"Beth?" my mother questions, mouth full of cinnamon goodness.
"Yeah. Josephine said she went to visit their sister."
"Irina? I thought she was still around here." My mom tosses her fork in the sink and spins toward the hallway. "You should shower and change. I told Mal we would meet her in about thirty minutes."
My mouth gapes open. "I didn’t even know she had a sister?"
"You’ve always been a little too focused on your goals to notice the world around you. But her sisters keep to themselves. It’s not a big mystery, darling." She runs a hand over mine, squeezing gently, and then walks out of the kitchen.
I continue chewing on the cinnamon sugar perfection in front of me, while thanking all the powers that be that I had the foresight to shower last night. I only need ten minutes to get changed.
Do I really not notice things?
My mom’s words stick in my brain and churn my stomach. I never thought that being so committed to my goals was a bad thing. I work twice as hard because Ihaveto. Yet here I am, the last to know one of my closest friends has not one but two sisters.
We strolled through the farmer’s market for about an hour until Lily saw a flyer for berry picking and conned my mom and sister into taking the kids. I drove us uptown, intending to pick up a couple of books from Black Kettle Bindery, not wanting to schlep them plus whatever produce Mom picked out back six blocks. That turned out to be the perfect excuse not to go on theberry fun adventure, as Magnolia called it—taking two cars would have been impractical when it costs money to park, and Mal only had one seat empty.
Instead of going into the bookstore, there was a local author from Salem, Jules Cohen, selling her books at the farmer’s market. She was adorable and funny. We talked for a few minutes, and I decided to support her instead by buying both of her books—The Art of Us and The Flavor of You. They sounded fun, with small-town vibes and a coffee shop—exactly what I need to fill my free time.
I cross the street, waving once again at my new author friend, and step up onto the sidewalk. I could go back to Mom’s, but I know if I do, I’ll only stress over making a list of things for Levi so that I can make sure all my bases are covered. Diving into a new book by the coast feels like the perfect way to sort of take his request for balance seriously, and at least I’ll be able to say I’m trying when I talk to him.
The breeze blows stronger with each step I take, and it’s refreshing with the temperatures rising. The wind curls around me, wicking the sweat from my skin as the soothing, salty scent drifts in with each breath I take. That’s one thing I miss about being here. In the city, the air doesn’t feel as crisp or clean.
I trudge through the shifting terrain where a cobblestone walkway turns to rock and sand. The sea oats sway back and forth as if they're dancing to their own unique beat. There’s a lighthouse up ahead, towering above the horizon, its beacon circling to signal sailboats. And just before a new path veers offfor guests to approach, there’s a soft spot of grass with a bench—the exact spot I was hoping would still be here.
I slip my bag off my shoulder, pulling out the green cardigan I stuffed inside this morning and the first of Jules’ books. Wadding the sweater up, I place it at the end of the bench, hang my bag on the corner, and lie down. I might look a little funny, but this feels like the perfect spot to read and the perfect position to do it in. Stretching my legs out in front of me, I cross my ankles so that passersby don’t get an unsolicited look up my linen shorts.
Holding the book in front of my face, I flip to the acknowledgments. It might seem backward to most, but I appreciate how much time it takes to write a novel and the dedication that the author must have had. Reading the acknowledgments first feels like a way of honoring that effort.
I lose track of how much time has passed, engrossed in the story, but the lyrical sound of an ice cream truck blaringThe Entertainerby Scott Joplin as it passes pulls me back to the present. I need silence when I read. I'm not one of those people who can listen to music while they do it. Reaching into my pocket, I pull my phone out to pass the time—zero missed calls, zero texts, but worst of all, zero emails.
I lay the book open over my face and groan. "What the hell is wrong with me? And how did my life go from completely on track to off the rails in less than a week?"
"Do you make a habit of asking questions directly into the pages? Or how does this work?" Max’s gravelly voice comes out of nowhere, scaring the shit out of me. I shoot straight up—not realizing he’s hovering above me—and when the book falls to my lap, my forehead smacks him square in the nose.
"Did I say that out lou—"
He yelps, stepping back as blood begins to pour from his face, dripping onto his blue t-shirt and khaki shorts.
"Oh my god. I’m so sorry. Let me help." Jumping up, I grab my cardigan and press it on top of his hand, covering his face. But Max lightly pushes my hand away.
"Jesus fuck." He sucks air through his mouth. "Are you trying to kill me?"
"What?"
"You hit me in the face and then tried to smother me with your cardigan." He laughs now, shaking his head lightly while still pinching his nose. "It’ll stop in a second… it’s just touchy after the, uh, nevermind."
"Oh blow? Or is it called something else now?" I run my hand across my chest, a little shocked that he’d do drugs, but then again, he wouldn’t be the first athlete to try to enhance their performance.
"What?" Now it’s Max’s turn to look confused.
"Does it bleed a lot because you know"—I make a sniffing noise and plug one side of my nose in demonstration—"you do blow, or whatever?" I clarify.
Max lets go of his nose, the dripping now seemingly stopped. "You’re twisted as fuck, you know that, right?"
I take a step back, chewing my lip. It was a legitimate question. I don’t see how that makesmethe one with the problem. The ice cream truck passes again, blaring the song that started this catastrophe once more, and making it even harder for me to concentrate.
"Okay, so no drugs? And no, I was not trying to kill you." My mind races with how I can fix this mess. "Sit." I wave my finger, directing him. "On the bench. I’ll be right back."