“My phone’s inside.” Her mouth becomes watery again. “I was up at the beach.”
“Alone?”
“What?” Grace’s eyes snap shut. She shakes her head, reopens them. “What does that mean?”
Adam’s posture straightens by an inch. “Nothing.”
Out on the street, a young family—probably on their way out for ice cream—pushes a stroller while a toddler runs next to them.
“How was the water?” Adam asks, brushing past his previous question. “Your clothes are dry. Did you not swim?”
“You didn’t answer me. Why are you sitting here right now? You said you were at the lake house. In New Hampshire. Seven hours away.”
“It just seemed foolish,” he explains. “Me, alone on the water up there. You, by yourself down here.” He sighs. “I thought maybe we could both use some company.” Adam doesn’t move, though his sight shifts to a spot just beyond where Grace stands. “Hey, buddy,” he says suddenly, sounding cordial, like he’s just some guy exchanging pleasantries with other people on vacation. “How’s it going? Nice night, right?”
Grace turns to look back slowly, though she already senses who’s there.
“Caleb,” she says when she sees him. He’s still relaxed, as usual, though dressed a touch nicer—a short-sleeved button-down, flip-flops. Beachy, but slightly elevated. “Hi.”
A flash of confusion crosses his face. He licks his lips while his eyes taper. Before they have a chance to stay that way too long, he looks up at the dune, then down at the bayside of the street. “How’s the house working out, Grace?”
“What?” A shiver runs through her, the flimsy cover-up she still wears doing nothing to keep her warm. “What are you talking about?”
“Number 116,” Caleb states, his signature warm smile returning. “An oldie but a goodie, even if the plumbing’s not the best. Hope you’re enjoying it.” Caleb points at the sign. “Turns out there’s already a prospective buyer potentially lined up. From the sounds ofit, it’ll probably become a year-round property. No more summer rentals after this season.”
“Sounds like a good investment,” Adam, always in business-mode, pipes up from the steps. “Turn it into something nice. This place has needed a good gut-job for a long time.”
Caleb nods. “Anyway, didn’t mean to interrupt. Enjoy your evening.” He rolls back on his heels. “If you need anything—for the house, I mean—my number’s in the welcome basket,” he says, then moves up the street.
“Landlord, I take it?” Adam asks when they’re alone again.
Grace tries to catch her breath, but it doesn’t work. Her chest shudders as she struggles to get the right amount of air down. “The last time I saw you, you were collecting items from our house—the one we don’t share anymore because you left it. And then, out of the blue, you called me the other night to reminisce. Now you’re ... here?” She crosses her arms over her chest, wishing she had additional layers covering her body. “Why? What did I miss?”
“How’s your writing going?” Adam asks, not the first time he’s disregarded her inquiries since he arrived. “Have you found any ... inspiration?” Somehow, his question comes across as both sincere and suspicious. “You know, since you’ve been back down here?”
Her thoughts filter back several days to their last in-person interaction. The kitchen. The pages Adam accidentally knocked off the table. The way his brows knit and his expression—one that flirted with accusation—reshaped the look on his face.
“Is that why you’re here?” The jealousy had always been there, ever since that night on the High Line. They never talked about it. Instead, it remained quiet and invisible, something that always hummed beneath the surface. “To ask about my ... writing?”
“No. It isn’t.” Adam’s intonation isn’t entirely convincing. He sets down the bakery box, kneads his hands together. He doesn’t say anything else just yet, instead taking a minute to look at the ground. “It was to tell you thatI had a dream about you the other night,” he admits. “The night I got to New Hampshire. The day I stopped by and saw you at the house.”
It’s hard for Grace to pinpoint what she feels in this moment. Anger? Regret? Sadness? Nostalgia? Relief? Or is it all of these things, the emotions twisted up like adjacent plants whose roots have grown into each other, the sentiments intertwined and tangled up?
“Don’t you want to know what it was about?” Adam asks.
“I’m not sure,” Grace admits.
He keeps his hands folded, slowly looks up. “It was about us,” he states. “That first autumn we were dating back in the city.” Adam stops, presses his thumbs together. “You were so happy. All these heartaches of the last few years weren’t so much as a thought yet.” He picks at his fingernail. “It made me miss you. That version of you. That version of us, maybe.”
Before Grace can speak—to shout or spew a litany of questions or something in between—Adam stands.
“Here.” He hands her the bakery box, the iced coffee still perspiring on the step. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want me to stay or not, so I booked myself a room at one of the old motels a few blocks south.” He doesn’t try to hug Grace or kiss her or touch her in any way. Instead, he meets her eyes. “If you want me to come back—if you need anything—all you have to do is say the word.” Adam moves to his SUV, opens the driver’s-side door. “Grace?” he says before he gets in.
She looks at him, not sure she wants to hear what comes next.
“I know your second book didn’t sell nearly as well as your first one,” Adam says. “Even so, I wish the draft you’d been looking at the other day had been the one inspired by us instead.”
Back inside the house, the evening lasts forever.
