Chapter Thirty-Two
and bought a little camper van, which is currently sitting on one side of the clearing at the top of the hill, its roof already
covered in tiny scratches from rumbling up and down Spyglass Beach Way under the tunnel of overhanging tree branches.
It takes me less than an hour to pack up my own things in the cottage. I don’t bother packing neatly—there’s no real reason
to when I’ll be unpacking again fifty feet away. I just shove my clothes into my suitcase, pile my remaining groceries into
a few paper bags, tuck my laptop and charging cables and notebooks into my backpack. The books I brought go back into boxes
along with the few tchotchkes I held on to.
And then, suddenly, it’s all piled up near the front door, and I’m left standing in the living room, looking around at the
couch, the sailboat painting, the faded rug on the floor. The scuff marks on the coffee table. The brass finish worn off on
the lamp switch from years of use.
I take one last walk through the house, just to make sure I got everything, closing each door behind me as I go—the bedroom, the bathroom, the bifold door to the kitchen, the plain one to the dining room.
And then I take all my stuff outside, piling it on the front steps—the boxes, the suitcase, the backpack. Pull the key with
the sailboat charm out of my pocket.
I know it’s not really goodbye. I’ll have to come back here and clean between guests. Swap out a rusted percolator or a broken
chair. Touch up scuff marks on the walls. After spending the summer here, I’m not sure how much longer this cottage can really
go without at least a window AC.
“See you soon,” I say to the tiny living room.
And I could almost swear I hear a creak of shifting walls and settling floors, as though the house is letting out a gentle
sigh as I close the door.
It takes me a few trips to haul everything down to the bigger house. Once it’s piled up again on Dina’s front porch, I ring
her doorbell. She opens it a moment later, dressed in a tank top and baggy paint-splattered overalls, her hair in a frizzy
ponytail.
I hold out the cottage key. “It’s all yours.”
A small smile crosses her face and there’s a softness in her eyes as she takes the key, tucking it in her pocket. “Thank you.”
She waves a hand. “Come on in. Let me show you around.”
We carry my things into the entryway and then I follow her into the living room. There are a few bare spots now, here and
there. Some of the black-and-white photographs are missing from the walls. Some of the books are missing from the shelves.
All the smaller photos are gone too, and so is the record player.
“Feel free to move things around,” Dina says. “Nothing’s all that precious, except the art. You can take that down; just put
it in storage and make sure it’s safe.”
I glance around at the remaining paintings and photographic portraits. “Did George do all of these?”
She nods. “The photographs, yes. The paintings . . . those are just things we both liked. But like I said, put it all in storage if you want to.”
I don’t think I will want to. I’m not sure it would feel like the right house if I did.
Dina walks me through the whole cottage, showing me the electric panel, and the furnace, and where she stores tools in the
basement. She explains the trash pickup schedule. She points out the dehumidifier you have to leave on in the laundry room
so the house doesn’t start growing mold, the sticky window in the second bedroom that needs a little extra muscle, and the
tap in the bathroom that will start leaking every few months.
“Just means the bolts need tightening again,” she says. “Got a wrench in the drawer just for that.”
She shows me her lists of people to call if something breaks. Where the cat food is. The cat litter. The phone number for
the vet.
And then, finally, she turns to me, holding out a plain brass key. “Here you go. In the interest of transparency, I should
tell you Nathan also has one.”
I smile. “I know. I don’t mind.” I take the key. “Do you want me to make a copy, so you can have this one back?”
She scoffs. “Why, so I can lose it in the Grand Canyon or something? No, no. Don’t bother.”
“You’re going to the Grand Canyon?”
“No idea. But I’ve never been. Seems like an interesting thing to see.” Dina puts her hands on her hips, looking around. “Well,
I guess that’s it. I might as well take my things over to the little house.”
“You want a hand?”
She waves dismissively. “It’s hardly anything. Most stuff is in the camper now.”
I follow her back to the front door, where she picks up a small duffle bag and a slightly dilapidated cardboard box. I hold the door for her as she steps outside.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says.
“Yeah. See you tomorrow.”
“Keep an eye out for Duke.” She glances around. “No idea where he’s gotten to, but he usually turns up once you break out
the cat food.”
I smile. “Got it.”
She looks past me, into the house, and for a moment, I think she’s going to say something else. Her lips part, but in the
end, she just gives a quick little nod—to me, or her house, or maybe to both of us—and then she’s gone, carrying her box and
her duffle up the flagstone path to the little cottage.
I close the door and lean my back against it, looking around the house. At its warm wood floors and colorful rugs and furniture.
The jumble of art and books and records. All of it chaotic and lived-in.
My eyes catch on the empty space on the side table where the record player and the photographs used to be. I’ve got plenty
of unpacking to do, but for now, I reach into the closest cardboard box and pull out the first tchotchke my fingers find—a
rainbow tea light holder that Rika and Yasmin gave me for my birthday, after Jackson and I moved in together.
I set it on the side table, in a little patch that’s free of dust, where one of Dina’s smaller photographs must have been.
It fits, how colorful it is, and it makes me smile.
The screen door that leads out onto the back porch squeaks a little when I open it, and I make a mental note to try oiling
it with the oil Dina showed me in the basement. But for now, I walk out to the edge of the deck, leaning my elbows on the
railing, staring out at the ocean as a cool breeze ruffles my hair.
I don’t know how long I stand there, but it’s long enough that the sun warms me, even through the breeze, and when I close my eyes, bright spots dance on my eyelids, echoes of the sunlight dancing on the sea.
The sun is setting when the front door creaks open and Nathan calls out, “Harlowe?”
I lean my head back against the wooden frame of the dining chair I’m sitting in. “I’m in the kitchen!”
The door closes and Nathan appears, wearing a paint-spattered T-shirt and beat-up jeans. His eyebrows jump. “What are you
doing?”
I look down at the gray fluffball of cat curled up on my lap, and then back at Nathan. “I’m petting Sir Duke. Why do you look
so surprised?”
Nathan leans a shoulder against the wall, the fingers of one hand tapping against his leg, his expression amused. “He’s letting
you. And he’s on your lap.”
“So?”
“That is a half-feral demon beast. He doesn’t sit on laps.”
“Well, he hasn’t been here long.” I look back down at Sir Duke. The cat’s eyes are closed, but the tip of his tail is still
twitching back and forth. “I only just got him to come inside.”
Nathan’s mouth quirks up. “You clearly possess superpowers.”
I glance up at him, and the thought drifts through my head that I want to take a picture of him—just like that, leaning against
the wall in paint-splattered clothes, exhausted but smiling, even though I know his fingers are tapping because he’s on day
ten without a cigarette or even a beer. But I don’t care. I want to fill the side table in the living room with photos again.
New ones—dozens of gloriously imperfect moments—for the sun to slowly bleach and fade.
Tangible reminders that we’re here.
“How’s everything at the shop-formerly-known-as-Queer-Punx?” I ask.
Nathan pushes himself away from the wall and pulls out the chair next to me, sinking down onto it. “Getting there. It’s all
cleaned up, and I started painting.” He slowly rotates a shoulder. “You wouldn’t believe the marks on those walls. I’m not
sure Dina had painted since the nineties.” He glances around. “Is she here?”
“Dina? She already went over to the little house. You need her for something?”
“No, I was just wondering.” He lets his breath out, running a hand through his hair. “The lease is all signed and turned in.
It’s official.”
I grin. “Bike Punx era begins, huh?”
He laughs—that shy, gentle laugh that seems to be coming easier and easier. “I haven’t decided on a name yet,” he says, squinting
out the big picture window that overlooks the deck. “Hey, you think Sir Duke will let you get up? It looks like it’ll be a
nice sunset. We could walk down to the beach.”
I glance at his jiggling leg. “Sure. A walk sounds great.”
I carefully scoop Sir Duke off my lap. He lets out an annoyed grunt as I stand up, but as soon as I set him back down, he
curls up with his face buried in his tail.
I go to grab my boat shoes from the entryway, and when I come back, Nathan is slowly moving the sliding door to the deck back
and forth, frowning down at the track it glides on.
“This needs some WD-40 or something,” he says.
I grin. “You offering to fix it?”
He glances up and slowly returns my smile. “I don’t know. What’s in it for me?”
I laugh. “Let’s look at it later. Dina’s probably got something in the basement that would work. Come on, we’ll miss the sunset.”
We head for the deck stairs at the edge of the dune. There’s the faintest hint of crispness in the air, like the beginning
of autumn is on the edge of the wind.
“How’s it feel?” I ask, grasping the rope railing. “To really be starting the bike shop?”
“Fucking terrifying,” he says from behind me.
“I can take the day off tomorrow, if you want a hand with anything.”
“How do you feel about painting?”