Chapter Eight #2
It’s nice of her to say, and I’m definitely having a reaction to the alcohol, because for the first time since Jackson and I ended things, I feel dangerously close to tears.
I blink, clearing my throat, and give a choked laugh. “Well, glad I’m doing something right.”
I’m sure Nathan’s looking at me now. Mostly because I feel it when he looks away.
“How about nachos?” he says. “I’m starving.”
Katy raises an eyebrow at him. “Seriously? Didn’t you eat dinner?”
“I had some crackers after we went to the pond.”
She sighs. “Daley, you need to stock your fridge.”
Nathan ignores her. “I’m getting nachos. Harlowe, you in?”
I look at my cocktail glass, which is now empty. I should eat something, before I get any drunker. “Yeah, I’m in.”
He pushes himself up, flashing me a small smile before he disappears back into the crowd.
Katy turns to look after him and then looks back at me. “How do you know Nathan?”
“I don’t.” I poke at the ice in my glass with my cocktail straw. “I mean, not really. We just hung out at Dina’s cookout.
What about you guys?”
“Well, who among us really knows Nathan Daley,” Marcus says with mock solemnity.
Katy just laughs, rolling her eyes. “We met years ago. The first fall after he moved here he came into the salon—the summer
crowds were gone, so I actually noticed him—and he had this awful, overgrown hair. He sat down and heaved this big sigh and
said, My aunt says I have to do something about this. And I knew Dina because I do her hair. I guess we started hanging out sometime after that, over the winter. It’s different
when the tourists are gone. The whole place feels smaller.”
“Sounds nice,” I say.
She tips her head from side to side, as if to say maybe. “It can be.” She picks up the pitcher of beer and pours herself a glass, then holds it out to me, eyebrows raised.
There’s a not insignificant chance I’m going to regret this later. I’ve never been a big drinker and I’m not twenty-five anymore.
But in this moment, I don’t care. Or at least, I don’t want to care.
So I shrug. “Yeah, sure,” I say. “Thanks.”
The bar around us slowly empties as we drink our way through another round and eat our way through two plates of nachos. By
the time Katy and Marcus leave around eleven, my head is buzzing.
“Okay, this may have been a bad idea,” I mutter to the table, which I seem to be resting my forehead on. I’m not entirely
sure when that happened.
“I think you might be a lightweight,” Nathan says mildly. He’s moved across the table to the chair formerly occupied by Marcus.
“I think I might be thirty-one,” I mumble.
He laughs—that shy, gentle laugh I remember from the cookout. “Okay, but I’m also thirty-one, and we both had two drinks,
and only one of us has his head on the table.”
“You didn’t start with a cocktail.” I lift my head off the table, which takes a lot more effort than it should, and pick up
one of the glasses of water that showed up at some point. “How many hundreds of dollars will I owe if I leave my car in that
parking lot by the pier overnight?”
“You didn’t take an Uber?” he says.
“They exist here?”
“In the summer, they definitely do. The price gouging is criminal, but they exist.”
“And they can find the cottage?”
“Oh, nobody can find Dina’s place,” Nathan says. “You’d have to walk to the bottom of the hill at least.”
I chug water and then set the glass down, rubbing my eyes. “If an Uber dropped me off at the bottom of the hill in my current
state, I’m not sure I’d end up back in the cottage.”
I drop my hand and find Nathan watching me, head tilted slightly, looking thoughtful.
“Why don’t I drive you home?” he says. “My car’s out of commission right now, so I was planning to go the price-gouged Uber
route anyway.”
I think about this—or at least try to. “Okay, but then how would you get home after you dropped me off? Call another Uber?”
“Bike,” he says.
“You’re joking.”
He shakes his head. “I’ve got a bike in Dina’s shed somewhere. My apartment’s in Wellfleet. It’s not far.”
“In the dark?”
“Nobody will be out on the back roads now, and I’ve got a flashlight.” He downs the rest of the water from his glass. “Come
on. Let’s at least get out of here.”
We leave the Tap, heading out into the cool, salty air. My phone tells me it’s almost midnight, but Provincetown is hardly
asleep. A club across the street radiates a pink and purple glow through the open front door, along with the faint thud of
music. Several people cruise past on bikes laced with blinking rainbow lights, singing ABBA at the top of their lungs. The
restaurants and shops are closed, but people are still coming out of the bars, still talking and laughing in the streets.
Maybe it’s the fresh air, or the water, or the walking, but the buzz in my head is already fading by the time we reach my car, tucked into a corner of the parking lot by the pier, which is a lot emptier now than it was when I arrived.
I hand Nathan my keys, and we climb into the car.
He has to move the seat back to avoid ending up with his knees against the steering wheel, which for some reason makes me smile.
Route 6 is dark and practically deserted as we drive back toward the cottage. My Honda’s headlights hardly feel strong enough
for this level of night. I never noticed it before, living in the bright city. But out here, without any streetlights, they
hardly seem to uncover enough of the road, especially at highway speeds. I’m not even sure Indiana was ever this dark.
Nathan turns on the brights as we climb the hill, bouncing over potholes, branches scraping the roof. He pulls up behind Dina’s
4Runner and turns off the engine.
Silence fills the car. The chink of my keys seems strangely loud as Nathan hands them back to me.
“I’m sorry,” I say in a rush. “If I was awkward at the cookout or . . . I don’t know . . . chased you away.”
He blinks, glancing up. There’s just enough light from the moon outside to catch in his eyes. “No,” he says quickly. “It . . .
That wasn’t you. I’m the one who should apologize.”
I wait, for an explanation or an excuse. But he doesn’t offer one. He chews his lip, studying the steering wheel, and then
he says, “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure?”
His eyes are bright pinpricks in the dark. “Why’d you choose the cottage?”
I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t that. “What do you mean?”
“There are tons of places to rent on the Cape,” he says. “Why’d you choose Dina’s place, specifically?”
“Um . . .” I fiddle with my keys. “It was affordable. And seemed nice. And . . .” I hesitate. “And your aunt is trans. And
I am too.”
I wait again, this time aware of my heart thudding in my chest. It’s not like I really expect Nathan Daley to secretly be some raging bigot. But I’m not used to coming out to people. I’m not used to having people I haven’t already come out to.
He only nods. And then he holds out a hand. “Here, let me give you my number.”
I fumble my phone out of my pocket and hold it out. The bluish glow of the screen lights up the car as Nathan types his number
into my phone.
And I feel an odd twinge of familiarity, like I’m suddenly back on that street in Boston, all those years ago, holding Jackson’s
umbrella so he could type his number into my phone, the same bluish glow illuminating his face.
A hum runs under my skin.
Nathan holds my phone out, eyes skipping up to my face. “Text me so I have your number?”
“Yeah. Will do.” We climb out of the car. “Thanks again for the ride.”
He gives me a smile and then turns away, disappearing around the back of Dina’s house, off to dig his bike out of the shed,
I suppose, wherever that is.
I turn and climb the brick steps that lead toward Dina’s front porch and the flagstone path beyond. And maybe I have no chill,
or maybe I simply want to hang on to this feeling of being less alone, but I pull up his number on my phone, and I send him
a text: Hey, it’s Harlowe. Drinks on me next time.
As I’m unlocking the cottage’s front door, my phone buzzes in my hand. He’s sent me a thumbs-up.