“Tina says it’s a great company. She talked you up plenty.”
“Does Tina even know my qualifications?”
“I told her all about your experience, and at this stage, everyone’s qualified. It’s about who you know.”
Cece thanks her mom again and promises she’ll pick up some new clothes. She’s grateful for the offer; most of her work outfits are still boxed up in the self-storage unit. Taking the interview isn’t committing her to anything, Cece tells herself, but she needs to pivot. If things at Rayburn are truly finished, she needsa contingency plan. Who knows? Maybe she’ll love being back in the city; maybe the interview will crystalize things for her…What she wouldn’t do for some crystallization, Cece thinks as she turns onto her street. When she spots Lorraine out in the yard, she finds herself unable to take her foot off the gas. The last thing she wants to do is stop. She can’t face anyone, especially Lorraine, just yet. A block later, Cece pulls over behind a minivan and cuts the engine. She just needs a second—that’s all—to collect herself.
The car clicks and clacks, heat rippling off its paint-faded hood. Big, ugly tears come easily then while Cece gasps for air. Forehead on the steering wheel, arms hanging loose at her sides, she lets herself go. Cracking up over such a silly and pathetic thing like losing a summer job only makes Cece cry more. Of all the things that have transpired since she left Jonathan—fleeing to New London, moving into Lorraine’s pool house, messing around with Morgan—the job at Rayburn Oyster Company was the one thing that gave her a sense of purpose, no matter how trivial. Flipping baskets, sorting oysters, scrubbing the boat—she was contributing to something…giving something tangible to people. Cece had felt a kinship—not with Santiago or Davi, but with the ocean and the sun, and the surrounding community that consumed the Rayburn product. Passing crowded outdoor tables at happy hours in New London, fine-dining restaurants in Mystic, seaside shacks serving up fried seafood baskets—Cece had felt a profound sense of pride. But now that’s all gone, thanks to Santiago’s jealousy and malice. The tears, Cece understands, are for the fleeting glimpse of a different life she might have lived. They are for a return to the known path, the predictable and thetrustworthy. They are for Cece’s brief and paltry attempt to alter a future that had seemed designed for her…by whom? Her mother, her father, herself? It’s who she’s always been—cautious, rational, and pragmatic. Who is she kidding? She should take the actuary job in the city if she can get it; she’ll be better off. There’s no denying that. Cece puts her face in her hands and squeezes her eyes shut until she sees stars. Who can she call? Breaking up with Jonathan has revealed just how alone she really is. Kim is out of the question. Her father’s advice has always been more inspirational than substantive:You miss 100 percent of the shots you don’t take;if you fail to prepare, you’re prepared to fail;you’re never a loser until you quit trying. These trite slogans might have worked when she was swimming, but today they seem to perfectly incapsulate all of Cece’s worse qualities—a quitter ruled by fear. Wynonna is her last resort, but what would her baby sister have to offer in the way of comfort and advice? Shouldn’t it be the other way around? Shouldn’t Wynonna be the one calling her, panicked about a date, stuck in a joyless job, filled with existential dread? But, of course, she isn’t. Far from it, in fact. Happily married, mother to two ludicrously rambunctious boys, a dedicated stay-at-home mom—she has made a life, while Cece has made a mess.
A gentle knock on the window freezes Cece. She is distinctly aware that she’s openly sobbing in a parked car a block away from where she lives. “I’m fine,” she says through spread fingers. She dares not look. “Please just leave me alone.”
“It’s me,” the voice, soft but forceful, says.
Morgan. Of course. As if her day couldn’t get worse. She can only imagine how she looks: hysterical and puffy faced. In amoment of paralysis, she wonders what would be more unattractive: letting the snot run from her nose or rubbing it away with the back of her hand.
Cece groans and puts the window down. “Hi.”
“I’m on my lunch break. Everything okay?” he says, rocking back on his heels, hands fiddling with the buttons on his paint-speckled plaid shirt.
Cece laughs at the absurdity of it all. “Yes,” she says with a genuine smile, not because she’s happy, but because it’s all she can do…laugh at this disaster she calls her life. She pushes her hair out of her face. “Just a bad day at work.”
“Sorry to hear,” Morgan says, hands in his beard. “Anyone you need me to thump?”
“You joke,” Cece says and falls into a fantasy involving Morgan tossing Santiago off the dock into the water, where he flails and splutters.
“What can I do to help?”
“It’s okay.”
“I’m here, Cece,” Morgan says and spreads out his arms. “Just tell—”
“I don’t need you to solve my problems.” It comes out harsher than she wants, but she’s worn thin, too tired for niceties and decorum. Even if she were to accept his help, Cece knows Morgan isn’t the solution. The sooner she realizes that, the better. Would she like to be consoled, to be held and told none of this is her fault? Yes, unequivocally yes, especially by Morgan…Mr. Shipyard, but where would that get her? It would be comforting, God knows it would feel good, but wanting to feel good has only gotten Cece into trouble of late.
Like she’s got a gun pointed at him, Morgan raises his hands. “I hear you. Loud and clear.”
Cece puts up her window, reclines her chair all the way back, and closes her eyes. She listens to Morgan’s boots crunch on the sidewalk. The prospect of facing Lorraine is simply too much. She’ll wait until dark before she heads back. Bernard will just have to make do.
On the radio,there’s news. An unprecedented heat wave is sweeping the globe: 104 in London, 105 in Belgium, in Paris, a godless 114 degrees. And in New Haven, Connecticut, a sizzling 102 and climbing. Unprecedented. What does that word even mean anymore? Cece wonders while she looks for a space in the cool darkness of the parking garage on York Street. Every summer it seems there’s some new threshold passed, a new study published outlining the absolute and unalterable demise of humanity. Earth is ringing its fire alarm, but no one seems to be listening, but is Cece any better? Here she is, driving instead of taking the train, readying herself for her date with Jonathan in an air-conditioned museum—preoccupied with the concerns of her miniscule human life, not even a speck in the grand scheme of things. And yet, it feels important! Necessary!
All it takes is a brief walk from the parking garage to the Yale University Art Gallery for the heat to take its toll on Cece’s wardrobe—blouse clinging to her lower back, shorts darkening at the first sign of sweat between her thighs. She’s alreadyregretting the decision to keep her hair down, bleached by the sun, a hot compress on the back of her neck.
Jonathan is predictably punctual, waiting in the lobby, pamphlet-sized map in hand. Even in this weather, he’s wearing faded khakis and sneakers. Heat didn’t bother him, Cece remembers. He never broke a sweat, not when they biked through the Tuscan countryside that one summer, not when they took a weekend trip to DC to see the sights, humid air thick like stew. No—Jonathan always ran cool, dry to the bone. Cece, on the other hand, is like a cold bottle of beer in summer, dappled and soggy. Today seems no different, her upper lip salty, underside of her bra damp. Nevertheless, she endeavors, light on her feet, the edge of a smile on her lips.
They hug, which seems right, although it’s odd to be this formal after everything they’ve been through. Then again, maybe this is what they need. To start over, to go back to the beginning. Jonathan has promised to go as slow as Cece wants, and she intends to hold him to it, if only because she can’t imagine going any other speed. She isn’t quite sure what she’s hoping for—a moment of clarity, a sign—but there’s comfort in the familiarity of things.
“Where should we start?” Jonathan asks. “The ancient civilization stuff looks interesting.”
Six months ago, Cece might have deferred to Jonathan’s preference, but she has no real interest in looking at rusted knives and spearheads. She still remembers the hours they’d spent staring at the medieval suits of armor at the Met during one of their earlier dates. Back then, it didn’t matter that she was terriblybored by the endless versions of silly-looking chain mail and flamboyant jousting paraphernalia, but now, she feels no desire to please.
“They’re supposed to have some incredible modern and contemporary art. Let’s start there.”
“Sure,” Jonathan says, unbothered by not getting his way.
A museum was a strategic choice by Cece—a space that required minimal conversation, hushed tones, and lots of walking. Cece commends herself on the decision as they move slowly from exhibit to exhibit, the parquet floor creaking beneath their feet. Patrons dot the rooms, standing statue-like before gold-framed paintings entranced by the audio guide, headphones squeezed against their inquisitive ears. There’s another reason they are here instead of Jonathan’s parents’ sumptuous beach house or a rooftop bar in the city, places where Cece finds it difficult to focus and see things for what they are. Here, there are no distractions, no window dressings, no chance for luxury and comfort to camouflage reality; she can see her relationship with Jonathan for what it is, what it might be. Among the studious drawing students huddled at their easels and perpetually perturbed security guards in their dour blazers, Cece can observe Jonathan on an even plane, objectively.
They chat idly, pointing to pieces they vaguely recognize. Jonathan seems content to follow Cece’s lead while she lingers in front of specific paintings, puzzling over the artistic choices. She’d always wanted to take an art history class in college but hadn’t been able to justify it. An impressive orange and lavender Rothko arrests her attention. There’s an immersive quality to it,and Cece catches herself holding her breath while she scans the subtle shifts in color within the rectangular shapes. Jonathan stands beside her, arms crossed, wristwatch glinting in the dim light. “I like this one,” is all she can say.
“I never totally got abstract art, but this is intense. That’s a serious orange.”
