Chapter Sixteen
The Fourth of July ebbs off the Cape like a receding tide, leaving detritus everywhere. Banners and leftover bunting still
line the streets of P-town, and the trash cans overflow with paper cups and plates. Lost light-up necklaces and miniature
flags litter the sidewalk when I walk down Commercial Street on the fifth, heading for Cuppa Cove. It’s midmorning, but cars
are only just beginning to turn into the parking lot by the pier. The whole town seems sleepy and slow, like it has one big
collective hangover.
There was still no sign of Professor MacAndrew when I woke up this morning. She seems to be well and truly gone. There was
also no sign of Nathan or his Pontiac. I waffled, writing out text message after text message to him and then erasing each
one, until finally, out of options and feeling annoyed at myself, I sent the first one I’d come up with: Hey, can we talk?
I regretted it almost as soon as it whooshed into the ether. Can we talk? Really? It sounded vaguely threatening. Like it obviously meant bad news.
It’s nothing bad, I typed, and sent that too. I wasn’t sure it made me feel any better.
An hour later, he hadn’t texted back. Which either meant he hadn’t looked at his phone because he was working the early shift at Cuppa Cove, or he had looked at it, found my texts totally off-putting, and decided never to contact me again.
I waited another hour, staring into the empty dining room of the cottage, and then decided I couldn’t take it anymore. For
all that I was relieved Professor MacAndrew was gone, the suddenness of it was throwing me. I couldn’t figure out what her
disappearance meant. I couldn’t figure out why it happened, and whether the cottage was trying to tell me something, and I was just missing it.
And the longer I sat around the cottage, the more I was going to stew about it. So I grabbed my keys and I drove into Provincetown
to look for Nathan.
It’s warm again today, and I’m fanning myself with my T-shirt by the time I step into Cuppa Cove. It’s not exactly cool inside,
but there’s a weak breeze coming from an AC vent in the ceiling, and it’s better than nothing. Only about half the tables
are occupied, a mix of groups of friends and solitary people hogging space with their laptops.
There’s no line, so I go right up to the counter. But the barista is someone I don’t recognize—a woman with light brown skin
and curly black hair tied back under a scarf.
“Morning,” she says. “What can I get you?”
“Is Nathan Daley here, by any chance?” I ask hopefully.
She shakes her head. “He’s not working today.”
“Oh.” I frown. I was so sure he’d said last night that he had to get up for the morning shift. It was his whole excuse for
deserting me. “Did he call in sick?”
“Sorry.” The barista looks apologetic. “I don’t know.”
“Right, okay.” I pull out my phone, glancing again at my text messages, but there’s still nothing from Nathan.
“Did you want to get anything?” the barista asks.
“Yeah. Sorry.” I shove my phone back into my pocket and wipe my forehead. “Cold brew, please?”
I check my phone again when I go back outside with my coffee. Still no reply. I pause on the sidewalk and try to craft another
text, but Are you ok? is too much, Did I misremember you were working today? is weird, and Stopped by Cuppa Cove but you weren’t there sounds like I’m stalking him.
I chew the inside of my cheek, glancing up the street. I can just see the rainbow flag outside Queer Punx, hanging limply
in the still, muggy air. Maybe Dina knows where Nathan is. She probably saw him this morning before he left her house.
The store feels hot and stuffy when I step inside, even with the door propped open. Sharon has a small fan set up on the shop
counter next to her, turning creakily back and forth, whirring away while Sharon herself pages through a magazine.
“Well, hello,” she says, looking up. “Decided to take advantage of the post-Fourth lull?”
“Actually, I’m looking for Nathan,” I say, standing in front of the creaky fan. “He told me he was working the morning shift
at Cuppa Cove today, but he’s not there.”
Sharon pauses halfway through turning a page. “Didn’t show for his shift?”
“Uh . . . I don’t know. The barista just said he’s not working today.”
“Hm.” Sharon lets her breath out. “Well, there’s a surprise.”
I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean, and she doesn’t offer an explanation. “Is Dina here?” I say. “I wanted to ask if
she saw Nathan this morning.”
“Yeah, she’s here. She’s just in the back.
” Sharon picks up her magazine, fanning herself with it, and heads for the back of the store, beckoning me to follow her past the collections of bumper stickers and art prints to a doorway half hidden by a teetering stack of tie-dyed shirts that look a lot like the one Dina was wearing yesterday.
The back room of Queer Punx is small and cramped, barely bigger than a walk-in closet, with boxes stacked along the walls,
a mini fridge in one corner covered in stickers for political candidates from the nineties, and a very old computer on a rickety
desk.
In the middle of it all is Dina, wearing a purple caftan covered in pandas, talking loudly on her phone. “Where exactly am
I supposed to get another team member, Dave? And no, do not suggest I run out into the street and shout that I need a gay
hunk. Meryl tried that years ago and it did not end well.”
Sharon clears her throat. Dina turns around.
“Gotta go, Dave,” she says. “I’ll call you back.” She lowers her phone, looking at me. “Don’t tell me—Sir Duke destroyed another
window screen.”
I blink. “What? No. I was just wondering if you’ve seen Nathan. He told me he’d be working this morning, but he’s not at the
coffee shop.”
Dina purses her lips, regarding me in silence. “He left early this morning,” she says. “Didn’t ask where he was going.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling disappointed.
Sharon sighs. “Come on, Dina, you know what he’s doing.”
Dina sniffs, frowning, and stares at her phone.
“He just does this sometimes,” Sharon says to me, fanning herself with the magazine again. “Ignores his phone. Calls in sick.
Flakes for a few days. He’ll pop up again.” She glances at Dina. “I’m sure he’s fine.”
“Of course he’s fine,” Dina says sharply. “Now, if neither of you need anything else, I have to find somebody to fill in for
Ruth-Ann at kickball, because Dave is useless.”
Sharon’s eyebrows jump. “What happened to Ruth-Ann?”
“Broke her damn hip!” Dina says. “She’ll be fine but she won’t be playing kickball anytime soon. Which means we’re down a player. We might as well hand Ace of Base the championship trophy now.”
I have no idea what they’re talking about, so I turn, awkwardly, and start for the exit. Maybe I’ll text Katy and Marcus.
See if they’ve heard from Nathan.
“Wait a minute,” Sharon says. “Why don’t we just get Harlowe to play?”
I freeze.
“That’s a thought,” Dina says. “Harlowe! You want to play kickball?”
I turn back. They’re both looking at me intently, like they’re trying to bore holes into my skull. “Uh . . . I don’t know.
What’s kickball?”
Dina waves a hand. “It’s like baseball but with kicking instead of a bat. There’s a whole Cape Cod LGBTQ-plus amateur league.
We’re all on a team together—you know, the whole crew from last night, plus Ruth-Ann, until just now. We’re supposed to play
Ace of Base next weekend, and they win the championship every year.”
“There isn’t actually that much competition,” Sharon says. “There are only four teams in the whole league. Our team—the OUTfielders—Ace
of Base, the Switch Kickers, and . . .” She snaps her fingers, frowning. “What’s the other team?”
“Three Dykes You’re Out,” Dina says.
“Right.” Sharon folds her arms, looking at me expectantly. “What do you think? It’ll just be a couple hours running around
a baseball diamond on Saturday. We’ve got some fans that always turn out to be the cheering section. And Nathan should be
there, assuming he pops back up by then.”
“He’s never missed a kickball game,” Dina says. “He won’t miss Saturday.”
Sharon looks less sure, but she attempts a reassuring smile. “I’m sure he won’t. So what do you say, Harlowe?”
I swirl my cold brew, ice cubes clinking. I don’t have a great history with sports (I honestly can’t throw a ball to save my life) but Dina said the league is amateur, and with the state of Meryl’s knees, I can’t believe she’s some sort of kickball phenom.
And Nathan will be there, a little voice says.
I muster my best, confident smile. “Sounds great.”
“Excellent.” Dina claps her hands together. “I’ll tell Dave. You’ll need a T-shirt and a cap, of course, but we’ll take care
of that. I’ll text you the details.”
After promising multiple times that I won’t forget and I’ll show up at Wellfleet Park on time the following Saturday, I say
goodbye to Dina and Sharon and leave Queer Punx, wandering slowly up Commercial Street toward my car, scrolling through my
text messages again.
There’s still no response from Nathan. I walk to my car, running my fingers absently over my lips, wishing they still tasted
faintly of alcohol and cigarettes, instead of slightly bitter cold brew.