Chapter 17 #2
“I was trying to be normal. Be cool. I thought that meant not talking about it. Besides, have I mentioned that I used to fake
being sick so I could play online chess? That I made miniature dioramas for fun? You think I knew how to be cool?”
I covered my face with my hands. “I forgot about that.”
“I assumed you thought I was bad.”
“Why would you think that?” Flush crept up my neck.
“Because it was too good for me, so I thought I was bad.” No trace of redness on him. Just wryness.
“You think I didn’t think the same?”
“I’m not joking when I say it didn’t cross my mind.” He widened his eyes. “And then over Thanksgiving break, my parents bought
me a new phone and I lost the old SIM card. And then? I never heard from you again. Mom said you were hanging around with
a—” He rubbed his hands together, as if he could produce words from them. “A bad crowd? You had a new boyfriend. And then
you didn’t answer the postcard I—” He bit off the words. “Oh, god. She never sent it, did she?”
My mind wheeled, calculating. There had been no new group. No new boyfriend. There was just a lonely kid left behind so many
times. First by my sister, then Caleb. I shook my head. “I hung out with the track team that year at spaghetti dinners or
Papa Gino’s fundraisers. Not exactly wild. And, no. No postcard.” No nothing, other than so many nights crying into my pillowcase,
and an extra packed bag of grief for college.
“All right,” Natalie said, announcing her return with a flourish. “Obviously, I pledge allegiance to Olivia, but I did charm
the kitchen into a complimentary plate of brownies in case we need some peace.” She looked at me for help. “Where are we at?”
Caleb leaned back in his chair. “I was just about to tell a story where my mother tried to break up our friendship by setting me up on a brutal blind date with one of her friend’s kids.”
Clarity was muddy, complicated. I thought I would feel some kind of clean understanding, but I was just sad, layered with
what-ifs like I was covered in blankets. With a pang, I thought of this summer’s trending media word—regret. It turned out that you really had to live life to feel it.
“So that’s why you went out with the cranberry juice heiress,” I said, fighting a smile. The Mariner family’s version of Massachusetts
royalty. If social media was then what it is now, then Caleb’s mom would have founded mommy bloggerhood.
He gave a small laugh. “Bingo.”
“That is so painfully Cape Cod.” Natalie crammed a cracker and hummus into her mouth. “Cranberry juice creates empires now?
I’m in the wrong career.”
“Cranberry bogs are a thing there, but this family’s dough was land-related.” At the next table over, two women openly stared
at us. At me. I shrank into my chair.
“I retaliated by studying abroad,” Caleb said. He hesitated. “Do you really mean to tell me you honestly weren’t seeing someone
senior year? My mom really said that to you?”
“Really did.”
“I still remember the night you told me about this in college.” Natalie touched my shoulder. “Remember? We got drunk on limoncello
shots, and you threw up on your phone.”
I wrinkled my nose. “I didn’t throw up on my phone. I puked in the trash. And my phone fell in it. That was the last time
I had limoncello.” I tapped my wineglass. “Or shots, for that matter.”
Natalie rolled her eyes. “The order of operations was suspect, sis.”
“Glad to see your sense of humor is still intact,” Caleb said. “As my world comes crumbling down around me.” He paused. “Though
she’s done worse, so.”
“I’m sorry you have a shitty mom,” Natalie said.
He sighed. “Me, too.”
The women at the table next to us swiveled toward me again. I resolutely kept my face away from them.
“It’s all right,” he continued. “Well, it’s not, but I guess it has to be.” He blew out a breath. “Should make my next visit
home pretty stellar.”
“When are you going?” Natalie asked.
“I go the last two weeks of August every year.”
“I usually go the first two, but I had to cancel because of work this year.” My wedding-reserved PTO hours had returned to
my time-off bank last week, but according to Tate Dimmock, leaving now was inopportune.
“You could do a weekend.” Natalie kicked me under the table. “What about your aunt’s place?”
“Josie’s?”
“Yeah. Wasn’t she texting you that her Airbnb canceled on her?”
I gave her a slow nod. “Yes . . .”
“No shit,” Caleb said. “The cottage by the beach lot? She still has that?”
“It’s exactly the same as when we were kids,” I said.
“She’d definitely let us use it.” Natalie clapped her hands.
“Wait. I’m not sure I can get away—”
“Fair enough, Diane Sawyer, but you could check,” Natalie said. “You aren’t a weekend segment.”
“True . . .”
“C’mon. My Alaska trip fell through. Let me plan something.”
“Alaska? Oh.” I crinkled my nose. “Danny.”
“Danny,” Natalie confirmed.
“Danny,” Caleb agreed. I rolled my eyes.
“Settled!” Natalie declared. “We’ll scoot down after your segment Friday and come back Sunday night.”
“There’s no such thing as ‘scooting’ to the Cape on a Friday,” Caleb said. “You’d probably be able to walk there faster.”
We settled into safer topics: commutes, traffic, travel. I hardly dared to believe this was my life, the merging of past and
present, small doses of hope for what might be my future.