Chapter Four
I wake up to sunlight.
It’s bright. And hot. My first thought is that the window AC in the apartment bedroom must have finally crapped out. It’s
been on its last legs for years. Jackson wanted to get rid of it, but I felt too guilty sending it to a landfill before it
actually died, so every summer, we’d both shower right before bed and then stand in front of the AC, still damp, in an attempt
to become as cold as possible before going to sleep. Jackson would say we were way too old to be living this way. I’d shove
him because he was right, and also taking up too much space in front of the AC. And then he’d laugh, and I’d laugh, and even
last summer, that was still something we could manage. Still something that felt close to normal . . .
I blink my eyes open, focusing on the ceiling. I’m not in the apartment. There’s no rumble of a half-functional AC. I’m in
the tiny bedroom of the cottage, and the only sounds are the calls of shorebirds somewhere outside and the distant swish-swish of ocean waves. I’m too hot because the sun is shining directly through the window behind the bed.
The events of yesterday rush back to me and I jerk upright, fumbling around on the nightstand for my phone before realizing it’s still in my pocket.
Nathan was gone by the time I came back up to the cottage last night as twilight was settling in, and I was so relieved and so exhausted that I face-planted on the bed and passed out in my clothes, apparently without even pulling out my phone.
9:14 a.m.
I push myself off the bed, staggering to the window. Outside, sunlight glints off the ocean. I can see more of the beach than
yesterday. It must be low tide. Lines of seaweed have washed ashore, left by receding waves. A warm breeze floats through
the window, blowing my hair back from my forehead.
I take a long, deep breath. My pulse slows. My head clears. Staring out at this view, yesterday feels like a strange, foggy
dream. And who knows, maybe it was. I feel bleary enough for that to be true, like I can’t quite remember what really happened and what didn’t.
I still don’t have any food in the cottage, since I never went shopping yesterday, but I have a vague memory of seeing a bag
of coffee in the fridge, so I head for the kitchen, pushing open the pocket door in the hallway and shuffling past the laundry
machines, still rubbing my eyes.
“Morning, Harlowe. I was just going to make coffee. You want some?”
I freeze, insides clenching.
My dad is standing at the kitchen sink, just like he was yesterday. He’s wearing the same Alaska shirt. The same jeans. His glasses sit crookedly on his nose in exactly the same way. Instead of washing dishes, he’s holding
up two mugs, eyebrows raised.
This can’t possibly be happening. I slept. I rested. Everything is supposed to be fine.
“Harlowe?” my dad says.
But I ignore him, sidling past him and fumbling my way through the bifold door and into the dining room.
There’s Professor MacAndrew, still in the same sweater set, sitting in the same chair at the dining table, paging through the same book.
She looks up at me over her reading glasses. “Ah, Harlowe. Thank you for coming by. Please, have a seat.”
This is just like yesterday. She’s even gesturing to the other dining chair, just like yesterday.
That roaring sound is back in my ears, like someone’s holding a seashell to my head. “Um . . . just . . .” I hold up a finger.
“Hang on . . .”
The door to the living room bounces back on its hinges as I slam through it, rounding the corner to the hall, pushing open
the door to the bathroom . . .
“Okay, seriously?” Jackson looks up from the bathroom sink. He’s wearing the same stretched-out T-shirt as yesterday, holding
the same toothbrush. “Are you ever going to knock?”
Shit.
He’s here. They’re all here. Sleeping for twelve hours didn’t fix anything.
I back out of the bathroom, pulling the door closed behind me.
I try to breathe. Try to think through the thick fog closing in around my mind.
I’m hallucinating. And not just that—it must have something to do with the cottage, because I didn’t hallucinate Jackson on
the beach. I didn’t see my dad in the line for chicken wings. All of this only started once I arrived here. In this house.
So it’s the cottage. Maybe there’s something wrong with it. It’s full of lead paint. Or mercury. Or some other horrible chemical
that’s leaking into the air. Maybe it’s something Nathan did. Maybe he sanded off some protective layer of paint and now there’s
toxic dust or asbestos and I just spent twelve hours breathing it in while I slept.
I need to find Dina.
But there’s no answer when I ring her doorbell. Pounding on the door doesn’t get a response either, and there’s no sign of her car in the clearing.
Maybe she’s at Queer Punx. It’s Saturday—a store-slash-art-gallery has to be open on the weekends, especially during summer
tourist season. Maybe she’s there.
I jog back toward the cottage for my keys and wallet, googling directions to Queer Punx on my phone.
It’s just after ten when I arrive in Provincetown, but the streets are already busy, cars backing up into a long line, waiting
to get into the parking lot by the pier. Through some miraculous stroke of luck, I manage to find a smaller gravel lot between
two art galleries and squeeze my Honda into the last space.
According to Google Maps, Queer Punx is on the next block, so I join the crowds on the brick sidewalk, wishing I’d thought
to grab my sunglasses. There isn’t a single cloud in the endless blue sky and the sunlight seems to reflect off everything—cars,
pavement, buildings, ocean. It’s already giving me a headache.
The main commercial drag of Provincetown is a narrow street lined with a colorful jumble of one- and two-story buildings with
wooden siding, painted white and yellow, purple and red. Striped awnings shade the sidewalk while banners for drag shows flutter
in the breeze over the heads of the crowd. Every third sign seems to feature rainbows—cannabis dispensaries, handmade gifts,
ice cream parlors, stores with bathing suits and T-shirts and patchwork skirts embroidered with peace signs. There are art
galleries and cheap silver jewelry, seafood restaurants and realty offices with flyers for picturesque, dreamy beach houses
in their windows that all list prices into the millions.
Queer Punx sits on a corner next to an alley, a wooden shack with a bright purple awning and a sign hanging out front that says A P-town Establishment Since 1985. There’s a rainbow flag fluttering over the door and the sign in the window is flipped to Open.
I pull open the door. A collection of bells tied to the handle rattles.
Inside, the space is cramped, walls almost completely hidden by art prints and paintings and shelves full of greeting cards,
pottery, and books by bell hooks and Roxane Gay. Spinning carousels on the floor display big funky jewelry and political bumper
stickers. A small collection of T-shirts hangs from the ceiling, screen-printed with messages like Pride Was a Riot, Resting Drag Face, and Womxn.
There’s a counter with a cash register in one corner, and behind it is a short, stocky Black woman in a white T-shirt and
a leather vest, her graying hair in short twists and a smattering of dark freckles across her nose. “Morning,” she says. “Can
I help you?”
“Yeah.” I tuck my hands in my back pockets awkwardly. “I’m wondering if Dina Daley works here?”
“Dina Daley owns the place.” The woman looks me up and down, raising her eyebrows. “Who’s looking for her?”
I clear my throat, suddenly very aware that my clothes are rumpled from sleeping in them and my hair is probably sticking
up. “My name’s Harlowe. I’m renting her extra cottage.”
The woman looks surprised. “Are you really? Huh. Dina hardly ever rents that place out. One sec. Let me get her for you.”
She skirts the edge of the checkout desk and disappears through a door that’s almost completely hidden behind several tie-dyed
wall hangings.
A moment later, Dina appears, sweeping the wall hangings aside like a theatrical curtain. Today, she’s wearing a bright orange
caftan covered in pineapples. I’m starting to think she has a thing for neon fruit prints.
“Good morning!” she says. “Everything okay at the house?”
“Um . . . actually . . .” I rub the back of my neck, glancing around. “I need to talk to you about something.”
The woman in the vest reappears behind Dina, heading back to the register. “Let me guess,” she says, sounding amused. “Dina’s
cat is terrorizing you.”
Dina scowls. “He was in the house when I left, and I double-checked the windows were closed.” She waves a dismissive hand.
“Ignore Sharon. She holds a grudge against Sir Duke.”
“If that cat took a flying leap at your head in total darkness, you’d hold a grudge too,” Sharon mutters, resting her elbows on the counter.
“Right. Well . . .” I clear my throat. “I was just going to . . . um . . . I was going to ask . . .”
But now that I’m here, and Sharon is staring at me, I feel ridiculous. I don’t know how to explain any of this without sounding
like I’ve totally lost my mind, or like I’m a raging conspiracy theorist. Dina’s not going to drive all the way back to the
cottage just because I claim there must be toxins floating from the walls. All I’m going to do is convince her I’m completely
unhinged. Not a tenant she wants around all summer. She’d be well within her rights to kick me out.
And then I’d be stuck. There’s nothing to rent in Boston right now, not right before the first of the month. I’d end up on
Rika and Yasmin’s couch.
“There’s a loose doorknob,” I say, waving a hand weakly. “On the bedroom door. Just . . . wanted to ask if maybe it could
get tightened at some point.”
Dina gives me a long look, and I get the distinct feeling she knows there’s something I’m not telling her. “I can look into
it,” she says.