Mrs. Roth makes a shooing motion. “Go on, baby. ?ey’re just about done. I’ll send Porter to nd you after he’s back to shore.”
Quickly, I follow Grace away from the small crowd on the beach, down the sand dune, calling her name. She stops near a rock with a clump of yellow lupine scrub growing out of it. My throat is tight, and I can’t look her in the eyes. She’s so agitated, I can almost feel the emotion radiating off her like heat from a furnace. And she’s never been upset at me. Ever.
“Why do you want to talk to me now?” Grace says. “You didn’t bother to answer my texts this morning.”
“I’m sorry!” I blurt out. “I was going to text you back, but—”
“I called two times”—she angrily claps along with her words to drive her point home—“after the texts. It went straight to voice mail.”
I wince. My ngers itch to dive into my pocket and check my abandoned phone, but I resist. “It’s just—”
“Easy to forget about your friend when your boyfriend is suddenly back in the picture. When he was moping, you had all the time in the world for me. But the second he calls, you throw me away faster than yesterday’s news.”
Shame and regret roll through me. “?at’s not true. I just got distracted. I didn’t throw you away.”
“Well, that’s what it feels like. Don’t think I haven’t been here before with other friends. ?e second they fall for someone, they forget all about me. Well, I’ll tell you what, Bailey Rydell. I’m tired of being the placeholder. If you don’t want a real friendship with me, then nd someone else who doesn’t mind being disposable.”
I don’t know what to say. Don’t know how to make this better. I’m a surfer, wiping out and drowning under one of those monster waves. Only, I don’t think I’m skilled enough to get back up again.
After a long, awkward silence I say, “I’m not good at this.”
“At what?”
“Being close to people.” I gesture at her, then me. “I screw it up. A lot. It’s easier for me to avoid things than deal with confrontation.”
“?at’s your excuse?” she says.
“It’s not an excuse. It’s the truth.”
Why did I do this? If I could wind the clock back to this morning, I’d text her back and everything would be ne. Whether I actively or passively avoided Grace’s texts, forgot them on purpose or unintentionally, none of it matters. I failed her. And maybe in doing so, I failed myself a little too.
I don’t want to lose Grace. Somehow, while Porter barged in my front door, she sneaked in the back. I try the only thing I have left: the truth.
“You’re right,” I tell her, words tumbling out. “I took you for granted. I forgot about you this morning because I assumed that you’d always be there, because you always are. I can count on you, because you’re dependable. And I’m not. I wish … I wish you could count on me like I can count on you. I want to be more like you. You’re not a placeholder for me, Grace.”
She doesn’t say anything, but I can hear her breathing pick up.
“I guess I told myself you wouldn’t miss me,” I say, picking at the yellow lupine shrub. “?at’s how I justi ed it.”
“Well, I did miss you. You picked a ne day not to show. Because I really could have used a shoulder today,” she says, still somewhat upset, but now moving into another emotion I can’t quite put my nger on. It’s hard to decode people when they’re wearing big sunglasses and their arms are crossed over their chest.
A wind whips through my hair. I wait until it passes, then ask, “Did something happen?”
“Yes, something happened,” she complains. But now I can hear the distress in her voice, and when she lifts her sunglasses to rest them atop her head, I see it mirrored in her eyes. “Taran’s not coming back. He’s staying in India for the rest of the summer. Maybe for good.”
“Oh, God. Grace.” My chest constricts painfully.
Slow, silent tears roll down her cheeks. “We’ve been together for a year. We were going to attend the same college. ?is isn’t how life is supposed to work.”
Tentatively, I reach for her, not sure if she’ll accept me. But there’s not even a heartbeat of hesitation, and she’s throwing her arms around me, crying softly as she clings. Her sunglasses fall off her head and land in the sand.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out, surprised to nd that I’m crying along with her. “For everything.”
My old therapist warned me that avoidance is a dysfunctional way to interact with people you care about, but now I’m starting to understand what he meant when he said it could hurt them, too. Maybe it’s time I gure out a better way to deal with my problems. Maybe Artful Dodger isn’t working so well for me anymore.
“I’ve never been alone with a man before, even with my dress on.
With my dress off, it’s most unusual.”
