Chapter 34 Now Nine Months Later
Now
Nine Months Later
I inch my car onto the exit ramp for Newark Liberty International Airport, cursing myself for offering my pickup services in bumper-to-bumper traffic. Next time Maren decides to book a last-minute flight home the Friday before Memorial Day Weekend, she can Uber.
She messaged me a week ago with a screenshot of her flight confirmation, saying the price tracker she used had alerted her that tickets were seventy percent cheaper than usual, which had to be a sign: She’d come home and kick off the summer with me in Brantley Beach.
My road rage instantly subsides when I enter the chaotic arrivals level and spot my best friend.
Who am I kidding: I’m ecstatic. I spot an opening between two Ubers and whip into the space, avoiding eye contact with the traffic guy attempting to usher us all along.
(My pride shudders at the thought of looping around.)
I pop the trunk so Maren can toss her suitcase in, then she jumps in the front seat, pulling the door shut in one swift motion. I peel out like a getaway driver.
“Impeccable timing,” Maren says, catching her breath. Then, with a squeal, she leans across the console and side-hugs me.
I squeeze her back. “I hope you peed when you got off the plane, because we’re going to be here a while.” I nod toward the sea of taillights ahead of us. “Do me a favor? Text David and let him know we’re going to be late.”
Renting a house for the long weekend with David and Henry was Maren’s idea.
Of course, by the time she suggested it nothing was available—most rentals in the area were booked weeks, if not months, in advance of holiday weekends.
But Henry’s aunt is renovating an Airbnb that technically won’t be ready until next season.
She said we could stay there for free as long as we didn’t mind that half the house was still under construction.
The selling point for me was that it’s on the harbor side rather than near the beach.
It may be one of the biggest beach weekends of the year, but with Bubba’s reopening for the season I plan to stay far away from the boardwalk.
I’ve managed to avoid any major Bubba’s-related news for the last nine months—quite a feat, considering most of my freelance work is in the dining space.
When I reached out to all my PR and culinary contacts from the new email address I’d set up, I intentionally left out Trina Stanford of Diamond Group.
Any updates she’s sending to my Shore Life address are going into the void, which is more than fine with me.
All I know is what my parents have told me: that Bubba’s has been closed for renovations since September and is reopening this weekend under new management.
It’s also been nine months since I’ve heard from Sebastian. I assume he’s been in Santa Barbara since the single text he sent me while I was in London. I have no idea if he’ll be back for the reopening this weekend, or if he’s still involved with Bubba’s at all.
I’d be lying, though, if I said I wasn’t hurt by the fact that he hasn’t reached out.
I can accept the fact that he didn’t want to have anything more than a summer fling with me, that he was less than truthful about his commitment to keeping the restaurant, and even that he hightailed it to California the first chance he got.
But what I have trouble accepting is his decision to not even text me the occasional update on his mom.
In October, once I realized I wouldn’t be getting any updates from Sebastian, I went over to her house to check in myself.
I’d texted her and asked if I could come by under one condition: I didn’t want to talk about Sebastian.
She agreed, and I’ve been meeting her for lunch or coffee about once a month ever since.
For the most part, we keep our conversations to safe topics: her health (she continues to respond well to the new treatment she began in August), my freelancing and general town gossip. A perfect arrangement.
When Maren and I pull into the circular driveway an hour and a half later, I immediately feel guilty—because, fully renovated or not, this is a really nice house.
Henry meets us outside to help with our bags.
“Ohmygod, this is incredible,” Maren says, pulling Henry into a hug.
He greets me next. “Seriously,” I say, “your aunt did not have to do this.”
Maren squeals. “I’m pumped she did, though!”
Henry makes a no-big-deal gesture with one hand. “Don’t thank me yet. David’s in charge of dinner.”
“Aw,” I say, closing the trunk, “he’s a great cook!”
“Yes, well,” he says with a sly smile. “The food will be delicious, but I’d avoid the kitchen for the next hour unless you want to be Gordon Ramsay’d.”
Henry shows us to our room. Three of the five bedrooms are out of commission, so Maren and I are sharing a kids’ room with two twin beds, fading white carpet and seashell wallpaper.
“They haven’t started on this one yet, so it’s a bit outdated,” Henry says. “But I kind of love the classic beach-house feel of it.”
I couldn’t agree more. “It’s perfect.”
Maren and I change and unpack, then bound down the staircase like elementary schoolers.
We say hello to a frenzied David, who pours us both a glass of rosé before shooing us toward the wraparound porch so he can finish cooking (and stress-scolding Henry).
We sit at the big eucalyptus dining table and watch the boats in the harbor, sipping our wine.
Maren catches me up on the latest with her job (she was promoted again a few months ago) and her various suitors, and I tell her about stories I’m working on for a mix of local and national outlets: a history of saltwater taffy and its Atlantic City roots for Food Network Magazine, a roundup of the best new ice cream shops down the Shore for and an essay about cooking through my grandmother’s handwritten recipe box with my mom for Food52.
Maren says how proud she is of me, and for once I don’t deflect. I’m proud of me, too.
Henry joins us a little while later, and we help him set the table.
The meal is incredible. The stress on David’s face lessens with each course.
A watermelon salad with feta and mint. Scallops in a saffron sauce.
Lobster tails. Somewhat reluctantly, David had agreed to let me be in charge of dessert, so we finish the meal with espressos and a fancy blueberry cobbler, one of my favorite summer dessert recipes from New York Times Cooking (the next target on my freelance list), based on a dish from Chez Panisse.
I ignore a ricochet comment from David about having California on the brain.
As we scrape our bowls clean and watch the sun set over the harbor, I feel overcome with a sense of peace.
My mom was right: I have so much to be grateful for.
Good food. Great friends who have stuck around regardless of where we’ve worked or lived.
A beautiful place to call home. The beginning of a writing career I can be proud of. I’m finding my way.
The only thing still missing is a partner to share it all with. Someone who sees all of me—the good and the bad—and accepts me anyway. I want what my parents have. What David and Henry have. But I can wait for that.
Because in the meantime, I’ve been learning to accept myself. And that’s more than enough for now.
I wake up the next morning around eight. Maren’s bed is empty, so she must already be downstairs. This doesn’t surprise me: It’s early afternoon in London.
I locate a full pot of coffee in the kitchen and pour myself a mug, then find Maren on the porch. She’s stretched along the bench swing, a mug of her own in one hand and a memoir in the other. When she sees me she scrunches her feet in so I can join her.
“Sleep okay?” I ask.
“Nope. I never learn my lesson with those late-night espressos. You?”
“Honestly? Yes. I slept better than I have in a while.”
“Good.” She peers over the top of her book. “You looked like you needed it more than me anyway.”
I respond with a shove.
My book is upstairs, so I open Instagram, happy to aimlessly scroll for a bit. But when the very first post loads, my thumb freezes.
It’s a photo of Sebastian in front of the restaurant, which confuses me at first—I unfollowed him months ago. But then I look at the handle: It isn’t his personal account that posted, it’s the professional one for Bubba’s.
In the photo he’s leaning against the side of the restaurant, smiling softly, hands in his pockets.
The look in his eyes tells me that whoever took it may have caught him off guard slightly.
It’s a great picture of him. The caption reads: WE’RE BACK—AND WE’VE GOT A GREAT SEASON IN STORE FOR YOU.
OUR NEW CAFé IS OPEN THIS MORNING! OFFICIAL RESTAURANT OPENING @ NOON.
KICK OFF THE SUMMER AT YOUR FAVORITE PLACE.
WE’RE READY FOR YOU! #BUBBASNJ #JERSEYSHORE #RESTAURANT #LOCALSUMMER.
I smile despite myself, because it’s a typical Bubba’s caption, probably written by Bubba herself.
I remember the summer after my senior year of high school—my last summer working at the restaurant—when a few of us convinced her to create a business Instagram handle.
A Facebook page wasn’t enough anymore, we’d insisted.
She’d resisted at first, then reluctantly agreed to give it a shot that season, populating the feed with grainy, sepia-toned food pictures reposted from diners, candids of the staff and horizontal shots of the boardwalk.
She loved reading us the few comments that rolled in under each post, mostly from longtime customers who were just starting to use social media themselves.
It wasn’t exactly groundbreaking social content, but it was authentic.
I’m surprised that Sebastian does still appear to be involved, and that Diamond Group would approve of such an unpolished post. I assumed Trina Stanford would have installed an official social media manager to overhaul the account by now.