He’s quiet for long enough that I look over. He’s not staring at the water or the rocks. He’s staring at me, with an expression I can’t read, which is rare, because Peter’s face usually operates like a billboard—every thought displayed in high definition.
“I’m thinking: six months ago, I would have said yes before he finished the sentence.” He pauses. “I’m thinking I sat in that office and looked at the view and the desk and the nameplate, and all I could think about was whether you’d eaten lunch.”
My chest tightens. “Peter?—”
“I’m not asking you to factor into my decision. I know that’s not fair. I know this is supposed to be—” He stops himself, and Iwatch him edit the sentence in real time. “I want you to know it’s not a simple yes for me. It’s not what I thought it would be. And not only because of you. I want—I need to find myikagi.” The confusion must be clear on my face, because that’s not a word I know the meaning of. This must be how people feel whenever I do this. “I want to know what my purpose is, to find what makes my life worthwhile.”
I nod because I don’t trust my voice. We sit in silence for a while, eating chips and watching the tide. I think about how, a few months ago, I would have made this easy for him. I would have saidgo, obviously, don’t be stupid, this was just a summer thing. I would have smiled and meant it, mostly, and then I would have spent the next three PMDD cycles crying about it in the shower or on the bathroom floor.
I don’t say any of that. I don’t make it easy. I don’t make it hard, either. I just sit next to him and let the silence hold all the things we’re both too scared to say out loud.
“These chips are too salty,” I say eventually.
“They’re terrible,” he agrees, scowling.
“At least the dip is good. Want some more?”
“Obviously.” He covers a small chip with so much dip, I doubt he’ll even be able to taste anything other than French onion. “We should have sprung for the Ruffles,” he mumbles before popping the loaded chip in his mouth.
“Next time,” I respond, unthinking.
Will there be a next time?
We finish the bag, because we’re committed to bad decisions, and then Peter slides off the rock and holds his hand out. “Come on. Let’s go down to the water.”
I shoot him a skeptical glare.
“We’re not swimming. Just our feet.”
I take his hand and let him pull me down. We leave our shoes by the rock and pick our way across the beach towardthe shoreline. The water is cold when it touches our toes—that sharp Atlantic cold that never fully warms, even in August—and I hiss through my teeth, but I don’t step back. I roll my jeans up as far as I can, while Peter wades in to his knees like it’s nothing, because he’s a person who adjusts to discomfort instead of avoiding it. I guess all that time spent surfing has gotten him used to the chill.
When he moves back to me, I stand beside him, the water swirling around my feet. The late-afternoon light is turning the whole cove gold, making the rocks look like they’re glowing from the inside.
“Can I ask you something?” He’s looking down at my foot, where my tattoo peeks out above the sand. The “90%,” inked in small, clean script.
“You want to know about the tattoo.”
“I’ve wanted to know since Halifax. But you had a strict no-personal-information policy.”
I smile at that, because he’s right—Halifax Billie wouldn’t have told him her last name, let alone the story behind her tattoo. But Halifax Billie isn’t standing in this cove. I am. And whether I like it or not, those two people are no longer one and the same. Not entirely.
“Ninety percent of what I think about never happens.” I wiggle my toes in the sand under the water. “It’s an ADHD thing. My brain is constantly generating scenarios—worst-case, best-case, completely implausible middle-case. I overthink everything. Plan for disasters that never come. Catastrophize conversations I haven’t had yet.” I shrug. “I got it as a self-deprecating joke. A reminder that ninety percent of the stuff my brain tortures me with is fiction. And also as a visual reminder of how much ninety percent really is, and how little, but important, those other ten percent are.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “Is it still a joke?”
“Less than it used to be.” I look at it—the thin black lines, slightly faded now, the skin around it tan from a summer spent outside. “Somewhere along the way, it became more of a… I don’t know. A grounding thing. When I’m spiraling, I look at it and think,ninety percent of this isn’t real. Focus on the ten that is.”
“What’s the ten percent right now?”
I look at him. Standing in the Atlantic Ocean in shorts and a T-shirt, chip salt still on his fingers, asking me about my brain like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever encountered.
“This,” I reply. “You. This is the ten percent.”
His expression makes me need to look away, so I do. We stand in the water for another minute, letting the cold numb our toes and the silence say everything we can’t.
“Okay, I need to get out,” I say finally, shifting my weight and immediately grimacing. “I hate sand. Between my toes, on my feet—it’s a sensory nightmare. The walk back to our shoes is going to be miserable.”
“How do you live on the coast and hate sand?”
