“What are you doing in two Saturdays?” Alice asked, leaning against the counter in Willow Bindery. Duncan stood on the other side of the register, close enough that she could see the whiskers on his cheeks, could smell the mix of his musty deodorant with the metallic scent of ink, the sourness of the rawhide glue he used, which Alice was dismayed to learn was literally named.
“That’s, what, the first weekend in October? I’ll have to check my busy social calendar.” He ran her credit card through the machine with a flourish.
“I have this thing. For a client. I don’t really want to go alone. I kind of have to go though. It would look bad if I said no. I totally get it if you aren’t interested—” As she fumbled for her invitation, she saw Duncan watching her, amused. “What are your thoughts on weddings? Are you morally opposed?”
“I’m opposed to marriage,” he said, “but who doesn’t like an open bar and a dance floor?”
Coco’s story was one of the first Duncan had bound for Alice nearly two months before. When she met Coco at her Parisian-style perfumery, Coco provided her with a list of things she did not want in a partner, everything from a passionless job to curly hair. “I don’t trust men with curly hair,” Coco explained. “If it’s too well kempt, they’re vain. If it’s too wild, they lack awareness of how the world sees them.” Alice patted her own curly hair as she read the list of nonnegotiables: men estranged from their families, men who lived with their parents, men who ran marathons, men allergic to dogs, men who drank too much, men who didn’t drink at all. The list continued in ways that seemed both arbitrary and pointed.
“Whatdoyou want in a partner?” Alice asked.
Coco looked up from the small vial of liquids she was mixing and said, “Someone who loves me.” She continued to combine clear liquids until the vial was full, then used a tester to put some of the perfume on the underside of Alice’s wrist. “Rose, mandarin, and pink pepper with a touch of marigold and oakmoss.” Alice brought her wrist to her nose. The perfume smelled floral without being cloying, the pepper giving it just enough bite. “It’s my gift, knowing what works for someone. Kind of like you.” Coco winked, plugged the vial, and gave it to Alice.
As Alice stepped out of her sweet-smelling shop, an image came to her straightaway. Sea glass. She didn’t know what it meant, but she didn’t need to understand. She simply needed to follow where it led.
The story that unfolded on her screen was about a vial of love potion cast overboard by a lovesick sailor. Over time, saltwater eroded it until the potion imbued the glass itself. The vial traveled the Atlantic and the Pacific, the Adriatic Sea. Unlike most sea glass, it was colorless, not eye-catching. If someone happened to notice it and rub it, a bit of the potion would rub off on them and they would instantly find love.
It was a story that could teach Coco to erode all the things she didn’t want, to let herself believe in the goodness of someone who wanted to love her.
When Alice finished writing the story, she felt an inexplicable and potent melancholy. The story was decidedly upbeat. It took her a few minutes of unfocused staring at the screen to discover that it wasn’t the story but the image of sea glass that evoked the sadness in her. Often little parts of Alice’s life found their way into her stories, details from the physical world around her, memories repurposed from her past. She didn’t realize she was borrowing from her own life until it was on the page, now part of someone else’s story.
Alice had forgotten how at low tide she and her father would search for the ocean’s treasures, inventing stories for each piece of sea glass they found on the beach. A pirate shipwreck. A mermaid’s chalice. A glass castle on an underwater island. Sea glass had a story to it, weathered and tumbled by the ocean, its edges smoothed, its color frosted. Once Alice and her father uncovered the story, they’d toss the glass back to sea so someone else could find it. That was what she’d loved most, how their story became part of the ocean’s lure. Now, in Coco’s story, she was giving away a bit of herself she couldn’t reclaim. Alice didn’t want to relinquish any moments of her father, even the ones she’d forgotten. She had a finite pool of memories of him and each time she used one in a story, she was one memory closer to having nothing new to rediscover about him. Still, this story was what Coco needed. It was her job to offer it to her. That was the sacrifice she made to her gift.
Because Duncan had bound Coco’s story, it seemed fitting that Alice invite him to the wedding as her plus one. To her knowledge, Coco and Tomas were the first couple she’d linked who were taking the plunge. That was marriage, a leap into a cold and dark unknown, especially for these two. They’d only been together for three months. When Coco told Alice she’d met a man without a single negative from her list, she said, “We hate all the same things.” This seemed like an odd bonding point. For a woman who knew exactly what she didn’t want, perhaps it made sense.
“I’d tell you which story was theirs,” Alice said, signing the credit card receipt, “but you wouldn’t know because you don’t read them.” He startled. “I’m joking. Relax.”
He didn’t respond and Alice wondered if he was more sensitive than he seemed.
“Anyway, given what I know about Coco, it should be top-shelf.” She slipped her credit card and the receipt into her wallet. “I won’t know anyone there, so we won’t have to talk to anyone. We can sit at our table and drink vodka and make fun of the bridesmaids.”
“You had me at shelf, top or bottom. As for making fun of people, I’m always game, and—” Duncan moved his limbs stiffly in an impressive robot dance “—who would want to waste these dance moves?”
“Okay, please don’t do that at the wedding.”
“No? What about this?” He moonwalked from behind the register into the shop. “Or this?” He proceeded to do the Running Man, the Sprinkler, the Macarena.
“You’re going to make me regret inviting you, aren’t you?” Alice said laughing.
“Oh, definitely.”
When Duncan started to do the MC Hammer shuffle, Alice said, “Alright, let’s settle down before you pull something.”
He followed her onto the sidewalk. “All this dancing piqued my appetite. Where we headed today?”
Alice pointed toward State Street, and they started walking. “How do you feel about Indian? They’ve got a biryani with uni that will literally bring tears to your eyes.”
“Uni’s not the first thing that comes to mind when I hear Indian, but color me intrigued.”
“This is Santa Barbara. If there’s a way to incorporate uni, we’ll find it. I’ve even had uni ice cream.”
“Now you’re just being gluttonous,” Duncan said as they turned onto State Street. “So, will there be uni at this top-shelf wedding?”
“Do you really think I’d take you to a wedding that didn’t have uni?” Alice stopped in front of the Indian restaurant. “Wedding’s at four sharp. Please tell me you own something that isn’t plaid.”
“So you’re saying I shouldn’t wear my kilt?” Duncan said, holding the door open for Alice.
Alice shot him her best death glare as she stepped inside, unable to shake a flurry of excitement at the promise of attending the wedding together.
