Now I park the car by the fence to the farm, walking down the pathway that is half sand and half dirt, and enter the line for the brewery. Sometimes on holiday weekends, the line can stretch to the street, but today, there are only a handful of people ahead of me.
Inside, past the wooden barns where they brew the beer, is a stone gathering space with picnic benches and two bars. Food trucks crowd the exterior: lobster rolls, a pizza oven, a raw bar with shucked oysters and tuna poke. There’s a stage where a live band is now playing a country song I don’t recognize, and a pagoda near the garden in case it rains or you need an escape from the sun.
I spot the tennis group to the left of the stage, half-covered by the pagoda. Emily is in a sunlit seat, shading her forehead with her right hand. Theo is next to her, and the two of them are talking close. Abruptly, I feel nervous. I decide to get a drink first.
The brewery distills their own liquor and they’re famous for their blueberry lemonade cocktail, a deep purple-blue spirit that tastes vaguely like cough syrup. I order myself a blueberry lemonade. It’s delicious but the color is dangerous—how many pairs of white jeans have I ruined here over the years?
I’m about to approach the Great Harbor crew when I see another familiar party: Henry and a few of his guy friends.
“Lily!” He waves when he sees me. He walks over to the bar and grabs me by the shoulder. He’s rough enough that the blue liquidnearly escapes from the edge of my plastic cup. “Lily, I’m so happy it’s you!”
His eyes are half-lidded, and he looks somewhere between consciousness and elsewhere, like a sleepwalker who is still deciding whether or not to wake up. “I have to tell you something,” he says. “Why didn’t you answer my text?”
It’s the drunkest I’ve ever seen him, and after the dramatic morning of reconciliation I’ve had, I’m not in the mood. He kind of reminds me of my father the few times I’ve seen him drink, the way he’s stumbling and the dead, distant look in his eyes. I only saw my father like that a handful of times when he relapsed during one particularly bad Christmas and an ill-fated surprise birthday trip that ended with seven-year-old me in tears and his white T-shirt covered in a disturbing mixture of vanilla cake and punch. For most of high school, I never touched alcohol out of fear I would turn out the same.
“Are you okay?” I ask, concerned. He’s tottering like an unstable toddler.
“It’s my bachelor party week!” he cries, slurring his words. “Isn’t that exciting?”
I look around at his friends, who are a few feet away, sitting on barrels. There’s about seven of them in total, most of whom I recognize, except for an irritated-looking blond man who is glaring in our direction. He has slicked-back hair and looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t place him. I assume he must be the fiancée’s brother.
“That’s very exciting,” I tell him in a friendly, maternal voice. “You should join your group and celebrate.”
He places both hands on my shoulders. I can feel the weight of him as he uses me like some sort of human crutch. To our left, Theo is at the table with the tennis staff, his blue eyes watching intently. I wave, but he looks away.
“I’m good, I’m so good. I’m getting married, Lily-pad! Can you believe it?” yells Henry into my ear. “You know, I used to think it would be me and you up there, but I think it all worked out good in the end. You know?”
Someone has drawn their number on his arm with the message “If lost, call this number!”
“That’s great, Henry. I’m happy for you,” I tell him, and as I’m saying it, it rings true.
Looking at him now, I can tell that he’s a different person than the one I fell in love with. He’s not my Henry anymore. His hair has that foreign crop. His face is puffier. His eyes no longer stare into my soul like they know everything about me either. Instead, he looks at me like I’m a stranger, which maybe I am. I’ve changed since I met him. Heck, I’ve changed this summer alone.
“I like the bangs, by the way,” he says. I touch them, realizing that they’ve grown, too. They’re just below my eyebrows now.
He’s not perfect, but he deserves happiness. As does Mary.
I look for a way to strategically extricate myself from his grasp without him face-planting into the dirt.
“I love you.” He lowers his voice, looking around conspiratorially. He stumbles again. I catch him by the armpits. “But I don’t think we would’ve made each other very happy. I always felt like I was disappointing you or something, I don’t know. Or like you didn’t think I was good enough. I never feel that way about Mary.”
He leans back a little, the pressure on my shoulders lightening. I know he’s right. Still, it hurts to hear. We just weren’t right for each other. It’s as simple as that. With the nostalgia veil momentarily lifted, I can see that clearly.
“I’m happy for you, Henry,” I repeat. “You deserve to be with someone who appreciates you.”
He leans in and gives me a fat, wet kiss on the cheek, like a dog. I resist the temptation to immediately wipe off the slime. “You deserve it, too.”
Despite the drunk accent on his words, the sentiment strikes me as profound. It’s as if the alcohol has burned away all of our complicated emotions down to the simplest, rawest ingredients. I remember what the psychic said about my soulmate at the fundraising event, but psychics can be wrong. Psychics are often wrong, actually. That’s kind of their whole business.
“Hey.” Henry turns around, suddenly alert. He looks down at his chest, dazed, as if surprised to discover himself out in the world and not in his bed. “Is there something on my arm?” He rubs the skin but the words stay in place.
“Don’t worry about it,” I tell him. “Have fun.”
After he walks away, it’s as if he’s siphoned a bit of me with him: taking the parts that are still stuck, the pieces that still love him in all the ways I’m not allowed to anymore.
What’s left is something more peaceful, steady.
“Hi, everyone,” I say, approaching the Great Harbor bench. Theo is noticeably avoiding eye contact, but I sit on a stool next to him, anyway. I refuse to let this be weird. I will shoulder through any awkwardness until we’re normal again just like I did after the bonfire.
