Jenny rests a hand on her hip, uses her free one to adjust her pointy party hat. “I have three children under the age of six, Grace. Iwasup when your message came through.” She smiles. “Lucky for you, Eric is able to work remotely today and tomorrow. Not sure how much he’ll actually accomplish with the baby’s sleep schedule, as well as the othertwo sprinting laps through the house, but he’ll figure it out.” She rinses some things in the sink. “He has a meeting in his office early Friday afternoon, but other than that, we’re good to go, my friend.” She clicks off the range, makes herself a plate. “Turns out when I only have to pack for myself and don’t need to worry about grabbing eight hundred articles of tiny clothing, a dozen different granola bars, and an entire pharmacy’s worth of just-in-case medical supplies, I can do it incredibly fast.” Jenny slides onto a seat, tucks one leg up against her chest like they’re teenagers. “Now dish and tell me why I’m here.”
Grace’s thoughts rewind back to last night. The iced coffee. The cupcake. Little details that once would have made her happy now a source of confusion and pain. She tries for another bite of pancake, but the feeling in her stomach returns.
“Adam’s on the island.” She sets down her fork. “I was out on the beach last night, trying to make sense of things with Ray, and when I walked back, Adam was just sitting on the porch, waiting for me.” She crosses one leg, folding her ankle over her knee. “He said he got himself a hotel room a few blocks south of here.”
“I’m confused.” Jenny sips her juice, then without a word, grabs Grace’s foot and inspects it while they talk. “I figured your text had something to do with Ray,” she says, her maternal impulses—instincts Grace, despite her longing to be a mother, doesn’t seem to intrinsically have—quickly turning up by several notches. She twists Grace’s now noticeably red heel in her hand. “Or Birdie. Or I don’t know, just ... you.” She rubs the tips of her fingers together, sharpening her nails like they’re knives. “How did he even know you were here?”
Grace pushes away her plate. “He called the other night from the lake house. He was reminiscing ... or something.” She thinks back to their conversation and the wistfulness in his tone. “I think he’s having second thoughts.” She winces as Jenny uses her fingernails to expertly pluck the splinter straight out of Grace’s skin with the ease and precision of a surgeon. “You know, if you’d given mefiveminutes to actually process the fact that you’re here, I would have gone ahead and actuallyaskedyou for your help with that.”
“Would you have?” Jenny’s brows lift. “It’s out, but you definitely have a little infection.” She wipes the retrieved splinter on a napkin. “How long has that thing been in there?”
“Not long,” Grace lies.
Jenny gives her a side-eye.
“Fine,” Grace admits through a huff. “All week.”
“Well, did you put anything on it?” Jenny asks.
“Umm.”
“Grace,” Jenny says, her voice sounding like a sigh, “why not?”
Grace peers at her foot. She notes how much redder it looks now than when she was out on the jetty and wonders if a day will ever come when she’ll be equipped like Birdie and Jenny to take care of these sorts of things. “Will you yell at me if I say I was sort of hoping it’d just magically go away?”
“Come on.” Jenny folds up the napkin. “You know you can’t ignore stuff like that. The longer you let these things linger, the worse they get and the more time they take to heal.”
Told you, love,Grace nearly hears Birdie whisper.
Jenny shakes her head. “Anyway, back to the topic.” She gives Grace’s foot a fast squeeze. “After what Adam pulled on you at the start of this summer, does he still have the right to indulge in things like second thoughts?”
“I don’t know. I was up half the night trying to wrap my head around it.”
Jenny stands, grabs the syrup from the counter, then tops off both their plates, like a bartender realizing her customers are in need of a heavier pour. When she puts it back next to the stove, she lifts something else in its place. “Meanwhile, I read back through the first two chapters while you were asleep.” In her hands, Jenny holds Grace’s folded-back copy ofThe Tides. “It was on the coffee table when I got here.”
Jenny knew the story—both the fictionalized account and the real one. How many nights of their youth had they curled up together during sleepovers while Grace went on and on about the boy from the beach? How many times had they visited each other during college with Jenny catching Grace “accidentally” calling other guys on her campusRay? How many phone calls in their late twenties had Jenny listened through as Grace gave bullet-pointed reasons why Adam was such a great catch, as if she needed to rationalize her choice?
Jenny smiles, sets down Grace’s book. “Having second thoughts of your own?”
“I’m not sure,” Grace admits.
Jenny pulls off her hat, revealing an indentation along her chin from the too-tight elastic band, and rejoins Grace at the table. “How about we change gears for a minute?” She nudges the gift bag closer to Grace. “Open it.”
“You really didn’t have to bring me something. You leaving your family and driving down here first thing this morning ismorethan a sufficient birthday gift.”
“I promise it’s nothing,” Jenny assures her. “Didn’t cost me a dime.”
Grace removes the pastel tissue and pulls out a picture frame, its edges decorated with glittery flowers and hearts. Inside it is a faded photograph of sixteen-year-old Grace and Jenny on junior prom night—their hair twisted into fancy updos, Jenny’s still dyed blue thanks to her “Niffer” stage, way too much glitter on their eyes, colorful corsages at their wrists.
“You made me nostalgic the other day when we were on the phone and you were going through Birdie’s boxes,” Jenny explains.
Grace examines the picture, suddenly remembering that night as if it were yesterday.
“I like to think maybe we’re still a bit like those girls.” Jenny laughs. “Just a touch less flexible, and with better makeup application skills.” She takes another bite of her breakfast, then pushes her plate away. “So other than allthatnews, and the fact that you’ve self-elected to mildlyinfect your own foot, what else have I missed since you came back down here?”
Grace’s vision drifts to the coffee table and the strange little shrine that’s taken shape there throughout the week—the girl from the prom photo existing somewhere among the pile.
“Honestly?” Grace sighs. “More than I can logically explain right now,” she says.
