I leave the house early the next morning, Lottie’s words held close to my chest.
After last night’s storm, it’s unseasonably cold, like the first night of the summer back in May. The grass is damp with the morning dew.
Everything in my body feels heavier, as if the strength of gravity has multiplied overnight. My heart hangs low like a long necklace.
I left the letter and manuscript on the kitchen counter for Rose to find. For once, I’m up earlier than her. Now I walk to the village center and across the white wooden bridge, down to the beach. I find the lifeguard stand empty and climb to the top, taking a seat. The sight of Lottie’s precise handwriting is burned into my retinas like the glare of the sun.
I didn’t read the rest of the manuscript. It’s clear the package was intended for Rose, not me. Why would Lottie be this mysterious and leave its discovery to chance? I’ll never know.
I keep thinking about the line she wrote about being brave. I’ve spent this entire summer afraid. I’ve been scared to be alone, to loseHenry. Scared to tell Theo how I feel. Scared to let my dad in again. I’ve been scared to show my work to people and put myself out there. I’ve been scared to reach out to Jade.
I know I’ve made mistakes—last night being a major one. But at least I’ve tried. To Lottie’s point, I would rather make mistakes than be too scared to take a risk. I think of the image of Lottie I most remember: working away in the garden, determined. I picture her stubborn, solid back, the shape of it curved like a shovel.
I would never describe her as someone who was afraid of anything, but I suppose I was wrong. We all make mistakes, and we all get scared.
I once heard my mom describe anxiety to her patients as “Too much, too soon.” That’s what I felt during every panic attack: too much, too soon. All at once. I know now—I probably knew all along, subconsciously—that this was what I wanted out of Henry this last month. I wanted him to make it better, to travel to a time before loss touched our lives.
I close my eyes. It is time to let go. We hold on to some memories just to hurt ourselves because they confirm a long-held suspicion we’ve always had that we are somehow at fault, to blame, deficient, incapable of the contentedness that others share: unlovable. There’s satisfaction in being proven right, even if the thing you’re right about is your own unworthiness.
It’s time to let those thoughts go.
For a second, with my eyes closed, I feel something on my shoulders: pressing down, warm and spreading. The air smells of Lottie: sweet honeysuckles, and salt air, and warm sand, and freshly mowed grass, and irrational hope.
When my eyes open, there’s only one person I want to see.
Back at the cottage, Rose is waiting at the coffee table, staring into her mug.
“I’m so sorry,” I say first.
“No, I’m sorry! I said such awful stuff to you, I should have never—”
“NO! You were right. I was being selfish and reckless and—”
“No, no, you were doing your best. It wasn’t your fault that all ended so—”
“I made your special night about me—”
“You were attacked and I should have defended you against that awful girl—”
“It’s really not her fault. It’s mine—”
We continue to interrupt each other, swapping apologies back and forth until we’re both breathless.
“Truce,” I say finally. “Can we move on? Can we go back to being best friends?”
“Always,” says Rose. I notice her eyes look red. She’s been crying. “But just so you know, sometimes I have to be your mother, too.”
“Deal,” I tell her. “So, how are you feeling about the William of it all?”
“You mean the fact that he tried to swindle me?”
“Yes, that.”
“I feel dumb.” Mom releases a breathy, light laugh. “I mean, I can’t believe I almost fell for someone who is essentially a con man. It’s embarrassing. But I’m mostly relieved that he’s gone. I wanted to break up with him, anyway.”
“A con man who is also somehow Mary’s uncle,” I add. “Does that make Mary a con man, too?”
Mom laughs, and then changes the subject. “Did I ever tell you about the Advil study I learned about in grad school?”
