“Or I could walk you home,” says Simone now. “I can hold one of your drinks.”
Simone’s parents own one of the gigantic homes along Ocean Boulevard, across the street from the beach. Simone’s father made his money in the early days of the tech boom. When Jordan knew her, all those years ago, when Simone’s family had just bought and renovated the house, the money was new money. Jordan supposes it’s older money now, or at least middle-aged money, with a couple of lines on its face and some extra weight around the hips.
The summer between sophomore and junior year of college she ran into Simone’s mother on the beach, who told her Simone had a summer internship in California and wasn’t coming back. Soon enough Jordan’s visits were shorter too—an internship in the city before senior year, then graduation and her first real job. She blinked, and the endless girlhood summers were a thing of the past, and that was a wrap on Jordan’s first love. If one of her sisters reported that they’d seen Simone or talked to her, she’d pretended that she didn’t care. She had cared very much, until she made herself not care.
Now Jordan is full of mixed-up feelings—years-old hurt, and also nostalgia, and also genuine happiness at seeing someone she once truly loved, someone who turned her on, mentally, physically, emotionally. “Sure,” she says. “Walk me home.”
They cross the first parking lot, cross the street, cross the second parking lot. They cross everything they can cross and now they are on the beach. The early surfers are carrying their boards from the water, peeling off their wetsuits, packing their cars, and shaking the water out of their ears.
The tide is coming in now. Simone stops to take off her running shoes, and Jordan slips her feet out of her flip-flops. She can’t believe she’s here, with Simone, after so many years. Simone is a stranger! But also 100 percent familiar.
“Feet in the water?” asks Jordan. “Or stay dry?”
“Definitely in the water.” They walk down, brace themselves, get their feet wet, brace themselves some more. This is how you have to do it on the Seacoast, where the water in the summer is almost always just the wrong side of welcoming. If you’re lucky you might be able to wade in almost comfortably on a single hot day in mid-August.
“My parents told me about your mom,” says Simone, and instantly Jordan’s throat closes and she feels like she can’t breathe. The grief is always right there on the edges, ready to pounce. “I’m so sorry, Jordan. Your mom was amazing.”
“Thanks,” she manages to croak. “Yeah, she was. I miss her. We all miss her.” The wordmissfeels so inadequate; it seems like the loss of Theresa should have its own special word.
“We used to talk about books, your mom and me, that summer. Sitting out on your patio.”
“Yeah,” says Jordan, squinting toward the horizon. “I remember that. You were both readingWater for Elephants.”
“We were! You’re right. I can picture my paperback. I got it wet and it was so soggy and swollen. Your mom’s was pristine.” They start to walk, and Jordan can feel Simone looking at her, but she keeps her eyes straight ahead. “I wanted to reach out to you, but we weren’t intouch so I didn’t know if I could...” Her voice falters, then trails off altogether.
“Sure,” says Jordan. “I get it.” She hadn’t really left an opening for Simone to get in touch with her. If she’s remembering correctly, she’d said some irrevocable things. Can she revoke them now?
“I have been following your sister, though, I admit.” Simone laughs. Her laugh sounds the same, like it’s moving up and down a musical scale. “Well, I was. Until I couldn’t take it anymore.”
“What couldn’t you take?”
Simone bends to examine a clamshell. “Empty,” she says. “Nobody to rescue.” She straightens again. “What I couldn’t take was all of that heteronormative perfection. It’s too much. It’s unreal. I mean, I know that’s an expression, but it literally seems like it can’t be real.”
“Yeah,” says Jordan, feeling disloyal to Natalie but also agreeing. “I get it,” she says again.
“Okay, so,” says Simone. “Catch me up on your life in thirty seconds or less.” They pass a man walking a German shepherd on a leash, and Jordan clocks Simone’s double take. The man is very good-looking.
“Only thirty seconds?”
“You can have a little longer if you need it.”
“Okay.” Jordan takes a deep breath. “I live in Manhattan. I work for a high-end crisis communications firm, which means when people do something wrong that goes public—or even if they don’t do something wrong, but the public perceives that they have—we manage the response.”
“You’re a fixer!” cries Simone.
“Not exactly. Sort of. More of a—buffer. A context builder. A hand-holder, sometimes. Does this count as part of my thirty seconds?”
“I forgot to look at my watch. Take as long as you need.”
“Okay. Two years and two months ago, my mom died. Five months ago, my dad married her hospice nurse, who’s twenty-nineyears younger. My sisters and I boycotted the wedding. My dad is putting our house on the market. My sisters are up in arms about it, but I actually think it makes sense. Natalie has three kids, you’ve seen them online, I’m sure, and Mae lives in Boulder.”
“Relationship?”
“Me or Mae?”
“You.”
“I—no. Not currently. I was living with someone. Audrey. She moved out three years ago.”
