kicked off yet, but already the town is feeling more lively than it did just a couple of weeks ago. Shopkeepers are dusting off their wares and washing their windows and putting out bigCLEARANCEracks full of last year’s goods to entice all the new customers that are starting to arrive.

I grab my phone and check a few social media feeds, but no one I care about has posted anything new so I soon grow bored.

The waiter brings out my water and I drink nearly half the glass in one gulp. My nose tickles from the carbonation. I check my watch again. It feels like I’ve been waiting a long time, but it’s only 12:03.

I try to keep my mind occupied by seeking out people on the street who may be in need of a karmic confrontation. I’m catching on that once I start looking for wrongdoing, it seems to be everywhere—the girl who sticks her chewing gum on the underside of the next table. The man who doesn’t clean up after his dog.

A smirk and a tightening of my fingers, and next thing you know, the girl has dripped salsa down the front of her dress, and the man, distracted, puts his own shoe right into the pile of excrement.

It becomes a game, looking for reprehensible behavior. And there is plenty to see. I wonder if this strange power is somehow attracting abhorrent people, pulling them into my path so they can feel the wrath of the universe, or if there are truly that many inconsiderate people in this world.

Speaking of inconsiderate…

I check my watch. 12:39!

My teeth clench. I’ve been so distracted by doling out punishments to those around me, I’ve barely touched the plate of tostones that was brought a while back. I grab one now and shove it into my mouth. I’ve been sitting here long enough that they’ve started to get cold.

In my mind, this, too, is Quint’s fault.

I swallow, a little painfully.

For a second, I try to use Ari’s tactic and give him the benefit of the doubt.

Could he be stuck in traffic?

Um, no. Unless there’s some festival or something going on, traffic in Fortuna Beach is pretty much nonexistent.

Maybe he forgot the time? Or forgot that we were supposed to meet at all?

This seems likely, but it hardly makes it okay.

Maybe he’s sick?

Please.I would be so lucky.

Honestly, after seeing him at 8:00 a.m. at the center yesterday, I’d begun to think maybe I’d been mistaken about him. Maybe there is some part of him that can be responsible. That takes his obligations seriously. Maybe he’s not a total delinquent.

As soon as my watch ticks over to 1:00, making him an entire hour late, I feel my annoyance boiling over. It’s one thing to be late to class. Yes, it would have been nice to have a reliable lab partner, but whatever, I did the work myself. But to stand me up like this? On my day off? When I’ve put in all this work to helphismom andhercenter.

It’s inexcusable!

This rant continues in my head another ten… fifteen…twenty-two minutes,until I’m about ready to scream at the infuriating seagulls that are squawking around, searching for dropped food.