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.” He looked at his
    brother. “I say Friday.”
    “Monday,” Finn said. “She hates the weekend tourists more
    than she hates the workers.”
    “True,” Jack said. He thought. “Can I change my bet?”
    I groaned. “Really? That bad?”
    “She chased this one guy with her Jeep,” Finn said.
    “Remember that?”
    They both were chuckling away. I crossed my arms. “I’m prov-
    ing you both wrong,” I said. I’d suddenly decided. I’d charm the
    skin off that snake and show these guys. “I’m lasting the summer.”
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    “No fucking way,” Jack said. He’d finished his cigarette.
    Turned his back on his sister, who had given up and gone back
    into the shack. The seagull still sat on that table. He looked pretty
    comfy.
    “You last the summer and I’ll sail you over to Friday Harbor
    and back. Private charter.”
    “You idiot,” Jack said. “You gotta make that a bet you can win .
    Jesus, I haven’t taught you anything.”
    I was having so much fun there. I wondered about Finn
    and Jack and their sister and their life in that place. This would
    be their life during the summers. There would be no driving to
    Neumo’s or out to eat in various parts of the city. No concerts or
    shows or the pierced people at Total Vid or traffic or city buses.
    No jobs at vintage music stores or comedy places. Just the beach
    and water and this stingy salty air and working with your hands
    until you were so tired that maybe you actually slept at night.
    “How about next week?” I said. “After work? After I don’t get
    fired? I’ll come out then,”
    “That’s so great,” Finn said. “Cool.” He was grinning.
    “Very cool.”
    “Only if you promise to tell me all about the drowned sailors,”
    I said.
    “And I’ll tell you about what happened the first time Finn
    heard about the drowned sailors.” Jack put his hands on Finn’s
    shoulders.
    “Shut up, idiot,” Finn warned.
    “It was the middle of the night . . .”
    “God damn it, Jack.” Finn lunged for his brother and missed.
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    Stay
    “Awake all night, scared shitless.” Finn lunged again, and this
    time he caught Jack by the waist and then tucked him under one
    arm, his knuckles against his scalp. I’d forgotten how physical
    guys could be. Jack and Finn did not have careful movements and
    clean hands. They didn’t seem like they would flinch when they
    heard loud noises like Christian did. They didn’t seem sensitive,
    in all ways that sensitive made a person require careful handling.
    “Our father’s white T-shirt in the kitchen, okay, okay!” Jack
    pleaded. Finn let go. Jack was laughing and so was I.
    “I was seven ,” Finn said.
    “You never heard anyone of any age scream like that,” Jack said.
    “You rat bastard,” Finn said. “Your breath smells like a fucking
    ash tray .” But he wasn’t really bothered. I waited for it, thinking
    there might be that moment where you saw his hurt or humilia-
    tion or shame. When you live for a while with a sensitive person,
    you are always anticipating. You’re two steps ahead, knowing what
    the reaction will be to that comment or that film moment or that
    song. You start trying to steer you both clear of any of the places
    he could fall into and stay. After that night at the concert I tried to
    keep my eyes from wandering accidentally somewhere that might
    upset him. Movies with cheating girlfriends made him sullen, and
    so I would read the reviews before we chose one, suggesting safe
    plots with exploding buses and car crashes. His friend, Evan, was
    teasing him about his “girlie silky hair” once, just giving him a bad
    time, and you could see how hurt he got. Really hurt. More than
    friend-kidding-around hurt. You anticipate, and when you do that
    for a long while, it’s hard to shake. You get edgy. Like men back
    from the war who jump when a car backfires.
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    But Jack’s story just rolled right off of Finn. He didn’t care.