Ollie groaned. “Mitch’s? Again? I hate that fecking place.”
“Do not,” Nina and I said.
“An Irish pub shouldn’t have Mexican food.”
“You love the tacos, so don’t bullshit us,” Nina said.
“Eff off, Neen.” Ollie stood from the table, cursing under his breath as he left.
I ignored the look Nina was giving me and tried to seem excited, though I wasn’t feeling entirely up for Mitch’s. All season it had beenhard to drag myself off the boat on our nights off. How could I go on drinking, and dancing, and laughing with friends when everything in my family’s world was so wrong? But tonight, what was the alternative? Return home to my quiet condo and see that absolutely nothing, and yet everything, had changed?
“Come on,” I said, pulling Nina to her feet. “If we don’t hurry, we won’t have time to look cute.”
When we docked at the marina a few hours later, the sky was streaked in warm colors. I stared at theSerendipityas our ride left the parking lot, my heart in my throat. I’d be back for our first day charter of the summer in less than twenty-four hours, but off-season always had a different feel to it. I sank into my seat as the driver zipped past palm trees and high-rises, and turned my mind to happier thoughts: my trip to Europe, the Scottish castle I’d booked for two nights, the marathon I’d start training for—a gentler season, right around the corner.
Two
Mitch’s wasn’t the most glamorous bar in Palm Beach, but it boasted the most convenient location. Only three blocks from my condo, it was where Nina and I had celebrated every birthday, mourned every breakup, and toasted to every charter season for the last five years.
I followed Nina, Britt, and Ollie through the heavy wooden door and was hit by the familiar scent of stale beer and tacos as soon as I stepped inside. Mitch’s was the opposite of theSerendipity, which was probably why we liked it so much. TheSerendipitywas chic and elegant, while Mitch’s was decidedly not. Dim and wood-paneled, the bar wore its years proudly, with deep grooves etched into the tables and wobbly chairs with sunken seats. Hundreds of photographs and personal effects had been stapled or thumbtacked to the walls and exposed beams of the ceiling. I’d spent many nights drunkenly wandering and inspecting the tokens patrons had left behind.
Back by our usual spot—a table beside a dusty bookcase—was a photo of me, Nina, and Ollie. Nina had taken it a few years ago with an ancient Polaroid she’d found at a yard sale. Pulling a mini stapler from her purse, she’d stuck our photo beside one of a shirtless man with asnake draped around his shoulders.There, she’d said.That ought to freshen up the place.
Standing in Mitch’s now, I wanted to find that picture and see myself from before. Before I’d met Shitty Peter, the ex-boyfriend who’d shattered my confidence, before the accident and the call from my mother, before every day felt like treading water. But it was Taco Tuesday, Mitch’s was packed, and some college students wearing sweatpants occupied our table.
Nina bumped me with her shoulder. “Margarita? Yes? No?”
“Please tell me that’s a rhetorical question,” I said.
We joined the rest of the crew at the bar and ordered our drinks. I tried to look as happy as everyone else but didn’t have the energy. Being there only reminded me of my list and the blog I’d been completely neglecting. Every now and then I’d get emails from concerned readers, which I deleted as soon as they arrived in my inbox. Not because they annoyed me, but because I knew there was nothing I could say. Many of them had been reading my posts from the very beginning. They thought they knew me. They were worried. But they didn’t know me at all, not the real me anyway. And besides, my blog was a place for lighthearted adventure, which I hadn’t had much of lately.
Nina and I had been drinking at Mitch’s when we came up with the idea for the thirty-by-thirty list. It was my twenty-ninth birthday, almost a year ago now, and I’d spent most of the night moping at the bar, having recently broken up with Shitty Peter after discovering he’d cheated on me during charter season. Two margaritas in, Nina, who’d recently turned thirty herself, had tried to console me by explaining how I’d look back on my breakup with Shitty Peter one day and laugh.
“Thirtysomething is far superior to twentysomething,” she’d said. “You stop caring what people think.”
“I’m pretty sure you’ve never cared what people think.” I’d set my drink on the bar and sighed. “Two years. I wasted two years on that douchebag, and for what? There was so much I didn’t do because of him.I missed my cousin’s bachelorette party, the post-charter weekend away to Saint Thomas, Cap’s anniversary—”
“Jo, Jo, Jo,” Nina had said, pressing her hand over my mouth. “Listen to you! So you missed out on two years of stuff, you can still make up for it. Hell, I’ve been single for most of the last decade and still have things I wish I’d done in my twenties.”
I’d pried her hand from my mouth. “Like what?”
“I don’t know... like going to Burning Man or Coachella.”
“Nina, you could still go to Burning Man.”
“But it’s different now. I can’t survive the inevitable hangover. There’s no way in hell I’m sleeping in a yurt. At twenty-five, maybe. But thirty? No way. What kind of word is ‘yurt’ anyway? It’s like whoever named it wasn’t even trying to make it sound appealing.”
“I think it’s Russian—”
Nina had smacked her open palms onto the bar. “I don’t care if it’s Russian! The point is, you’ve still got time. Why not make up for the last two years with this one? One year left to do all those twentysomething things.”
“You’re ridiculous,” I’d said. But Nina had already grabbed a napkin and pen from the bartender and shoved them toward me.
I was maybe a little drunk by then, sad about the breakup, unsure what I wanted next, so I’d taken the pen and napkin from Nina and looked around the bar for inspiration. Thumbtacks dotted a faded world map behind the bar. There were photos of birthdays, and weddings, and runners crossing finish lines. Vibrant, well-lived lives.
“Thirty things?” Nina had said once I finished. “Don’t you think that’s a little ambitious?” I’d scowled, and she cleared her throat. “I mean, wow! Look at you being so ambitious! Though it’s my duty as your best friend to inform you that blogs are very 2004.” She’d read over the list again and gasped. “Josephine Walker, why isdeclutteringon here?”
I’d snatched the napkin from her hand. “It’s very popular right now. I might become a minimalist.”
