51. Fifty-one
November comes in like a whirlwind.
Between Marin taking a part-time job washing hair at a local salon, Finn’s busy practice schedule, and my lousy attempt at balancing working at my dad’s bar and consulting jobs, the dinners we sit down together that had been so regular after summer now feel like a rare treasure.
“We should make you your own hashtag so then when bartenders take photos during the training, they can use the tag.”
I have no idea what this means, but I nod absently as I scoop salad into bowls.
“Maybe.” I hum, suddenly extremely thankful she’s the one who manages my social media account.
“There’s a girl I’m thinking of asking out,” Finn says as he twirls spaghetti onto a fork.
My eyes burn instantly. Not because he’s growing up, those tears had been shed long ago, but because the simple statement shows how far we’ve come together.
“Really? Anyone I know?” I try to say it casually like this is no big deal, but I can’t hide my ridiculous smile or the too-excited tone of my voice.
“Catie Johnson, I think you might know her dad.” He eyes me. “And don’t be weird. Your smile is creepy.”
I laugh. “I went to school with her dad, Mike. He’s friends with Gabe, actually. Good guy.”
“Catie Johnson?!” Marin’s eyes widen. “Finny, way to go. She’s on the volleyball team and volunteers for beach clean-ups. She’s basically the opposite of She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”
I snort at the Abby reference. “She sounds great, Finn. You should invite her over for dinner or something. Or now that the Avion is gone, we can do something with the shed so you can have friends over to hang out.”
“Okay,” he says.
“Okay.”
I don’t cry or hug him or do a dancing scream as my heart swells until it’s too big for my body when he simply smiles at me. I just nod, twirl my spaghetti, and act like that conversation didn’t just make every single hard one worth it.
***
The day the magazine comes out in the last week of November, I’m drunk on disbelief.
My dad closes The Crow’s Nest to the public, and we have a big dinner with family and close friends to celebrate. When he holds up the page as he stands at the head of the table, everyone cheers.
“Penelope Crawford takes her unique cocktail-creating skills and award-winning flair for creating a fun atmosphere of her family’s business to the next level, offering her skills to bar owners everywhere who want to run their business with more efficiency, fun, and creativity with her consulting services at Twist of Lime Consulting.”
Despite how hard the transition has been for my dad, his voice drips with pride as he reads the words out loud.
I look at the picture in his hands and can barely believe it’s me. There I am, standing in the green dress I bought in Maine, leaning against the bar with a huge grin on my face and a cocktail shaker in my hand.
“Speech!” Gabe calls through cupped hands.
The cry echoes around as fists pound against the table, making plates and silverware rattle loudly.
I stand up with a glass of wine in my hand. “Okay, okay.” I face a palm toward them. “I’d like to take this moment to thank my parents for irresponsibly raising me behind a bar and helping me learn every inappropriate thing I didn’t know I needed to know.”
They laugh, hug each other with a kiss, and smile like I’ve just given them the biggest compliment of their lives.
“And to Gabe, for letting me make bad cocktails for him when he was way too young to be drinking them.”
He cheeses a grin and holds up his beer like it’s a trophy, earning a laugh from everyone and a playful slap to his chest from Jenny.
“To all those spring breakers who sat on barstools and ordered ridiculous shots I had to fumble my way through every single year.”
My dad nods at that one, raising his glass, no doubt recalling how much of a headache that time of year can be.
“To Marin and Finn.” My voice cracks in two the second I say their names. “For believing in me and loving me no matter how much I mess up. For waiting for me to get my head out of the sand. For helping me find my way. I would never have done this if I didn’t know they weren’t beside me.”
Tears carve rivers down my face I don’t bother wiping. Across the length of the table, my mom dabs her eyes. Finn gives me a small smile as Marin interlaces her fingers with mine.
“And to…”
Ethan.
His name fills my mouth with every unsaid confession.
“…to everyone that drank a cocktail I created. Thank you for believing in me enough to get me here.”
I raise my glass and smile.
Then, all the glasses were in the air, clanking together in my honor, and my heart bursts at the beautiful sound of it.
***
“Penelope. I’m proud of you.”
My mom leans next to the commercial sink in the restaurant’s empty kitchen as I rinse the plates from dinner.
“Thanks, Mom. Really. For everything.”
“I think you should go get that man in Maine.”
I drop the glass I’m holding into the soapy sink with a loud crash at the unexpected statement.
“Mom…”
She shakes her head, holding her hand up to silence me.
“You listen to me, Penelope. You left this island with one kind of heartache, and you came back with another. Unnecessarily. Maybe it will go nowhere, maybe it will be difficult, but this will be a regret you will never recover from if you don’t try.”
A chain of fear tightens around me. “What if it’s too late? Mom, the man is…” I flip through every word that fails to accurately describe the breadth of Ethan. “Incredible. And thoughtful. Women notice him. And I’m—”
“Incredible,” she interrupts. “You are too hard on yourself and see something different from everyone else. And you won’t know if it’s too late if you don’t try.” She arches an eyebrow.
I shake my head as I scrub the next plate.
“What about the kids? And the distance? And what if I’m not ready?”
“Excuses,” she scoffs, drying a plate. “You don’t have to be a martyr to be a mother, Penelope. They are growing up—are you going to make them choose between a relationship with you and someone else?”
I don’t answer.
“And the distance?” She shrugs. “You’ll figure it out. You are ready. You weren’t a year ago, but you are today.”
I chew my lip.
“So, tell me.” She pauses, looking at me like she’s the devil. “How was the sex?”
I snort and shake my head. “You’re worse than Marin.”
She eyes me, her silent and?
I relent, saying, “and it was amazing.”
She smiles smugly. “I thought so.”
***
When I get home, there’s a text from Ethan.
Just a picture of the article in the magazine without anything else.
Me: Hi.
Ethan: Hi.
I think about what my mom said as I decide what to write next.
Me: Brussels sprouts are in season this month—I’m wondering what your thoughts are on that.
Ethan: The magazine is going to retract the article if you keep talking like that, Penelope.
Goosebumps cover my skin as I imagine his voice saying my name like warm honey.
I hate how much I miss him. Hate how he has stained my insides so deeply I can’t scrub him away, even with all the miles between us.
I thought that leaving him behind would make it easier for me to focus on the other wobbly pieces of my life. All it does is create a weird constant ache every time I notice he isn’t here.
Which is always.
Travis died, and it was against my will. I couldn’t stop it any more than I could stop the endless sadness that followed. But Ethan? I walked away from him all on my own. The ache in my chest is by my own design.
Me: I did it.
Ethan: You did.
The words, Because you told me I could, go unsent along with every other thing I want to tell him.