The Vacationers: A Novel by Emma Straub Read Free Book Online Page A

disembarking travelers. The Spanish ones had better faces than the tourists—better cheekbones, better lips, better hair. When he was younger, Charles would paint from life, but now he just snapped photos with his digital camera and painted from those. He loved that freedom, being able to have anyone’s face in his pocket.
    “Hey,” Lawrence said. He wiped his wet hands on his pants.
    “Welcome back,” Charles said. He leaned his head against Lawrence’s shoulder. “I’m tired.”
    “I know you are. But hey, at least you’re not wearing an adult-sized playsuit,” he said, gesturing to a woman walking out of the jet bridge at the gate opposite the bathroom. She was small, probably not much over five feet tall, with soft pink terry-cloth sweatpants and matching sweatshirt, both of whichwere snug enough to show off her round bottom and otherwise compact figure. “Weren’t those outlawed a decade ago?” The woman stepped out of the line of traffic and turned around, waiting for someone. A tall man with a moppish head of brown curly hair emerged, nodding at the waiting woman in pink.
    Charles spun around so that he was facing the wall. “Oh, shit,” he said. “It’s Bobby’s girlfriend.”
    “Not the one in the playsuit,” Lawrence said, turning his body so that they were both facing the wall.
    “We can’t both be pointing this way,” Charles said. “Shit.”
    “Charles?”
    Charles and Lawrence both turned around, arms open wide. “Hiiiiiiiii,” they said in unison. Bobby and his girlfriend had shortened the gap between them, and were now no more than four feet away.
    “Hello, handsome,” Charles said, pulling Bobby close for a hug. They patted each other on the back affectionately, and when he pulled out of the embrace, Bobby kept one arm slung around Charles’s shoulder as if they were posing for a team photo.
    “How was your flight? Hi, Lawrence.” Bobby smiled widely. He had the easy tan of a person who spent most of his days outdoors, though that wasn’t the case. Lawrence thought Bobby might in fact look too tan, as driving around real estate properties in Miami wouldn’t afford so much sunlight unless he drove a convertible, which seemed unlikely. Maybe he spent every weekend on the beach, his face and arms and chest slathered intanning lotion, like some 1975 bodybuilder. That seemed unlikely, too. Lawrence wasn’t quite sure how to reconcile himself to the fact that Bobby’s golden-brown suntan was almost certainly fake. The rules were different in Florida.
    “Fine. How about yours?” Charles said. No one had spoken to Bobby’s girlfriend, nor had there been any effort to introduce her. Charles knew that they’d met once or twice at a Christmas dinner, or at one of Franny and Jim’s large anniversary parties—maybe it was their thirtieth, five years ago now? Charles had a dim recollection of seeing this woman standing next to Franny’s literary agent, assiduously avoiding conversation by performing an extremely thorough investigation of the ceiling. The girlfriend was at least a decade older than Bobby, which was what had made her sweatsuit so absurd. She was almost Lawrence’s age, young only as viewed from the other side of sixty. Franny had a lot to say on the matter, but only after half a bottle of wine. Until then, she remained coldly impartial. They’d been together for years, off and on, but none of the Posts seemed to care one way or the other, at least in polite company, the way one might ignore the flatulence of an otherwise friendly dog. Charles couldn’t believe that he didn’t remember her name. She was native to Miami, with Cuban parents. Was it Carrie? It wasn’t Mary. Miranda?
    “Carmen was so excited, we didn’t sleep at all,” Bobby said, finally looking over his shoulder to find her. “You remember Charles and Lawrence, right?”
    “Hello,” she said, reaching out her hand. Lawrence shook itfirst, then Charles. Carmen had a firm grip, a handshake