Chapter Thirteen #2
“Some memories fade with time.” Meg swirls her glass by its stem.
“However, seeing your friend bury her dead hermit crab and then watching three days later when that same crab crawled back out of the ground and walked right up to the porch steps of her summer rental is not the sort of recollection one ever forgets.”
“A toast.” Grace lifts her glass in mock-nostalgia. “To Mr. Crabby. He was a good pet.” She finishes off the last sip of her wine. “Even if I only knew him less than a week.”
120
For the first time since Meg joined her, there’s a brief lull in their chatter. It feels like a ball dropping. Her thoughts a touch fuzzy, Grace mentally searches her mind for something to fill it with before it hits the ground.
“It’s been a long time since those days,” Meg says, beating Grace to the punch. “Though in some ways, it feels like yesterday, doesn’t it?”
Their waitress reappears, offers them each a dessert menu. Neither woman pauses to look.
“Meg,” Grace begins, her mind clearing. Sharpening. That last night they saw each other out on the beach the week of Grace’s twenty-fifth birthday. The bonfire. A sky full of stars. Grace shouting things she wishes she could forget. “I’m sorry, I—”
“We were basically kids, Grace.” Meg instantly cuts her off. “That was ages ago.” She leans across the table to better emphasize her point. “Water under the bridge.” She swats a hand. “We weren’t even the same people then.”
“So what’d we decide?” Their waitress comes back at exactly the right and wrong moment. “Are we in the mood for something sweet?”
“None for me,” Meg says. “It’s getting late. I should get back soon and check on the kids.”
Their waitress nods and scoops up the dessert menus, promising to return with their check.
“We spent the whole night reminiscing,” Grace points out, sinking back in her chair. Her entire body—not only her stomach—feels full in a way it hasn’t in a long time. “I haven’t even gotten to hear much about your life.”
Meg leans back, too, sucks in a big inhale.
“Well, you already know about the best parts. My little ones. Not that they’re all that little anymore.
They turned eight this year—twins, obviously, though you probably guessed that from their faces.
” She drums her fingers across the tablecloth.
“Let’s see. We live a little ways outside Philly—not far from where I grew up before we all moved south.
My parents still live down there, though they’ve been back and forth a lot this year to visit 121with us in Pennsylvania.
” She softly bites her bottom lip. “Hmm. What else? I work in marketing, which is admittedly a bit boring, so nothing to write home about there.”
“And you’re married.” Grace points to Meg’s left hand, her rings glimmering beneath the restaurant’s dimmed lights.
“Oh. Of course.” Meg’s face pinkens, like a schoolgirl admitting she’s in love for the first time.
“And I’m married.” She closes her eyes, though her expression is warm.
“Ben,” she says when she reopens them. “We met in our late twenties. A not-so-original story, really. We were both in New Orleans for bachelor and bachelorette parties.” Her face breaks into a hushed laugh.
“We were in a bar, naturally. I was wearing some . . . oh, gosh . . . let’s just say they were less-than-tasteful bachelorette accessories.
” Her sight drifts to the window, her gaze falling on the crashing waves out in the distance.
“It sounds so corny, but it really was love at first sight.” Meg smiles softly, lost in a memory she doesn’t share.
“But enough with my blabbering. How are you? How’s your mom?
She’s down here with you this week, I assume? ”
The question lands like a slap.
“S-she, um . . .” Any sort of good time Grace was having instantly disappears without so much as an apology. Her face grows hot while her mouth turns dry. “B-Birdie, well . . .”
“Oh, God,” Meg interjects and reaches across the table to squeeze Grace’s hand. “Don’t even say it.”
Grace looks down at the table and the last remnants of what had been—up until that point—an enjoyable evening.
“February. Right after Valentine’s Day.” Around them, utensils clink.
Voices chatter. “I don’t know why I didn’t tell you yesterday.
” She pinches her nose. “It’s just been so hard.
” Inside her belly, the wine and seafood suddenly sit wrong.
“Every time I tell someone new, it feels like a little piece of me dies.”
“I’m so sorry, Grace. That kind of loss is . . .” She trails off, searching for the right turn of phrase, even though it doesn’t exist. “It’s just devastating. It changes everything. It rewires your whole identity. Alters your DNA.”
122
“Yeah. It does,” Grace admits, trailing her finger along the rim of her empty glass.
“It’s a big part of why I came down this week.
” She laughs, but not because anything about her story is funny; rather, because she’s so drained that her emotions don’t even know how to properly function anymore.
“I’m in the midst of a separation.” She gnaws her cheek, but the words pour out anyway.
“We struggled for years to have kids, and it was just never meant to be.” Grace keeps her focus on the table, each loss stacking in her mind, along with all the ways they broke her.
Broke them. “Needless to say, I’m staying at the house solo.
I have a work deadline that I’m utterly behind on and was hoping maybe a little sunshine might help clear my head. ”
Meg looks at her inquisitively, like she’s both questioning something and understanding it. “That’s one of the hardest parts of losing someone you love, isn’t it?” she states, which makes Grace look up. “The fact that, even though your whole universe feels broken, the world just continues to turn.”
Grace’s gaze remains locked on Meg’s face. Before she can ask her old friend if she’s speaking from experience, their waitress walks back up and sets down their check.
“I’m buying.” Meg grabs it. “It’s the least I can do for horning in on your table.”
“What? Absolutely not,” Grace counters. “Y-you have kids. And urgent-care copays!”
“I’ll make you a deal,” Meg says, finding a middle ground. “I’ll get the bill, and you get the tip. Good?”
“Thank you,” Grace states, sensing this isn’t a fight she’s bound to win. She digs through her purse for her wallet. “For this and, well, for the company.”
Grace excuses herself to go to the bathroom before she and Meg officially part ways and call it a night.
Since she first sat down, the dining room has shifted—everything a little louder, the music from the Beachcomber’s 123outdoor bar beginning to faintly hum just enough through the walls to subtly change the atmosphere.
While Meg moves toward the lobby, Grace weaves through tables and down a hallway.
In a miraculous twist for women everywhere, there’s no line.
She pushes the door open and heads inside.
“Surprise!” a voice shouts out, scaring Grace so badly that she physically jumps back and hits the door behind her.
“Jesus!” Grace yelps and instantly drops her face down to her knees while her heart beats so hard it feels like it might break one of her ribs. “Why would you do that?”
“I’m s-sorry!” the voice replies, the words slightly slurred at their edges and tangled up with a laugh. “I thought it’d be funny.”
Grace lifts her face slowly and begins to straighten, already regretting that she didn’t just hold her bladder and go straight outside with Meg.
There, perched on the counter beside the sink, is a young woman—early twenties—wearing a black tube top, an all-too-recognizable gold necklace, and a few-too-many slicks of pearlescent gloss on her lips.
One of her flip-flops is on the bathroom floor, while the other clings for dear life to her toe.
An artificially colored pink drink sloshes in her grip.
Cece. Surprise! Again.
Grace says nothing at first, just waiting to see what might happen next. Cece slurps her cocktail, squints at Grace like she almost recognizes her, then, out of nowhere, starts to cry.
“Are you mad at me now?” Cece asks, tears plopping into her plastic cup.
“Oh, dear God,” Grace mumbles, squeezing her lids shut.
“Is there a cute toddler version of me around that I can hallucinate instead?” She brushes herself off, takes a deep breath, then turns (Sorry, bladder!), ready to open the door and exit.
“Or maybe a future one who actually has her life together enough to not be experiencing whatever it is this is all about?”
“Right?” Cece shouts, her sudden enthusiasm so strong that she wobbles and nearly falls off the counter. “That’s what I keep saying!”
“What?” Grace asks. “What are you talking about?”
124
Cece slides down, picks up her shoe, stumbles, then steadies herself against the wall. The hand dryer turns on and then off, which makes her start to laugh again. “That I just want to hurry up and get to the part where I have things figured out!”
Grace sighs, suddenly sensing that she’s not leaving the restroom yet.
Cece turns, smoothing her long sun-kissed hair in the mirror. “Great, now I look terrible.” She wipes the undersides of her eyes. “My mascara is everywhere.”
Grace doesn’t respond. She’s too busy watching her: the uneven eyeliner, the too-sweet drink, the way she tugs at her tube top like she’s just now realizing it’s two sizes too small.