Chapter 27
CHAPTER 27
L ucy sat on the sand at Race Point Beach, finishing the last piece of caramel from her bag of treats from Cabot's Candy. The salty ocean breeze mixed with the sweetness lingering on her tongue, creating a strange yet comforting contrast. The vastness of the Atlantic spread before her, calming and endless, but her mind refused to settle.
Jenna.
She hadn't stopped thinking about her since opening those journals. The words Jenna had left behind were raw and heartbreaking, full of a pain Lucy hadn't seen—or perhaps hadn't wanted to see. The memories of their friendship, fractured by time and tragedy, felt sharper now, like old wounds reopened.
Lucy brushed sand off her hands and stood, brushing away the ache in her chest. She climbed back onto her bike, the worn seat familiar beneath her. She didn't know where she was going next, but her legs seemed to have a mind of their own as she pedaled away from the beach and onto the winding paths of the Cape Cod National Seashore.
The dunes gave way to patches of beach grass and scrub oak, their earthy scent mingling with the sea air. As the quiet solitude of the landscape surrounded her, Lucy found herself thinking about the summer after high school. The year Jenna died. The year she'd left Periwinkle Shores behind, chasing distractions across Europe and burying herself in unfamiliar places and faces.
But she hadn't buried the guilt. That had followed her, clinging like a shadow she couldn't shake.
The familiar streets of Periwinkle Shores seemed to mock her with their cheerful storefronts and casual tourists. Every corner held a memory—the ice cream shop where they'd spent countless summer afternoons, the bookstore where Jenna would spend hours browsing the poetry section, the crosswalk where they'd said goodbye the night before everything changed. Lucy pedaled slower now, her earlier determination wavering with each turn of the wheels.
What right did she have to show up after all these years? To disturb Mrs. Fletcher's peace with questions about a tragedy she'd surely spent years trying to process? Lucy could still remember the hollow look in the older woman's eyes at the funeral, the way her hands had trembled as she'd accepted condolences.
Lucy pulled over near the town park, her hands shaking as she pulled out her water bottle. The journals in her backpack seemed to carry their own gravity, pulling at her consciousness. Jenna's words echoed in her mind: "Sometimes I think nobody really sees me. They see the version of me they want to see, the one that makes them comfortable." Had that included her? Had she been so wrapped up in her own world that she'd missed the signs?
The small, white house came into view, its weathered shingles a testament to the years gone by. Lucy's heart raced at the sight of Jenna's old bedroom window, still adorned with the stained-glass butterfly they'd hung there the summer before senior year. The garden out front was still well-tended, filled with bright bursts of hydrangeas and lavender—Jenna's favorites.
She slowed her bike, her heart pounding as she dismounted and wheeled it to the side of the driveway. Each step up the front path felt like walking through deep water, her legs heavy with hesitation. The porch steps creaked under her feet—the same familiar sound from countless summer days running up and down these stairs, calling out for Jenna to come explore some new adventure.
Standing before the door, Lucy found herself frozen. She raised her hand to knock, then lowered it again, smoothing her shirt with trembling fingers. What if Mrs. Fletcher blamed her? What if she'd spent all these years wondering why Lucy, Jenna's supposed best friend, hadn't seen the pain her daughter was in? What if?—
Before she could overthink it further, the door creaked open.
"Lucy," Mrs. Fletcher said, her voice a mix of surprise and warmth. She looked older than Lucy remembered, her face etched with fine lines that deepened as she smiled. Her hair, once a rich brown like Jenna's, was now streaked with silver, and her eyes were shadowed with something Lucy couldn't name—grief, perhaps, or resignation. Or maybe both. "It's been a long time."
"Hi, Mrs. Fletcher," Lucy said, her voice small. She noticed how the older woman's hand gripped the doorframe, knuckles whitening slightly. "I—I'm sorry to show up unannounced. I should have called, I just…" The words tangled in her throat.
Mrs. Fletcher waved her inside. The gesture was so familiar—how many times had she welcomed Lucy just like this?—that it made Lucy's heart ache. "Come in. It's good to see you. You look…" She paused, studying Lucy's face. "You look so grown up."
Lucy stepped into the house, the familiar scent of lemon polish and fresh flowers hitting her immediately. Nothing had changed, yet everything felt different. The living room was still filled with framed photos of Jenna, her bright smile captured in moments that now felt bittersweet. Lucy's gaze caught on a particular photo—Jenna at sixteen, sitting on the beach at sunset, her hair wild in the wind. She remembered taking that picture herself, remembered Jenna laughing and telling her to stop, remembered thinking her friend had never looked more alive. They were both so young and had a world of adventures in front of them.
"Can I get you something? Tea? Water? I just made a fresh pot of coffee."
"No, thank you," Lucy said quickly, clutching her hands in her lap as she perched on the edge of the couch. The cushions were new, she noticed, but the throw pillow Jenna had embroidered in art class still held its place of honor in the corner. "I…I've been thinking a lot about Jenna lately. I’m not sure if you’ve heard but Romy Kingsbury is back, staying with her aunt.”
Mrs. Fletcher nodded, her expression softening as she sank into the armchair across from Lucy. The afternoon light streaming through the windows caught the silver in her hair, creating a halo effect that made her look suddenly vulnerable.
"I think I did hear something about that. I’m sure Pamela is happy to have her home. It was such a terrible thing what happened to her parents.”
“Yes, especially after…” Lucy didn’t finish her thought.
"You know, some mornings I still wake up and, for just a moment, I forget. I hear a floorboard creak upstairs and think it's Jenna getting ready for school."
Lucy felt tears prick at her eyes. She blinked them back, forcing herself to continue. "I've been reading some of her writings," she said, her voice trembling slightly. She watched Mrs. Fletcher's face carefully, searching for any sign of anger or resentment. "Her journals and stories. They're beautiful. Heartbreaking, but beautiful. And I was thinking…" She took a deep breath. "I'd like to turn them into a book. To finish what she started, in a way. To let people see who she really was."
Mrs. Fletcher's eyes glistened, and she reached for a tissue from the box on the side table—the same place it had always been, Lucy noted. Some habits never changed.
"Jenna would have loved that," she said, dabbing at her eyes. "She always wanted her words to mean something. She used to tell me…" Her voice caught. "She used to tell me that writing was the only way she could say what she really felt."
The weight of those words hung in the air between them. Lucy's fingers dug into her knees as she gathered her courage. "Mrs. Fletcher," she began, then stopped. Started again. "There's something I need to ask. Something I've been trying to understand." She could feel her heart hammering against her ribs. "About that day. At the marina."
Mrs. Fletcher went very still, her tissue crumpling in her fist. The ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner seemed suddenly loud.
"I was there, but…" Lucy continued, the words coming faster now, "I don't remember everything clearly. I thought she got tangled in the mooring line, but the more I think about it…" She trailed off, unable to voice the question fully, terrified Jenna’s mother would understand the insinuation and immediately throw her out of the house.
Mrs. Fletcher sighed deeply, her gaze dropping to her lap. The tissue in her hands was shredded now, tiny white pieces falling like snow onto her dark skirt. "Lucy," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper, "Jenna didn't get tangled."
The clock ticked. A car passed outside. Lucy could hear her own breathing, too loud in the quiet room.
"What do you mean?" The question came out strange and hollow, as if someone else had asked it.
Mrs. Fletcher lifted her head, and Lucy saw tears tracking down her cheeks. "She was struggling," she said softly, each word seeming to cost her something. "For years. She hid it well, but there were signs. The way she'd disappear for hours and come back with red eyes. How she stopped playing her guitar, stopped singing in the shower." She pressed her lips together, collecting herself. "I tried to talk to her, but she'd just smile and tell me everything was fine. That she was just tired. That senior year was stressful for her. And we’d already dealt with her suicide attempt when she was in the eighth grade."
Lucy grabbed her throat. “I had no idea. I never knew.”
Mrs. Fletcher shook her head. “No one knew. We kept that quiet.”
Lucy felt the room spinning slightly. She gripped the edge of the couch, anchoring herself. "But that day…"
"She made a choice," Mrs. Fletcher continued, her voice thick with emotion. "She let herself go. The police report…" She stopped, swallowing hard. "The official report said she got tangled in the mooring line. That's what everyone believed. That's what the papers wrote." Mrs. Fletcher's fingers twisted the tissue. "But my brother-in-law, Tom—he was the one who dove in after her. He never said anything different, not at first. But a few months later, when I kept asking him what really happened…" She drew a shaky breath. "He finally told me what he saw. She was under the pier, Lucy. He said…he said it looked like she was holding herself down. He couldn't bear to tell anyone else, couldn't bear to change what everyone believed. But I needed to know the truth, and he knew that."
The room seemed to tilt, the air pressing heavy against Lucy's chest. She could taste salt on her lips and realized she was crying. "You're saying it wasn't an accident?" The words felt like glass in her mouth.
Mrs. Fletcher wiped her eyes with what remained of the tissue. "After Tom told me, everything started to make horrible sense. All the little signs I'd tried to ignore. Richard, her father, and I, we've never talked about it directly. I think we both know, deep down, but saying it out loud…" She shook her head. "Sometimes it's easier to hold on to a lie."
Memory crashed over Lucy like a wave—Jenna's strange calm that morning, the way she'd pretended to be afraid of jumping into the water. The way she looked at Romy with such hatred when everyone yelled at her to stop teasing Jenna. It was almost as if she’d found a perfect opportunity for what she was about to do. The pain she felt would finally stop, and she’d finally be free.
"I didn't know," Lucy whispered, her voice breaking. Her hands were shaking so badly she had to press them between her knees. "I didn't see it. All those times she called late at night, saying she couldn't sleep. The poems she showed me about drowning, about floating away. I thought…I thought it was just metaphors. I thought she was being artistic. I should have…" She choked on a sob. "I should have done something."
"Oh, sweetheart." Mrs. Fletcher moved from her chair to the couch, wrapping an arm around Lucy's shoulders. The gesture was so maternal, so achingly familiar, that it broke something loose in Lucy's body.
"You couldn't have known. None of us did. Jenna didn't know how to say what she needed to say. That's why she wrote, why she kept so much inside."
"But I was her best friend." Lucy sobbed, turning into Mrs. Fletcher's embrace like she was seventeen again. "I should have seen past the masks, past the smiles. All those journal entries about feeling hollow, about wearing faces—they weren't just creative writing exercises, were they?"
Mrs. Fletcher stroked Lucy's hair, her own tears falling silently. "No," she said softly. "They weren't. But Lucy, listen to me." She pulled back, holding Lucy's face between her hands. Her fingers were cool and slightly trembling. "You loved her. You were there for her in ways nobody else was. Those journals? I have no doubt they're full of stories about the two of you. Full of moments where you made her feel seen, feel real."
Lucy hiccupped, trying to catch her breath. "You think so?"
"I do." Mrs. Fletcher reached for a fresh tissue, gently wiping Lucy's cheeks. "That's why I think…I think this book idea of yours? It's right. It's what she would have wanted. To be understood, finally. To have her truth told."
Lucy sat frozen, the weight of Mrs. Fletcher's words settling heavily on her chest. The clarity she had sought came with an unbearable ache, a truth she wasn't sure she was ready for. She looked around the room, at the photos of Jenna's life frozen in moments of happiness, at the embroidered pillow, at the clock ticking steadily as if to remind her that time hadn't stopped even when everything else had.
"I'm so sorry," Lucy whispered, her voice breaking. "I didn't know. I should've seen it—I should've…"
Mrs. Fletcher reached across the space between them, her hand trembling as it covered Lucy's. "None of us saw it, Lucy. And even if we had, we might not have been able to stop her. Jenna hid her pain because she didn't want to burden anyone. But it doesn't mean we didn't love her or that we didn't try."
Lucy nodded, tears streaming freely now. "I want to make this right," she said. "I want people to know her. The real her—not just the pain, but the brilliance and beauty in her words. She deserves that."
Mrs. Fletcher gave a small, sad smile. "She does. And so do you. If you want to write her story, Lucy, you have my blessing. Let her words shine."
Lucy felt something shift inside her—a resolve, fragile yet firm. She didn't know if finishing Jenna's story would bring her peace, but it was something she needed to do. For Jenna. For herself.
She thanked Jenna’s mother and said goodbye, promising to visit again. As she stepped out into the late afternoon sun, Lucy looked back at the house, at the window where Jenna's butterfly still hung. She wiped her cheeks, climbed onto her bike, and began pedaling home.
Her heart ached, but for the first time in years, it wasn't from avoidance. It was from facing the truth—and deciding to carry it forward.