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anything with anyone. Landon likes to pepper people with questions about their interests. And my father—well, he seems good at creating friends and lovers everywhere he goes. My father. I don’t want to think about my father. I dread our upcoming conversation. There’s got to be a way I can avoid it.
    “How expensive would it be to rent a week in a youth hostel and just disappear for a while?”
    “What?” he asks.
    “Nothing. I was thinking out loud.”
    “If you want to talk hostels, I’ve crashed in a lot of them. Find me inside. I’ll give you the scoop,” he says, winking at me again.
    Gary walks off, and I study his vanishing figure. What are the chances that I’ll end up with somebody like him? At first I think I’m asking myself a casual question. But the idea sticks. I watch the front door smack Gary on his butt as he kicks the rock we’d been using to prop open the main entrance. As he maneuvers himself inside, his jacket slides off his shoulder and gets caught in the door. Gary keeps going, leaving his suit jacket partway inside and partway outside. It’s like his own clothing is trying to escape the fate of being worn by him.
    I wonder how many types of men there are in the world. What happens if I let Wick go? What happens if I end up with a type Gary, a man who clocks in to his rent-a-cop job with soulful satisfaction?
    I’m overreacting. I know that. There are more than two types of guys in the world. For instance, my father is nothing like Gary or Wick. He’s gregarious and smart and athletic. If I could excise his impulse to carouse, he’d be almost perfect. I think back to when I was young and my father was actually perfect in my mind, before I knew the things I didn’t want to know. Now he is a basement dweller. I think of his face. His voice. “Honey, we’ll talk tonight.”
    I grab the box of marzipan from the back of the Subaru. I set it on the curb with such force that the cardboard flaps fly open. The wedding couple are wrapped in plastic and situated on the top. They have faces now, bright smiling, happy faces. Before I can think it through, I’m unwrapping them. What am I doing? Then it happens. Not because I want it to and not because I planned for it, but because sometimes things in life just happen.
    I bite the shoes off the groom. It only takes one snap of my jaw, and I’ve got a wad of almond paste in my mouth. I chew it like I’ve been poisoned, and marzipan tuxedo shoes are the only antidote. At his pant cuffs I can see my smooth teeth marks.
    Then I lift the bride to my mouth. I’m careful to take just her shoes and leave her delicate ankles intact. As I chew the marzipan, I try to swallow it fast. I want to digest it. I want it to become a part of me. I look at the de-footed bride. If you focus on her head, she doesn’t really seem that different. But if you zero in on her ankles, she looks like she’s been in some sort of unfortunate accident with a butter knife. I run my tongue along my teeth and smile. Take that, I think to the unnamed hordes of people out there who think I’m boring. I just did something crazy. I just did something stupid for no good reason at all. And I’m not finished either.
    I don’t try to mask my bite marks. I wrap the couple back up in the plastic and stick them in the box. Then I slam the trunk. The entranceway is empty. Everybody, including my mother, is tucked neatly inside the Sheraton. Now is my chance.
    I pull the directions out of the purse. Ocean City is over 500 miles away. It would be insane to do this. I put the directions back inside my purse. But my life already feels insane. I pull the directions back out. I’m ready to do something outside of what’s expected of me. And I want to do this. Because I have a great reason. I love Wick Jarboe, and I can stop him from making the worst mistake of his life. I throw open the car door and get inside. The keys are still in the ignition. If I wasn’t supposed to do this, the