I chuckle. Knew that would change his mind. He’s a starving artist. Spends all his money on guitars and recording studio sessions in LA.
I drive down Main Street and pull into the parking lot behind Tacos by the Beach. It’s busy already, but not surprising for a Thursday. Ladies’ Night. Milo and I sit at the bar. It’s easier this way. No fussing with a server and no making eye contact with him if he wants to talk about Dottie again.
Or worse—Rosie.
We order a few tacos and one beer each. I won’t be someone who encourages or supports excessive drinking. I won’t be an enabler. Not when it’s in our blood.
“You think Rosie will show for the memorial?” Milo asks when we’re halfway through our dinner.
My stomach corkscrews and it’s an instant loss of appetite. It takes extra effort to finish chewing my bite and swallow it down before speaking. “I’d be surprised if she didn’t.”
“I guess the more important question I should be asking is, do you hope she’ll show up?”
Grinding my molars together, I can’t look at Milo when I answer. “I hope Rosie does what Rosie thinks is best. She always does.”
“You know I’ve always sided with you. It was selfish of her to leave the way she did. No goodbye even. But…you could’ve gone with her.”
“I couldn’t and you know it,” I growl back.
The bartender flicks his attention our way before returning to pulling drinks. Milo leans closer to me. “Hey, don’t put this on me. I was nineteen. I was old enough to take care of myself.”
It’s not his fault. And he’s right; I can’t blame him. It was my choice to stay. But it was her choice to leave. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. Besides, it’s been seven years. Why start changing it now.
“I was no good for her. Just a painful reminder. You know she deserved more than I could ever give her.”
“But, Beck?—”
“That’s enough,” I bark out, whipping my head to face him. “That’s enough,” I repeat, but softer now. We’ve been over this a thousand times. A thousand different conversations about a thousand different scenarios on how our relationship could’ve gone. But ultimately, we end up right back here. “It’s in the past.”
“Fine. I’m done.” Milo holds up a palm in surrender.
Even if the past has the possibility of rearing its head soon, I’m choosing to live in denial for as long as possible. If Rosie should show up for Dottie’s memorial, maybe we won’t even see each other. It’s a nice thought I have no choice but believe.
Milo’s friends pour into the restaurant as we’re finishing our dinner. I leave him with them to head home. I’m tired. The job for Dottie’s cottage was big. And we were on a time crunch. Originally, she had her upstairs converted from two bedrooms into one big one. But she wanted me to build the walls again and change it back into two bedrooms. It was smart. A three-bedroom would be an easier sell than two.
Besides the work upstairs, all the windows downstairs needed to be replaced. Which meant replacing some of the siding and trim and painting the entire exterior. Dottie wanted me to do all the work, said she didn’t trust anyone else. I was flattered, but the deadline was tight.
Dottie hired a real estate agent before she passed, and they wanted the house ready to list at the start of summer. We’d done it. Even if we had to work around Dottie while she was at her weakest following her stroke. She was gracious the whole way through, said she didn’t mind at all. If anything, she’d been grateful for the company. The latter made me angrier with Rosie. Where’d she been these past few weeks?
Instead of going home, I pull off Main and turn down Dottie’s street. I park my Chevy in the gravel between her driveway and the pathway to the beach. It’s idiotic. Like I’m not only forcing myself to feel these bottled-up emotions, but like I want them.
I shut off the engine and hop out of my truck. Peering up at the cottage, it’s dark and quiet. Peaceful. That’s what Rosie loved about Dottie’s. She’d grown up in a busy home where her parents worked a lot and traveled often, and where she and her illness were given no grace. Then she came here. And for the first time in her life, she was free to learn how to live in the body she’d been given.
Sadness washes over me and I shake my head, releasing a rumbled sigh. I yank off my work boots and pants and toss them inside my truck. After rummaging around in the back seat, I find my wetsuit and wiggle it on, glancing over my shoulders as I do. Besides the moon and the row of lamps lighting the pathway to the beach, it’s dark. My phone chimes from inside my truck.
Jack
Are you free to meet up at The Sandbar for a beer?
I’m beat
Raincheck?
Jack
Tomorrow?
I have a date
