Chapter Thirteen
Thirteen
Birdie swore that eating out by yourself was something special—a privilege only enjoyed by a brave and confident few.
She had plenty of friends—neighbors from her town house community and colleagues from the high school who felt like their own form of family.
All she had to do was pick up the phone if she wanted some adult company.
Once Grace, her longtime restaurant companion, left for college and set out on her adult life, Birdie—on the rare occasion she had extra splurge money—never placed those calls.
When given the choice, she preferred to dine out alone.
“If you can’t sit comfortably and enjoy a meal by yourself, then how can you expect anyone else to sit with you and have a nice time?
” Birdie used to tell Grace whenever she pressed her mother about the practice.
“One day, Cece, you’ll understand,” she’d explain.
“The most important thing you should strive to be in life, my love, is your own best friend.”
Now, as Grace sits alone at a corner table at the Beachcomber—her shoulders and thighs still scorched from her time baking on the porch—she’s not so sure.
The waterfront dining room is packed with parties of two and four and six, everyone engaged in conversation as they share appetizers, exchange banter, and laugh.
For a beat, Grace tries to imagine Birdie sitting in the empty seat across from her, noshing on crab dip, and telling her to relax and order a drink.
“Good evening.” A waitress approaches the table. “Welcome to the Beachcomber.” She begins to expertly fill Grace’s water glass. “Have you dined with us before?”
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Grace looks up, ready to make eye contact with this person and engage in light conversation.
Before she does, her body screeches to a halt when she notices a familiar glint of metal on the woman’s wrist. Panic wraps itself around her as she zooms in on the silver charm bracelet—a near replica of the one Grace had when she was eighteen.
“No!” Grace blurts out, sharper than intended as she braces for the impossible . . . again.
“Oh, um . . .” The waitress, surprised, stumbles over her words. “O-okay,” she says, regaining her footing. “Well, glad to have you joining us tonight.” Her tone downshifts. “I guess.”
Grace exhales. She realizes a moment too late that the voice isn’t familiar. A second glance at the bracelet confirms it—different charms from those she once owned.
“I-I’m sorry.” Grace’s pulse settles. “Long day.” She adjusts herself in her seat, hoping for a reset. “I meant to say yes. I’ve been here.” She clears her throat. “Just not in a long time.”
“Hmm,” the waitress offers—less a response and more a judgment—as she starts to fill the second empty water glass on the table. “Assuming we’re waiting for someone else to join us?”
Grace peers at the seat across from her.
Try to enjoy yourself, love, she hears Birdie say in her mind. Tell her to bring bread.
“Not tonight,” Grace admits, hoping to sound cosmopolitan—an independent woman of the world—even though she feels like a child eating alone in the school cafeteria. “It’s just me.”
Earlier, after her shower, Grace threw on the nicest items she’d packed—a newer baby-blue T-shirt tucked into a pair of tattered jean shorts with an older lightweight sweater knotted at her shoulders in case it got cool.
Casual, but cleaned up. It wasn’t like she was spending a night out in the Hamptons; it was Sea Drift.
At least she didn’t have seaweed in her hair.
Too afraid to venture back to the market for provisions, and too tired to bike all the way to the island’s real grocery store and then put in 117the effort to cook herself a proper meal, she got on the seafoam beach cruiser and started to ride.
The daytime joints—places like Smitty’s and Sunny Side—were closed by that point, the local restaurants beginning to open their doors with the promise of easy coastal dinners and drinks.
The Beachcomber was an institution on Sea Drift, an old oceanfront motel with a surprisingly decent glass-enclosed restaurant that looked onto the water, and a lively open-air bar out back.
It’d been there for decades. Pale-pink exterior.
A sign with lettering straight out of the sixties.
There were still two tall standing ashtrays in the lobby—relics from another time.
Some years, Birdie took Grace here for her birthday—a special meal to celebrate a special day.
As she got older, Grace frequented this place with friends.
Happy hours. Late nights out. Plenty of different occasions, but never alone.
“Just . . . you?” The waitress blinks as if caught off guard.
The Beachcomber, a gathering place for sunburned vacationers, doesn’t exactly scream party of one.
“That’s . . . fun.” She does a poor job of hiding her disappointment, likely doing a mental tally of her smaller-than-hoped-for tip.
“Why don’t I give you a minute to look over the menu?
” She gathers the additional place setting.
“In the meantime, I’ll just . . . get rid of these. ”
The waitress wanders away, but not before stopping off at the hostess stand to whisper something to a colleague.
Grace sits by herself, shifting in her chair and trying to feel—or at least look—comfortable.
It’s hard. Just act natural, she tells herself, staring out at the water through the windows and feeling like she’s been stood up on a date.
“We really need to stop running into each other like this,” a new voice says. “People are going to start talking.”
Grace swiftly turns away from the glass.
“Meg?” She’s unable to hide her surprise. “Wh-what are you doing here?” Although Meg had referenced coming here during yesterday’s run-in, Grace hadn’t expected to find her—a mother to two young children—dining here for a second night in a row. “Weren’t you just here last night?”
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Meg shrugs. Her long red hair bounces on her shoulders. “Quinn spiked a fever as I was getting ready, so we spent half the night at the urgent care on the north end of the island.” She flips up her hands. “Ear infection. Change of plans.” She laughs. “Story of my life.”
“Sorry to hear that.” Grace’s thoughts drift to Jenny, who often needs to cancel and reschedule plans due to these types of hiccups. “How’s he feeling?”
“He’s fine. Nothing a whole mess of antibiotics and Popsicles can’t fix.
” She stops to smooth the front of her casual, creamy sundress.
“Needless to say, my parents bumped back their offer to watch him and Emma to tonight.” A look washes over Meg’s face, turning some of her brightness into concern.
“Oh, gosh. You didn’t have a change of heart and come here to meet me last night, did you?
” She slaps a palm to her face. When she does, Grace catches a glimpse of Meg’s wedding jewelry—a tasteful, sparkling stack—on her finger.
“I’m really sorry. I was so wrapped up with Quinn that I honestly didn’t even think of that until right now. ”
No, Grace thinks. I was too busy spiraling after I face-planted into your brother’s chest.
“Oh, hello.” Grace’s waitress reapproaches the table. She looks at Meg, then Grace, then the empty seat. “Will you be dining with us this evening?”
“O-oh. Oh, no. I . . .” Meg glances over her shoulder, as if searching for someone who isn’t there. “I was just making my way back to my own table.” She points at an empty two-top. “I have my own reservation.” Meg holds up a single finger. “Another party of one.”
The waitress’s shoulders slump.
“D-do you want to sit with me?” Grace asks before she can second-guess her choice.
“Perfect!” The waitress claps, sealing the decision before Meg even responds. “I’ll go get an extra utensil roll-up and a plate.” A crooked grin breaks across her face as she waves down the hostess. “Be back in a jiff.”
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The conversation goes down easily, as does the wine, which Meg insisted on ordering.
By the time their waitress—noticeably pleased by the turn of events—clears their dinner plates, full of sucked-dry oyster shells and picked-through crab legs, the two of them have collectively put down a bottle and a half of sauvignon blanc.
It’s been so long since Grace has allowed herself to let go in this way.
To fill a glass of alcohol with more than two fingers’ worth, to enjoy something as innocent as seafood without the fear that some pregnancy-ending bacteria might be lurking.
They were terrible, all those months and years of worry, the constant pressure of telling herself she could control something that was entirely out of her grasp.
(Just steer clear of deli meat and runny eggs .
. . and no vigorous exercise . . . or parabens .
. . or unpasteurized anything . . . or heavy lifting.) Even after it was clear that Adam and her efforts to conceive were over—long before their marriage was over, too—she held on to most of those habits for ages (caffeine a newly reintroduced luxury, albeit necessity).
Over time, they’d become not only practices but parts of her—parts she was still learning to let go.
Now Grace tips back her head and enjoys another crisp sip.
Maybe it’s the setting. Or the company. Or that certain chunks of this day still don’t make an ounce of sense.
Whatever the reason, she doesn’t want to think of that part of her past tonight.
For the moment, she just wants to be here, reliving happier times with her old friend, in the present.
“I seriously cannot believe you remember that, Meg.” Grace’s voice cracks with laughter. “We were, like, ten when that happened.”