Grace looks down at the table and the last remnants of what had been—up until that point—an enjoyable evening. “February. Right after Valentine’s Day.” Around them, utensils clink. Voices chatter. “I don’t know why I didn’t tell you yesterday.” She pinches her nose. “It’s just been so hard.” Inside her belly, the wine and seafood suddenly sit wrong. “Every time I tell someone new, it feels like a little piece of me dies.”
“I’m so sorry, Grace. That kind of loss is ...” She trails off, searching for the right turn of phrase, even though it doesn’t exist. “It’s just devastating. It changes everything. It rewires your whole identity. Alters your DNA.”
“Yeah. It does,” Grace admits, trailing her finger along the rim of her empty glass. “It’s a big part of why I came down this week.” She laughs, but not because anything about her story is funny; rather, because she’s so drained that her emotions don’t even know how to properly function anymore. “I’m in the midst of a separation.” She gnaws her cheek, but the words pour out anyway. “We struggled for years to have kids, and it was just never meant to be.” Grace keeps her focus on the table, each loss stacking in her mind, along with all the ways they broke her. Broke them. “Needless to say, I’m staying at the house solo. I have a work deadline that I’m utterly behind on and was hoping maybe a little sunshine might help clear my head.”
Meg looks at her inquisitively, like she’s both questioning something and understanding it. “That’s one of the hardest parts of losing someone you love, isn’t it?” she states, which makes Grace look up. “The fact that, even though your whole universe feels broken, the world just continues to turn.”
Grace’s gaze remains locked on Meg’s face. Before she can ask her old friend if she’s speaking from experience, their waitress walks back up and sets down their check.
“I’m buying.” Meg grabs it. “It’s the least I can do for horning in on your table.”
“What? Absolutely not,” Grace counters. “Y-you have kids. And urgent-care copays!”
“I’ll make you a deal,” Meg says, finding a middle ground. “I’ll get the bill, and you get the tip. Good?”
“Thank you,” Grace states, sensing this isn’t a fight she’s bound to win. She digs through her purse for her wallet. “For this and, well, for the company.”
Grace excuses herself to go to the bathroom before she and Meg officially part ways and call it a night. Since she first sat down, the dining room has shifted—everything a little louder, the music from the Beachcomber’soutdoor bar beginning to faintly hum just enough through the walls to subtly change the atmosphere. While Meg moves toward the lobby, Grace weaves through tables and down a hallway. In a miraculous twist for women everywhere, there’s no line. She pushes the door open and heads inside.
“Surprise!” a voice shouts out, scaring Grace so badly that she physically jumps back and hits the door behind her.
“Jesus!” Grace yelps and instantly drops her face down to her knees while her heart beats so hard it feels like it might break one of her ribs. “Why would you do that?”
“I’m s-sorry!” the voice replies, the words slightly slurred at their edges and tangled up with a laugh. “I thought it’d be funny.”
Grace lifts her face slowly and begins to straighten, already regretting that she didn’t just hold her bladder and go straight outside with Meg. There, perched on the counter beside the sink, is a young woman—early twenties—wearing a black tube top, an all-too-recognizable gold necklace, and a few-too-many slicks of pearlescent gloss on her lips. One of her flip-flops is on the bathroom floor, while the other clings for dear life to her toe. An artificially colored pink drink sloshes in her grip.
Cece.Surprise!Again.
Grace says nothing at first, just waiting to see what might happen next. Cece slurps her cocktail, squints at Grace like she almost recognizes her, then, out of nowhere, starts to cry.
“Are you mad at me now?” Cece asks, tears plopping into her plastic cup.
“Oh, dear God,” Grace mumbles, squeezing her lids shut. “Is there a cute toddler version of me around that I can hallucinate instead?” She brushes herself off, takes a deep breath, then turns (Sorry, bladder!), ready to open the door and exit. “Or maybe a future one who actually has her life together enough to not be experiencing whatever it is this is all about?”
“Right?” Cece shouts, her sudden enthusiasm so strong that she wobbles and nearly falls off the counter. “That’s what I keep saying!”
“What?” Grace asks. “What are you talking about?”
Cece slides down, picks up her shoe, stumbles, then steadies herself against the wall. The hand dryer turns on and then off, which makes her start to laugh again. “That I just want to hurry up and get to the part where I have things figured out!”
Grace sighs, suddenly sensing that she’s not leaving the restroom yet.
Cece turns, smoothing her long sun-kissed hair in the mirror. “Great, now I look terrible.” She wipes the undersides of her eyes. “My mascara is everywhere.”
Grace doesn’t respond. She’s too busy watching her: the uneven eyeliner, the too-sweet drink, the way she tugs at her tube top like she’s just now realizing it’s two sizes too small.
“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’swhy. 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 nextthing—not yet knowing that the feeling—the search—never actually ends.
Cece spins around, props herself up on the counter again. “Are you married?”
“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 wantwings.” 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.
