She spent every day with Ray that summer week. Things between them were the same, but not. They talked about different topics, not just the beach and whether they wanted to take a bike ride or go play miniature golf, butrealthings. Their future. Where they eventually envisioned they’d each end up. The lives they both saw for themselves—hers off in a big city, his someplace quiet, like Sea Drift. They wanted opposing things. Still, they were young and hopeful enough to ignore these early cracks.
You liked it, huh?he asked her that week. The two of them. A bench outside the bookshop. A bag of taffy. Heat rising off the asphalt.Not just the internship, but all of it.
Two weeks earlier, Grace finished her first internship at a small regional magazine in Philly. A nice office. A tall building. A few small bylines. A desk with her name.
I did.She still buzzed from the experience. It was all she talked about—not just the unpaid job but the feeling of it. Like she was doing something. Becoming something. Like not only she but also the things she wanted really mattered.I hope I get a chance like that again. Maybe not the office, but the writing part, anyway.
You will, Porter,he said, a quiet sadness tracing his words.Of course you will.
What makes you so confident?Their hands dipped into the bag at the same time, fingers tangling.
Because I know you.He handed her a green piece of candy. Mint. Her favorite.And because I know you can.
Grace didn’t respond, just chewed a sticky bite for a long time. It thrilled her, the way he believed in her when she wasn’t so sure she even believed in herself. But it was also terrifying.
Even though he hadn’t directly said it, they both knew he didn’t want that same life.
That just like a perfect vacation, some things—even ones we love—are only temporary.
Back in the bookshop, Grace remains where she is for a few minutes, standing in the stillness, studying Cece as she studies the classic text. Every couple of pages, she pauses, writes something down. An observation. Or a question. A brief note about something she doesn’t comprehend. Not giving up on it because it’s confusing or rushing to reach the end, just content to be working her way through the middle of it.
“Can I help anyone with anything?”
They both turn to look at the same time. To the right of them, the woman from the register has left her post to restock shelves. For a second so brief it’s as if it doesn’t even happen, Grace’s and Cece’s eyes meet. Grace freezes, not sure how to react, deciding instead to let Cece lead. The girl’s lids narrow, something confusing or maybe very clear, washing over her face. She sits with it for a moment, then dismisses it as she closes her book.
“Actually, I’m ready to check out now. I’m already running late to meet a friend.” Cece quickly gathers her things, still half looking at Grace. “I need to pay for this one, plus the stack I already left up front.”
The woman nods, shelves the titles she’s holding, then makes her way back to the counter. Cece follows in her footsteps. Before she disappears into a new aisle, she turns back.
“You look familiar.” Cece gives her nameplate necklace a gentle tug. “Do I know you?”
How could she ever explain it? The fact that she doesn’t know Grace, but that Grace does, in fact, know her. That they’re the same and yet so different, too.
“No.” Grace smiles and takes her in. “I don’t think so.”
At least,she thinks,not yet.
Cece turns to go. As she does, one of her many highlighters falls from the pile she clumsily holds and rolls across the floor. She keeps walking, not even noticing. Grace grabs it, ready to catch up to Cece and give it back. Instead, she slips it inside her own bag.
One more piece. One more small reminder.
Of the person Grace once was. The one who, in time, she might be able to become again.
Twenty
Grace spends the rest of the day the same way her younger self often spent days in Sea Drift—out in one of the Adirondack chairs beneath the shade of a tree, her legs tucked into her chest, with a glass of iced tea balanced on the armrest and a good book in her hands. But not just any book.Herbook.The Tides. The copy she bought from the island’s bookshop before she left.
It’s been so long since she’s read it. There was a period—back when she was writing, revising, and rewriting again—when she had entire chapters nearly committed to memory. She could hear words and sentences coming, knew exactly how every scene would end. That was one of the hard parts about writing. You spent so much time with a story, hoping to get it right, that you became immune to it. Try as you might, you’d never have the opportunity to read it and experience it in the way your readers did.
Today, though, she finds that she’s finally spent enough time separated from it to come close. There are whole scenes she’s forgotten about, some passages that even make her laugh. For maybe the first time ever since those weekends back in her Manhattan studio when she cranked out the first draft, Grace is able to really get lost in it.
Her body aching from sitting like this for hours—save for the occasional bathroom or snack break—Grace finally puts the book down and wipes her bottom lashes. Overhead, the sun has shifted. It’s late afternoon, almost dinnertime—that hour of the day when the beach transitions from one shift to the next. She goes into the outdoorshower and slips on her bathing suit for the first time since the tide-pool catastrophe. The fabric clings uncomfortably on her chest, not sitting quite right and still warped from drying on the wood planks in a heap. Before she leaves, Grace moves back inside, slides on a cover-up, and checks her phone before she heads out. There’s one text from Adam, received hours ago.
Thought I’d check in, see how you’re doing,his message reads.Assuming you’re still down in Sea Drift? Alone?
She almost ignores it, then decides to send a fast reply, suddenly wanting him to know that she’s okay.
I’m fine, Adam,she writes, grabbing her sunglasses from the counter, not overthinking her reply. Doesn’t edit it. Doesn’t offer further explanation.And, yes, I’m still here.
