20. Twenty
Cannon Beach is quiet the next morning with only a few cars on the street and even fewer people on the sidewalk. The tree-covered mountains surround the small downtown like a hug, and the misty air hangs heavily as I carry two coffees and a chamomile tea toward the Avion.
A peace offering.
Last night’s conversation replays on a loop as I walk. As awful as the whole thing was, I didn’t wake up feeling angry, resentful, or even sad. I’m ready. Ready to not let Travis be the thing that keeps us stuck in this depressing place.
When I open the door, Marin is banging a bowl around while Finn fumbles with coffee grounds. The smells of vanilla and cinnamon blend in the air to make the small space smell like a café.
I make a show of holding up the coffee to them.
“Bless you, Mother,” Marin says as she grabs her cup. “You will be rewarded with French toast.”
She blows the steam from her tea and wraps her fingers cozily around the cup with a smile.
“I’ll help,” I offer as I hand Finn his coffee and grab a slice of bread.
We work for a few minutes in silence. Sipping our drinks and dunking bread in an egg wash.
“So,” I start without looking at them. “That wine glass never stood a chance, did it?”
Marin snorts as she drops a piece of egg-covered bread into the pan with a sizzle, and Finn rumbles with a laugh that doesn’t meet his lips.
I lean a hip against the counter and look at both of them before my eyes focus on Finn.
“I’m done doing this. Done feeling sad and guilty. Done apologizing for the year I was the world’s most absent mom. I’m just done.”
Finn’s throat bobs as he swallows slowly.
“You have to decide, Finn, if you are moving forward with me or staying here in this God-awful hamster wheel. Because I can’t. I won’t.”
I stare at him until my next blink then turn back to the French toast assembly line.
“Okay?” I tilt my head toward him.
“Okay.”
With full plates of food, we sit at the table.
“And Finn?” I point a fork of French toast at him before taking my first bite. “No more weed. I know it’s not that big of a deal—though all the propaganda from my childhood still has me believing it might be a gateway drug—but that’s not the point. It’s not legal. You’re a minor. My answer is firm.”
His mouth opens like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t.
“And maybe Dad would have handled it better. But there’s also a chance he would have knocked the joint out of your hand in front of your friends and caused a scene. I do know he wouldn’t have just given you the green light to smoke. So, when you’re eighteen, and you want to take up this…” I swirl my syrupy fork in the air, “habit, then that’s on you. Deal?”
For the first time, his lips turn up into the slightest smile. “Deal.”
“Gateway drug, Mom?” Marin groans, bringing a hand to her forehead. “You are such a dork.”
With her words, we laugh our way through the rest of breakfast and spend our last day on the Oregon coast at the beach, holding starfish in the tidepools.
Together.
That night, I’m wine lubricated enough to summon the courage to reply to Ethan’s last email. I don’t let myself overanalyze—I let my thumbs type out whatever they decide.
Ethan,
Does anyone ever just find themselves in the White Mountains of Maine? I didn’t even know that was a place until this very moment. And while I’ve always wanted to see Maine, I picture myself on the coast, not the mountains.
You should know, before you go around making these kinds of promises, I’m not good at keeping secrets because I’m a terrible liar. It’s true. You tell me one secret, and it’s basically written across my face. I might as well be one of those airplanes that pulls messages behind it, blasting information all over the place. It’s just who I am.
I’ll prove it—you tell me a secret, and if I ever find myself in the White Mountains of Maine, we’ll see if I can keep a straight face about it.
Menu changes are at a standstill. Apparently, my boss is scared of work now that he made me go through all this trouble.
Penelope
When I fall asleep that night, it’s only after I’ve refreshed my email twenty times in hopes of getting a response that doesn’t come.