I bring the glass to the windowsill and pour it into the crowded jungle of aloe, jade, and some spindly cactus that seems to thrive on neglect. When I return to the living room, Sara has managed to shift from chair to couch, a feat of willpower that makes me want to both applaud and cry.
She pats the cushion beside her. “Sit,” she commands, and I do, folding myself in at the edge.
“There’s something I need to ask you,” she says. “I’ve been putting it off because I hate the idea of burdening anyone, but it’s getting harder. The day-to-day stuff.” She stares at her hands, as if they belong to someone else.
“Of course. Whatever you need.”
“Thank you,” she says. “I know you’re dealing with your own mess. I just… If you could come by, now and then… Help with groceries, or maybe driving me to an appointment. It wouldn’t be forever… Just until Judy arrives, and after that…who knows.” She tries to smile, but it doesn’t quite land.
I cover her hand with mine. “I’d be glad to help. It’s the least I can do after all your kindness.” I give her hand a slight squeeze, and she relaxes.
For a long time, we just sit there, the physical contact solid and anchoring. I can feel the tremor through her palm, the way it never quite stops, even in rest.
“Thank you,” she says, and I realize how little she’s used to needing anyone.
When the clock in the hallway chimes seven, I move to stand, but Sara holds my wrist for a second longer.
“One last thing.” She reaches down beside the couch and produces a small, well-worn paperback. It’s a book of poetry, the spine cracked and the cover worn soft as cloth. “Andrew gave me this the week before he proposed. He said I should read it cover to cover, then mark the lines I thought were true, and he’d do the same. When we finished, we’d compare. If we had enough in common, we’d get married.” She grins, the mischief back. “He proposed anyway, the coward, but I still have the book.”
She presses it into my hands, urgent. “Maybe the marked lines will help. For the writing. Or for whatever comes next.”
I turn the book over, touched by the worn fingerprints on the cover, the edges soft with years of handling. “Are you sure? This looks irreplaceable.”
She shrugs. “Things aren’t meant to last, dear. Neither are people. But stories, they’re different. They survive. That’s the only afterlife I believe in.”
I help Sara to her feet, and this time she doesn’t refuse, leaning into me as we cross the room, the poetry book pressed between our bodies like a shared secret.
At the door, she steadies herself, then lets go. “You’re stronger than you think,” she says. “You just need practice.”
“Isn’t that true of everyone?” I reply, the book of poetry tucked under my arm.
Sara smiles, a little sad, a little proud. “Not everyone tries.”
I leave her standing in the doorway, backlit and unbowed, the queen of her seaside kingdom. The walk home is silent except for the call of gulls and the faint, persistent ache of being seen.
In the guest cottage, I put the poetry book on the table and stare at it for a long time, afraid to open it, afraid of what I might find in the margins. Eventually I do, and the first page is covered in Andrew’s handwriting, all sharp angles and unnecessary flourishes. There’s a line, starred and underlined twice:Only the present is real. Only the present can be saved.
I sit there, the evening thick with the scent of wet grass and salt, the book open on my knees, the notebook beside it. I wait, counting the seconds, not for permission this time, but for the feeling that tells me I’m finally ready.
And when it comes, I pick up my pen, and I begin.
20
Diane
I’m not proud of how long I spend in front of the mirror. First the bathroom, then the hallway, then the cheap full-length glass tacked to the back of my closet door, which distorts everything below the waist and gives my reflection the vague proportions of a spoon. There are three dresses on the bed, all of them in safe, forgettable shades. Navy blue, white, a washed-out green that reminds me of celery left too long in the fridge. I try each one, stand with my arms limp at my sides, tilt my head, and squint to see if I look mysterious or just deeply uncomfortable.
Cassie leans in the doorway, her hair still damp from her “I-don’t-need-a-shower” shower and observes. Rolo is curled at her feet, his wet nose twitching in his sleep. “The blue one,” she says, not even bothering to enter the room. “You look like a librarian in the other two.”
“That’s…not actually the insult you think it is,” I mutter, but the blue goes back on.
She smirks, then disappears, sneakers squeaking a retreat down the hall. Alone again, I sweep my hair up, then down, then up again. I dab mascara, rub it off, reapply with more conviction. In the low light, my face appears unexpectedly young and then,from another angle, not young at all. I lean in close, searching for some hint of what Nathan might see. I find only myself, layered and receding.
He is supposed to arrive at six. I finish dressing at five thirty and then spend twenty minutes pacing, picking at my cuticles, and trying not to sweat through the dress. The cottage smells faintly of last night’s burnt popcorn, so I light a candle and immediately regret it. The scent is called “Seaside Escape,” and it fills the room with a chemical imitation of suntan lotion and pineapple. I open the window, let in the real salt air, and sit on the edge of the bed, hands folded tight enough to blanch the knuckles.
When I’d said yes to the date with Nathan, I’d imagined it as something distant, a point on the horizon that could be safely ignored until its arrival. But time, as always, has marched with merciless precision, and now here I am, staring at the second hand of my watch, counting down the minutes until he arrives.
I pick up the photo of Cassie and me that sits on the antique dresser. In it, we are laughing, wind messing our hair, under a sky so blue it seems to vibrate. The joy in our faces is genuine, but I cannot ignore the void right next to us, the space where he should be. The absence is almost tangible, a ghostly silhouette that seems to mock my attempts at moving on. I gently put the picture down and close my eyes, trying to shake off the dwindling specter of the past.