Chapter Two
Two
Mitch’s wasn’t the most glamorous bar in Palm Beach, but it boasted the most convenient location. Only three blocks from my condo, it was where Nina and I had celebrated every birthday, mourned every breakup, and toasted to every charter season for the last five years.
I followed Nina, Britt, and Ollie through the heavy wooden door and was hit by the familiar scent of stale beer and tacos as soon as I stepped inside.
Mitch’s was the opposite of the Serendipity, which was probably why we liked it so much.
The Serendipity was chic and elegant, while Mitch’s was decidedly not.
Dim and wood-paneled, the bar wore its years proudly, with deep grooves etched into the tables and wobbly chairs with sunken seats.
Hundreds of photographs and personal effects had been stapled or thumbtacked to the walls and exposed beams of the ceiling.
I’d spent many nights drunkenly wandering and inspecting the tokens patrons had left behind.
Back by our usual spot—a table beside a dusty bookcase—was a photo of me, Nina, and Ollie.
Nina had taken it a few years ago with an ancient Polaroid she’d found at a yard sale.
Pulling a mini stapler from her purse, she’d stuck our photo beside one of a shirtless man with a snake draped around his shoulders.
There, she’d said. That ought to freshen up the place.
Standing in Mitch’s now, I wanted to find that picture and see myself from before.
Before I’d met Shitty Peter, the ex-boyfriend who’d shattered my confidence, before the accident and the call from my mother, before every day felt like treading water.
But it was Taco Tuesday, Mitch’s was packed, and some college students wearing sweatpants occupied our table.
Nina bumped me with her shoulder. “Margarita? Yes? No?”
“Please tell me that’s a rhetorical question,” I said.
We joined the rest of the crew at the bar and ordered our drinks.
I tried to look as happy as everyone else but didn’t have the energy.
Being there only reminded me of my list and the blog I’d been completely neglecting.
Every now and then I’d get emails from concerned readers, which I deleted as soon as they arrived in my inbox.
Not because they annoyed me, but because I knew there was nothing I could say.
Many of them had been reading my posts from the very beginning.
They thought they knew me. They were worried.
But they didn’t know me at all, not the real me anyway.
And besides, my blog was a place for lighthearted adventure, which I hadn’t had much of lately.
Nina and I had been drinking at Mitch’s when we came up with the idea for the thirty-by-thirty list. It was my twenty-ninth birthday, almost a year ago now, and I’d spent most of the night moping at the bar, having recently broken up with Shitty Peter after discovering he’d cheated on me during charter season.
Two margaritas in, Nina, who’d recently turned thirty herself, had tried to console me by explaining how I’d look back on my breakup with Shitty Peter one day and laugh.
“Thirtysomething is far superior to twentysomething,” she’d said. “You stop caring what people think.”
“I’m pretty sure you’ve never cared what people think.
” I’d set my drink on the bar and sighed.
“Two years. I wasted two years on that douchebag, and for what? There was so much I didn’t do because of him.
I missed my cousin’s bachelorette party, the post-charter weekend away to Saint Thomas, Cap’s anniversary—”
“Jo, Jo, Jo,” Nina had said, pressing her hand over my mouth. “Listen to you! So you missed out on two years of stuff, you can still make up for it. Hell, I’ve been single for most of the last decade and still have things I wish I’d done in my twenties.”
I’d pried her hand from my mouth. “Like what?”
“I don’t know . . . like going to Burning Man or Coachella.”
“Nina, you could still go to Burning Man.”
“But it’s different now. I can’t survive the inevitable hangover. There’s no way in hell I’m sleeping in a yurt. At twenty-five, maybe. But thirty? No way. What kind of word is ‘yurt’ anyway? It’s like whoever named it wasn’t even trying to make it sound appealing.”
“I think it’s Russian—”
Nina had smacked her open palms onto the bar. “I don’t care if it’s Russian! The point is, you’ve still got time. Why not make up for the last two years with this one? One year left to do all those twentysomething things.”
“You’re ridiculous,” I’d said. But Nina had already grabbed a napkin and pen from the bartender and shoved them toward me.
I was maybe a little drunk by then, sad about the breakup, unsure what I wanted next, so I’d taken the pen and napkin from Nina and looked around the bar for inspiration.
Thumbtacks dotted a faded world map behind the bar.
There were photos of birthdays, and weddings, and runners crossing finish lines. Vibrant, well-lived lives.
“Thirty things?” Nina had said once I finished.
“Don’t you think that’s a little ambitious?
” I’d scowled, and she cleared her throat.
“I mean, wow! Look at you being so ambitious! Though it’s my duty as your best friend to inform you that blogs are very 2004.
” She’d read over the list again and gasped.
“Josephine Walker, why is decluttering on here?”
I’d snatched the napkin from her hand. “It’s very popular right now. I might become a minimalist.”
“I don’t get minimalism,” Nina had said. “I’m a maximalist.” She’d lifted up her drink. “I’ll have one of everything, please. No! Two!” But she’d toasted to the list anyway.
Sitting at that same bar now, I realized Nina had been right. My breakup with Shitty Peter was laughable, but not for the reasons I’d hoped. Life had reminded me that there were worse heartbreaks.
An hour after we arrived at Mitch’s, RJ and the deckhands left for another bar, and Britt pushed away her empty glass with a sigh. “It’s been fun, but I’ve got an early flight tomorrow,” she said.
I stood to hug her. “Stay out of trouble.”
“Don’t listen to her,” Nina said. “Cause as much trouble as you can. You better bring good stories back next year.”
Britt waved one last goodbye as she and the rest of the seasonal crew dragged their suitcases out the door, leaving me, Ollie, and Nina behind.
Though Nina had told Britt to bring back stories, there was no guarantee we’d ever see her again.
Charter season was a lot like being a camp counselor.
The bonds you made with your coworkers were strong (positive or negative), and someone who’d been your closest friend one season could disappear from your life the next.
Once it was just the three of us again, Nina leaned her head on my shoulder. No matter what emotion I tried to hide, she homed in on it like a heart-to-heart-seeking missile.
“Sam would want you to have fun,” she said.
“How would you know?”
Nina lifted her head and looked me straight on. “I loved him, too, remember?”
It was true. One of Mia, Kitty, and Samson’s favorite South Florida attractions was Nina, who had the best ghost stories and bought strange vintage board games she found at thrift stores.
“You’re right. Sorry.”
“I know it’s tough coming home after everything that’s happened, but he wouldn’t want you to be miserable.”
I looked down into the watery dregs of my margarita, watching the ice at the bottom of my glass shift as it melted.
Nina was right, of course. Last year I’d gone up to North Carolina for Thanksgiving, and Samson, who was an early riser like me, sat beside me on the couch as he devoured a Pop-Tart and watched cartoons while I edited a post for the blog.
To my embarrassment, he’d noticed what I was working on and forced me to tell him all about the list.
“You have to finish all this by our birthday?” he’d said, his hands fidgeting in his lap like they always did. He’d been a boy in constant motion.
Samson had been born on my eighteenth birthday, back when I was still living with my sister.
When I’d held him that first time, I knew we were made of the same stuff, that whatever we had would be special.
Samson was the one who’d helped me with item number seven—start a garden.
He’d been an enthusiastic member of his school’s gardening club and a total plant nerd.
He’d wanted to be both a botanist and a pro baseball player.
He’d loved trees and plants and flowers, and didn’t care that his sisters teased him about it.
Whenever someone called his love of flowers girlie, he’d glare at them before continuing to inspect pistils and stamens.
After he discovered my blog, we had spent the next hour ordering seeds for my garden: delicate hydrangeas, gaillardias the color of a sunset, waxy peperomias.
“And sword lilies,” he’d said.
“Right, those.”
“They’re our birth month flower,” Samson explained. “Gladiolus is the real name.”
I’d typed it in, and a burst of color flooded my screen. They were beautiful, with funnel-shaped flowers that climbed vertically up stems, the leaves long and swordlike.
“Roman gladiators wore them around their necks to protect them from death when they fought.”
“Sounds pretty badass,” I’d replied, ruffling his hair until he groaned and scooted away from me.
The thought of seeing those plants again was like a black dart to my chest. How would I not think of him every time I saw them? How was I supposed to carry on watering and pruning them? And yet, not caring for them would be impossible.
I put my chin in my hands and looked at Nina. “Fine. But if you’re forcing me to have fun, I need another drink.”
“You got it, babe.” She waved the bartender over and ordered two more margaritas.