Chapter Thirteen #3
“I’m moving again,” Cece announces, like she’s picking up from a previous conversation.
“Next week, after the beach.” She catches Grace’s reflection in the mirror.
“Portland, Oregon. Don’t ask me why.” Still working to clean up her makeup, she accidentally knocks her drink into the sink.
“I mean, I have a job lined up. It’s a teaching gig.
Not what I want to be doing, but for now, it’s what I could get.
One year. Maybe two, if I want it to be.
It’s this program. I did it up in Boston last year.
” Her face scrunches up from laughter. “Baa-stun,” she says, doing her best imitation of the region’s accent.
“God, it’s so cold up there.” She shivers, like she’s still shaking off the chill.
“Anyway, that’s why. But I don’t know why. Do you know what I mean?”
Grace remembers this version of herself clearly now, though in truth she hasn’t thought about her in a long time.
The one who felt so certain that being an adult meant she’d have everything neatly sorted out, even though she was still deep in the trenches and searching.
It was a strange in-between time when it felt to Grace that her younger life no longer fit, while her present one didn’t, either.
All she wanted was the future—the next job, the next apartment, the next thing—not yet knowing that the feeling—the search—never actually ends.
Cece spins around, props herself up on the counter again. “Are you married?”
125
“What?” Grace asks, not having expected this question. Jesus, she thinks, her mind flicking back to the arcade and thirteen-year-old Cece’s question about her fertility. My younger selves really like to throw the diggers at me. “Yes. I mean no. It’s complicated.”
“Interesting.” Cece picks up her empty cup, tosses it in the trash.
“I just feel like I’m behind already,” she continues, even though no one has asked her anything.
“I sort of thought I’d have a cute apartment and, like, all this IKEA furniture, and a whole sitcom-style life.
Instead, ever since I graduated college two years ago, I just keep bouncing.
Everything’s kind of all over the place.
” She fluffs her hair and studies her reflection, as though she’s not quite sure if she likes what she sees.
“At least for now, I have someone who doesn’t mind this mixed-up version of me.
Even if it’s only an annual weeklong beach thing.
” She shrugs, perhaps more dramatically than she’d intended, the movement making her wobble.
“It won’t last forever. I know that, even though I sort of wish it would.
” Cece lifts her hands, clumsily points her fingers in opposing directions.
“We want different things, you know? It’s like, he wants roots or something, but I want wings.
” She explodes with laughter. “Oh my gosh, that was so cheesy!” She slaps a hand to her chest. “Don’t blame me!
I think I heard it in some stupid movie my mom had on last night! ”
As Cece works to catch her breath, Grace lets herself remember. The way that time and perspective functioned. How you could be both young enough to cling to the idea that something impossible would work and just old enough to understand that it won’t.
You’re a disaster, Porter, Ray playfully shouted into her ear that summer.
They were at the Beachcomber’s outdoor bar, dancing and drinking under the stars and string lights.
Adults, at least according to their IDs.
But a fun one, he said. He twirled her, around and around on the splintery wood planks, even as she stole his backward hat and slipped it onto her head.
I’m so dizzy! she exclaimed, mouth wide, the air thick with citronella and salt. I need to sit! I’m a disaster right now! Those drinks are lethal! We should go!
126
She spun to leave, but he caught her wrist.
Not yet, he said. One more song. He drew her body closer. Don’t leave yet.
Why? she asked, sensing even through her drunkenness that he was alluding to something more than just their bar date.
Because I like you when you’re a mess.
Back in the present, the faint opening notes of a new song play through the bathroom walls.
“Ohh . . . I’ve got to go!” Cece announces, quickly changing gears.
She jumps down, half trips on the perfectly even floor.
“This is a hit!” She looks back at the mirror, adds another quick swipe of gloss.
“Anyway, not that you asked about literally any of that.” She laughs at herself once more.
“Thanks for letting me be weird for a second.”
“Can I ask you something?” Grace poses before her early-twentysomething self walks away. “Do you have any idea why we keep meeting like this?”
Cece looks at her, like maybe she’s about to say something profound.
Instead, she slaps her palm over her wide-open mouth.
“Oh my gosh! Have we seriously already met?” she asks, cracking up.
“I’m really sorry about that.” She looks at the trash can.
“I think that was already my third round of those drinks tonight.” It takes a second for her to pull herself together.
When she does, she digs in her bag—a too-small clutch with some designer logo printed on it.
“Here.” She passes Grace a neon-orange paper wristband.
“I know one of the bartenders on the patio. He always gives me a few extras in case any of my friends have trouble getting in.”
Grace takes it, not entirely sure of Cece’s point. “Wh-why are you giving this to me?”
“In case that’s why we keep meeting.” Cece slides toward the door, shimmying her shoulders. “Because maybe we’re just supposed to hang out together and dance.”
127
“Long line?”
Outside, the sun has started to set over the boulevard. The sky is a spoil of colors. Deep reds bleeding into layers of orange that blend into streaks of lavender before softening into cool streaks of gray. Meg stands just beyond the hotel’s lobby, taking it in.
“Epic,” Grace states, not having a clue how else to explain why she took so long. “All the bargoers are starting to filter inside.”
Just as she says it, a group of young twentysomethings—fueled on youthful enthusiasm, probably too many energy drinks, and the promise of a semi-reckless night—stroll past.
“Gosh, I feel old.” Meg shakes her head and turns to watch them. “Their night’s just starting, and here I am, ready to go throw on some leggings and put on a movie that I’ll no doubt fall asleep watching halfway through.”
“I can definitely relate,” Grace admits. “This is way past curfew for me.”
“Hard to believe that was ever us, right?” Meg cringes, recalling something. “Remember those drinks they served out there? The ones in mini beach buckets? What even were they?”
“Gasoline, I think. And a guaranteed headache.”
“Speaking of which, this is your week, right? Your birthday, yeah?”
“Wednesday,” Grace tells her through a hushed sigh, wishing it wasn’t and knowing there’s nothing for her to celebrate this year. “I’ll be thirty-eight.”
The twentysomething girls step inside, loud and tipsy.
“Listen, Grace,” Meg says, “about Birdie . . .”
“I’m okay,” Grace lies, and thinks of twentysomething Cece, the girl who ached to get ahead so she could get past the hard times, not yet knowing how many hard times still waited. “Or at least, I’m trying to be.”
“You will be, Grace.” A knowing glint flashes in Meg’s eyes. “In due time.” She holds out her arms, hugs Grace, then drifts to the sidewalk bike rack. “Sea Drift’s a good place to heal.”
Grace watches the last sliver of sun dip into the water. “I hope so.”
128
Meg bunches up her sundress and slides onto the beach cruiser’s slender seat. She pedals in a circle, briefly holding her arms in the air like a kid. Look, Mom! No hands!
“I didn’t tell him,” Meg calls back over her shoulder before she leaves.
Grace freezes in place, too stunned to look away from the sky, let alone speak.
“Ray,” Meg clarifies, as if her subtext weren’t clear. “About seeing you at Smitty’s yesterday.” She stops, plants her feet on the asphalt. “I considered it, but in the end thought it might be best that he doesn’t know you’re here.”
Grace’s thoughts race back to her encounter with him in the market. I guess some rumors really are true, he’d said. At the time, Grace assumed the leader of the rumor mill was Meg.
“What do you mean, you didn’t tell him?”
“It’s just, he’s finally in a good place. I’m not sure it’s the right time to reopen old wounds.” Nearby, more partygoers wander past. “Sometimes I think it’s best to leave the past in the past, you know?”
An ache forms in Grace’s stomach, not because she doesn’t understand but because she does. It’s the reason she probably never should have come back here.
“But maybe that’s me being an annoyingly protective sister,” Meg continues.
“Not that I even have full say.” She places one foot back on a pedal.
“It’s a tiny island.” Slowly, she starts to move forward, but not before she looks back.
“If you two are meant to cross paths again down here, then I have to guess that, at some point, you probably will.”