Chapter 2
Two weeks ago I got the call. If you’ve ever gotten “the call” in your life, you’ll unfortunately know what I mean.
The one that creates a before and after in your story, bookending each side.
Whatever you had been doing prior to it becomes so hilariously insignificant in comparison to the words coming through the phone speaker.
I was sitting on an ocean-aged bench overlooking Malibu’s choppy waves when the podcast I was listening to was interrupted by “Hopelessly Devoted to You” wailing in my headphones. My phone was ringing, a photo of my mother’s effervescent smile and dark hair filling the screen.
“Hi, Moooom!” I drawled with faux lethargy.
“Hi, baby. Is now a good time?” My mom’s usually light, sugary tone was pulled taut. The tension in her voice stiffened every muscle in my body, causing me to shift to a straighter position on the bench.
“Yeah, what’s going on?”
“It’s Aunt Lottie. I just wanted to let you know we decided to put her on at-home hospice care. The cancer progressed way faster than any of the doctors saw coming so we’ve made the difficult decision to quit treatment and…” Her voice trailed off as my ears began to ring.
My body felt like it was tilting internally, an air of unreality coating me. My fingers tingled and my vision darkened at the periphery.
A memory of Lottie dancing around the kitchen in one of her floral printed maxi dresses, singing “The Butterfly Song” in Vietnamese, waltzed across my mind.
“Kìa con b??m vàng, Kìa con b??m vàng!” She would sing to me with her eyebrows raised and skirt fluttering around her as she seemingly floated over the wooden floor.
I would sit there in a fit of giggles, completely enraptured by her beauty.
Her voice felt like a safe cocoon. She was a second mother, a grandmother, and a best friend, all in one beautiful, tiny body.
“I-I’ll come home as soon as possible, Mom. This is top priority to me. I’ll get someone to—” My mind sputtered as I tried to work out the logistics of leaving college when there were only two weeks left until graduation, of abandoning the consulting job I had lined up in New York.
“No, baby. I want you to graduate first. Don’t worry about us just yet. She’s comfortable here; the nurses come twice a week. Just work out how to come here for the summer if you want to, okay?” my mom said, tone placating my panic.
“I will be there for sure. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” I emphasized, promising with no concrete plan of how. But didn’t at-home hospice care mean death was approaching?
My mom has always been worried about overstepping—the complete opposite of a stereotypically overbearing mother.
At times, she’s too polite in her attempt not to overstep, and it feels like I could drift away from her and Lottie and never hear from them again if I wasn’t the one to tug on the rope, pulling them closer to me.
I couldn’t rely on my mom to emphasize how dire the situation was.
Lottie could be at risk of dying tomorrow and Mom would still encourage me to go to New York City and not worry about it.
Now, two weeks after the call that derailed my life, my massive luggage bobbles violently up the cobblestone walkway that leads to the guesthouse.
I could have spent my visit home in my untouched bedroom, but the thought made my skin crawl. There was nothing like a childhood bedroom to make you feel like the years you’ve spent trying to progress have been erased.
If Lottie’s compound was an island, the guesthouse would be like a lighthouse perched on a rocky cliff. As a kid, the short walk made me feel like a character from The Hobbit, trekking up the cozy pathway that led to the smaller structure with its curved wooden door.
But I don’t see any of it as I pull my belongings behind me.
My body feels numb from shock. Seeing Lottie for the first time after the call was even worse than I conjured in my imagination.
The last time I saw her she had been sick, yes, but she was still moving about the kitchen like she was floating beneath her floral dress.
Pushing open the wooden door of the guesthouse, the comforting musk of old clothes and fresh sheets greets me.
My gaze snags on the wooden coatstand in the corner.
An aged yellow bucket hat hangs from the top rung.
Memories flash through my mind of the beach trips Lottie took me on when she had a day off managing her convenience stores.
She’d help me build “hot tubs” in the sand, transporting ocean water to our man-made hole and sitting in it like lobsters in a pot.
The memory feels like a hand reaching through my chest, squeezing my heart uncomfortably.
I fight to take a deep breath and drag my bags all the way inside.
I have a sinking feeling the sensation will only become more prevalent in the future.
I cross the small bedroom to the bathroom, lined with jade-green tile, turning the shower handle to its hottest setting.
As I wait for the water to heat up, I scan the layout of the bedroom, trying to appreciate the coziness of the beautiful room rather than feel the pit of dread rising in my stomach.
A glimpse of my reflection in the seashell-encrusted mirror causes me to do a double-take.
My body looks deflated, like it’s had a head start processing the news before my mind got to the starting line.
I tousle my curtain bangs and wipe the tears from beneath my tired eyes.
My phone buzzes. I pick it up to find a Google calendar reminder for three months from now: “Ernst & Young Start Date.” My shoulders tense.
I delete the reminder and throw my phone on the bed and then step into the shower’s comforting heat.
I was offered the consulting job I had been gunning for my entire time at Pepperdine.
Up until the call about Lottie’s health, I was prepared to move to New York City and buckle down for the next few years of twelve- to fourteen-hour workdays, excited by the prospect of finally working toward my goal.
“Do you have, like, an NYC bucket list?” Faye, my best friend from college, asked me one night.
I blinked at her and said, “What do you mean by… bucket list?”
“Like, aren’t you envisioning the cute outfits you’ll wear to work every day and the sexy dive bar you’ll get drinks at where you might spot a celebrity?” she said, eyebrows raised in anticipation.
But the question stumped me. Landing this consulting gig wasn’t about enjoying my work, having a vibrant social life, or living in a big city. Those all paled in comparison to the expression I imagined on my mother’s relieved face as I delivered her the news: “You can retire.”
Leaving Seabrook had always been about getting the best job possible so that I could relieve my mom from working behind the cash register at one of Lottie’s convenience stores.
But more than that, I wanted to buy her independence.
Her life had been about supporting me for so long, I wanted to pay her back.
I wanted to see her carefree enough to hang out with friends or consider dating someone again.
To simply do something because she wanted to. Not because she needed to for me.
But here I was, job deferred.
Which was fine, of course. There was nowhere I’d rather be than with Lottie.
But simultaneously, it felt like I was abandoning my mom.
She would never see it that way, because she’d never ask for my help in the first place.
Her life was about making sure I could live mine.
But I wanted to make mine about making sure she could live hers.
I let my mind wander to my friends’ more promising first days out of college.
Faye moving her clothes into a walk-in closet, kissing her new husband on the cheek before ushering him out the door to make enough money for both of them.
And Roshi, receiving congratulations from relatives as she announced the prestigious law school she got accepted to.
Their futures are unfurling while mine feels like it’s snapping backward: Freshly moved into a tiny house at the back of a mansion I had no merit in earning, back to square one in my hometown. The irony is jarring. My friends are the mansion. I am the guesthouse.
I shut the water off and yank a pink towel from the rack, hastily drying off and ready to exit the guesthouse not long after arriving.
Sulking wouldn’t get me closer to my dream of letting my mom finally retire, and Lottie wanted me to spend the day outside.
So, if I couldn’t pursue the job I wanted, it was time I found one here in Seabrook.
Descending the cobblestone steps and brusquely turning onto a wide road, I stride toward downtown where small businesses thrive during the tourist season. Somewhere, someone will surely hire me.
One of the things I missed most about home was the ability to walk everywhere.
Within seconds, I remember why Seabrook is called “a storybook come to life.” The way the trees, seemingly as old as time, hunker down into the earth with muscular roots and weave through roads.
A choir of birds sings as squirrels dart from branch to branch.
Houses and shops lack street numbers, so hand-painted wooden signs offer names to reference instead.
“Bristle & Brine,” reads a swinging sign to a boutique with robin’s-egg-blue-painted shutters.
Three blocks into the city, I lock eyes with my target—Seabrook Coffee House. A more recent addition to the city square, the name is a far cry from unique, but the shop itself makes up for it.
The white cottage house is nestled in a courtyard, led to by a brick street.
Lush greenery hugs the roof like a sweater.
As a child, I would hide behind the abandoned house’s bushes while playing tag with the local kids.
Now, as a newly graduated adult, I swing the creaky red doors open to beg for a job.
A short, blond-haired girl peeks over the register at me and gives me an excited grin. She looks like she just celebrated the birthday that made her old enough to work here.
“Good morning! What can I get ya?” she says with a sunny smile.
An odd amount of shame creeps into my voice as I reply, “Morning! I was actually checking to see if you guys were hiring.” Perhaps seeing that I’d be coworkers with a high schooler after completing my degree at a prestigious university is what triggers it.
It’s just for the summer, I tell myself, making sure to liven up my expression so this cheery-faced girl doesn’t receive the brunt of my postgrad crisis.
The girl’s eyebrows crinkle like she’s trying to soak up the totality of my face before snapping out of it and blurting, “Yes! Let me just go ask the manager real quick!” I furrow my brow as she scurries to the back like a small mouse.
My ear unintentionally catches the sound of Sunny Teenager informing the manager that “a girl” is here looking for a job. There seems to be a tense exchange, whispered questions and responses, but I can’t hear what they’re saying.
The manager is facing her, his broad shoulders blocking my view, but the sun beams through the window and highlights his jagged cheekbone. From the back, his hair looks messy in a way that suggests he was too busy to put effort into styling it.
The conversation between Tense Manager and Sunny Teenager ends, so I turn away sharply, hoping they don’t catch me eavesdropping. I’m facing the window, pretending to look outside, when I hear his footsteps approaching.
A calm, deep voice sounds off behind my left ear. “Excuse me, ma’am?”
The sound makes me time travel while standing in place. I spin around, still suspended in the second of shock, where my brain screams improbability.
My eyes finally land on him and the floor of my stomach becomes a faulty elevator.
The person who felt more like home than my house did, the one I spent twelve formative years with, the name that became too painful to think about after disappearing without saying the word goodbye, is standing in front of me.
More to myself than him, a subconscious breath of a word rasps out of me, “Declan.”
His pupils dilate in response. Or am I imagining things?
Apart from the tiniest twitch of his strong mouth, his jaw stays locked in cool concentration. He seems unmoored, maybe more resigned to see me than shocked by my presence.
Why is he unfazed?
Everything about him is familiar in an instant, and yet, wholly different.
Declan has the face of someone who only becomes more interesting the longer you look at him.
I instantly get lost surveying his recent developments.
In the four years since I’ve seen him, his face has stretched tight over the angular planes of his cheekbones.
A speckling of stubble dots the slant of his jaw.
New lines are etched into the grooves beside his eyes.
But the dimples, the freckle on his bottom lip, just slightly to the right, and the freckle on his neck, slightly to the left, are still perfectly in place.
“Blair,” he responds in a clipped tone and a simple, albeit slightly awkward nod, before shoving the application into my hands and spinning around to walk away.
As he does, I notice something that wasn’t there the last time I saw him. A subtle limp.