“Oh.”
“Mmm.”
“I’m glad you know she’s in town. I didn’t want you blindsided if you bumped into her on a street corner or something. Small town and all — you know how it is.”
“I do.”
We’re silent for a moment, sipping our beers without speaking. Eventually, Chris shifts the conversation into safer waters — smalltalk about his new job on the police force, a brief rundown of a few teammates’ summer plans. The latest gossip surrounding our former Exeter Academy classmates.
Lee Park founded a tech startup out in San Francisco.
Ryan Snyder flunked out of school first semester.
Andy Hilton came out of the closet.
Sienna Sullivan got fake tits.
I listen with a detached sort of interest, nodding along as if these people are still a vital part of my life. In truth, they feel as far removed from me as fictional characters in a novel. One I read so long ago, the plot is moth-eaten with holes, the details faded to an indistinct blur.
When we finally pay the check, Chris stands and reaches out for a handshake.
“It was good to catch up with you, Reyes. Don’t be a stranger.”
I clasp my scarred hand around his, struggling to hide my wince when he squeezes tight. “You know where to find me.”
“You get a break from the docks, make sure you swing by my parents’ place on Saturday. They’re letting me utilize the backyard for a Fourth of July blowout. I’ve got four kegs on order. Making a metric ton of Jell-O shots. Even breaking out the Slip-N-Slide for the occasion.”
“Very patriotic.”
“Hey, I can think of nothing more American than drunk girls in bikinis on a hot summer day.”
I laugh.
“Wow, was that a laugh?” Chris slaps me lightly on the back as we exit the restaurant patio onto the sidewalk. “Watch out, Reyes. You keep that up, you’ll blow your audition for Most Miserable Man in Manchester.”
“Bite me, Tomlinson.”
“See you Saturday!” he calls over his shoulder as he walks to his squad car.
“Not likely!” I yell back.
But he’s already in the car, out of earshot.
SEVEN
josephine
Fourth of July weekend creeps in on the heels of a languorous week — one I pass the vast majority of lazing poolside, inhaling fantasy novels in rapid succession. The most exertion I put into anything is periodically flipping over to even out my tan lines. I have all the motivation of a headless rotisserie chicken.
Judging by her ever-pinched expression whenever our paths cross — mainly when I pad into the kitchen to grab a snack or a bottle of coconut water — Mrs. Agatha Weatherby Granger is less than approving of my newfound indolence. That doesn’t bother me. If she wants to be disappointed in my life choices, she’ll have to get in line behind my parents. And Ollie. And my Brown academic advisor. And pretty much everyone else I’ve ever met.
Nothing a little Brandon Sanderson can’t drown out, I think, burying my nose deeper in a paperback.
I’m finally forced to peel myself away from the pool on the muggy afternoon of July 3rd when the maintenance man arrives to clean the filters and check the chemical levels. Rather than face down the horror of my own thoughts, I decide to distract myself with some overdue errands in town. First the bookstore, then the pharmacy. My latest binge-read won’t last the weekend, nor will my sunscreen supply. Plus, my contraband stockpile of sugary snacks is running dangerously low. Mrs. Granger may keep the Cormorant House pantry fully stocked at all times, but her reusable cloth bags from the organic grocery store never return home with the sour gummy worms I require for survival.
Tugging a sundress over my favorite blue bikini, I hop in the Porsche and drive downtown. The radio blasts a new JP Saxe song, his voice lamenting as he sings about the struggle to get over an ex lover. I jam my finger against the power button and continue driving in silence.
Love songs hold little appeal for me, these days.
It’s slow-going — traffic crawls along so sluggishly, I think I might actually be moving in reverse. No one seems to be in much of a hurry to get anywhere. The roads are congested with cars and trucks, bikers and pedestrians. Red-white-and-blue clad tourists stroll the sidewalks, peering into boutique windows and taking pictures by the harborside. Banners hang from every street post, announcing firework display times and food festival locations in bold font. Everywhere I look, hydrangeas are bursting into bloom, just in time for the holiday.
There’s something distinctly American about Independence Day in New England — a heady mix of summer heat and patriotism hangs in the air like perfume. Any town claiming even the loosest affiliation to the Revolutionary War drums up some sort of Colonial-era spectacle. Quaint parades of flag-bearers march down the main streets. History buffs reenact long-ago battles. Militia men fire muskets over the water in a cloud of gun powder as bagpipers play Taps for onlookers.
In abutting backyards, neighbors crack beers and flip burgers while their kids run barefoot through sprinklers on lush green lawns. The strains of country music and classic rock drift from every rolled down set of car windows. After dusk, risk-loving residents blast off illegal firecrackers at all the local beaches, lighting up the sky in a show of defiant sentiment. Sometimes, the unofficial displays are better than the town-sponsored ones.
I catch myself caught up in the infectious energy of Americana as I stroll the aisles of the pharmacy, tossing items I don’t need into my basket. I smile at babies, hold eye contact with strangers, make small talk with the cashier. It’s possible — okay, probable — that I’m a bit starved for human interaction, these days. Aside from the occasional run-in with Mrs. Granger, I’ve been entirely alone since I returned from my meeting at Brown. And while I’ve always been quite content in my own company, as I drive back to Cormorant House with a lollipop in my mouth and a bag of contraband candy on my passenger seat, I find my eyes glazing over at the prospect of yet another solitary weekend poolside.
July 4th is not the kind of day you’re meant to spend alone.
It’s a day for barbecues and beach volleyball.
You could always take Chris Tomlinson up on his offer, a small voice whispers from the back of my head. He’s having that kegger tomorrow…
I quickly dismiss the idea. The last thing I want is to attend a party where I’ll be forced to make awkward chitchat with a bunch of people I haven’t seen since high school. Or worse, where I might run into Archer.
I figure I’ll be far safer going for a sail down the coast in Cupid.
I figure wrong.
Saturday dawns clear and bright. Every forecast calls for spectacular sunshine and steady wind. That’s the only reason I feel confident heading so far from the familiar charted waters near Rockport and Gloucester — out past the channel markers, away from the speed-boaters on boozy harbor cruises, beyond the sight of shore-bound onlookers.
Later, they’ll call it a freak storm. A white squall. A microburst. Unpredictable and unforeseen, even by the best professionals in the field. A meteorological event for the Fourth of July record books.
Frankly, it makes no difference to me what they call it, or how they account for the abrupt shift from lazy summer day to violent gale. All that really matters is, when those weather fronts do in fact collide… when I see the black-blue clouds spread across the sky like bruises… when I smell the sharp tang of ozone in the air around me… when I feel the sudden churn of tides beneath the boat… I know I am too far offshore to make it back to safe waters before the storm breaks.