“That’s because it’s incredibly awkward! And also, not really a big deal. Sure, there are parallels to what happened between Ray and me, but at the end of the day, it’s fiction. I made the story up. There’s even one of those little disclaimers on the copyright page—‘This is a work of fiction’—to prove as much.”
Birdie’s brows arched upward. “Darling, what have Ialwaystold you is the first lesson about literature that I teach my students at the start of every school year?”
Grace slouched in her chair and closed her eyes, her version of a response.
“The best fiction,” Birdie said, “is always built on a foundation of truth.”
The next week, once she was back in the city, Grace—with her mother’s voice pestering her in her mind—finally decided to tell Adam the story. Or at least a watered-down version of it.
They were up on the High Line after dinner one night and had stopped off at an artisanal Popsicle stand for a boozy-infused treat before they trekked to their apartment.
“I need to tell you something,” Grace said between prosecco-flavored licks. They’d been walking in comfortable silence, looking at the stretches of gardens and the pink early-autumn sky, the type they hoped to have the night of their wedding. “It’s about my book.”
“Oh?” Adam looked at her in question, his Popsicle hovering near his mouth. “Big movie deal in the works?” he joked. It was no secret that Adam lovedThe Tidesand was rooting for Grace’s success. He told everyone he encountered about it. For weeks, he’d kept his advance copy on his nightstand, skimming it in bed, then smiling at her, as if he’d been gifted with an insider’s view of her mind. “You’re not going to run away with some hotshot producer, right?”
“Not quite.” Grace gestured to a vacant bench, and they sat. “It’s just ...” Her heart beat harder. “When I first started to write it—back before we ever met—the original idea for the story was, well, loosely inspired by someone I used to know.”
“Okay,” Adam said, lowering his hand.
“It was sort of based on this guy I dated,” she said and rolled her eyes, like she could convince them both that it was nothing. “Down in Sea Drift.”
Adam’s head tilted. “So, like, a one-time-summer-hookup sort of thing?”
Grace sighed. “Not entirely.” Her shoulders dropped. “It was a bit more than that.”
For the next half hour, she told him about Ray. About growing up with him on that strip of beach. About their ongoing romance that stretched from one summer into the next. She told him nearly everything, except for details about that final night Ray gave her the ring. Part of her thought he might laugh and find the whole thing endearing—everyone had experienced young love—or that Adam, being such a mature, levelheaded person, would simply shrug it off.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” His eyes narrowed. “Don’t you think you should have told me that the first time I read it?”
“I—I—” Grace stuttered, Adam’s tone—the seriousness of it—throwing her off. “I didn’t think it was that big a deal.”
“Of course it is,” he said, tossing his melting Popsicle into a trash can beside him. “You wrote a story about the man you loved right before me, and in a few months it’ll be available everywhere for everyone to read, both here and in six other countries.”
“Adam,” she said, “don’t you think you’re overreacting?”
Lines formed around his eyes. “I guess that explains the Cece bit, then, no?”
“What! No. It’s just a name,” Grace said. “I could have called heranything.”
“But you didn’t.”
“It’s fiction, Adam.” Grace felt as if her throat was tightening. “The whole story’s made up.” She licked the edges of her pop to avoid it dripping all over her hand. “And the few parts that aren’t, well, what does it really matter? It’s all in the past.”
“But it’s not, Grace. It’s here. In our present.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m ready to head home. I need to be in the office early tomorrow,” he said, already taking a step away from her.
Grace stood. When she did, the ground beneath her felt unsteady, like something had shifted, though she blamed it on the alcohol in the ice pop. “Adam?” she said to his back.
He turned, took a breath. “It’s fine, Grace,” he told her. “It’s just a book.”
That night, when Adam thought Grace was asleep, she saw him slide his early copy of the novel into his nightstand drawer. To her knowledge, he never pulled it out again.
Now, back on Sea Drift’s main boulevard, Grace keeps walking. More beachy blocks pass her by—weathered rental homes, decades-old surf shops, souvenir stores selling tchotchkes. It’s all so familiar, like a postcard preserved in time.
A little while later, the bag of taffy rolled up in the bicycle’s basket, the old bookshop with the striped awning appears on her right. In the front window, a splashy new summer romance is on display, its cover an illustration of two happy people clinking cocktails in the sand. Grace wonders if either of her books ever sat here—something passersby might’ve stopped to consider, the way she’s considering this one now. But more, she wonders about the person who wrote this new novel. If she wrestled with every word, straining to find the story.
Finally, a long while after she left this morning, Grace maneuvers the bike back onto Surf Street. It’s midday now, the whole world a touch too bright, like it’s trying its best to shine a light on things, even though it isn’t. She’s so distracted by her thoughts that she almost doesn’t see it at first. Once she does, her steps quicken. She drops the bike on the curb, not even bothering with the kickstand, then stops. There, staked into the crushed-seashell lot, it stands.
The sign.
