The next night, during my shift at Boucher’s, my phone buzzes.
GRACE: butt dial!
That’s it.
An ache tears through my stomach, and I think that maybe she meant more to me than I did to her. My fingers hover over the keyboard, but then my pride says to make her wait. I force myself to put my phone away.
As quitting time draws closer, everyone is quick to close out their tables. When the last customer leaves, Saul dims the lights (except for the string of twinkly lights strung above the bar) and sets out all the booze people have brought from home while Hattie makes a spread of all the leftovers from today that can’t be saved for tomorrow. As I wipe down the tables, Ruth walks by every few minutes to knock her hips against mine.
I find Saul staring out the window behind the bar into the dark parking lot.
I give him a poke in the side. “Waiting on someone?”
His lips twitch before giving in to a grin. “No,” he says. “No one at all.”
I’m tempted to press him for more info, but behind us Tommy wearily backs out the side door and yells, “You break it, you buy it! Don’t forget to set the alarm before you leave!”
The moment the door shuts behind him, Saul cranks up the brass band music that’s been playing all day as much as the speakers will allow. A few nonemployees trickle in through the back door, and then the party starts without anyone having to say so. It’s not that everyone at Boucher’s much likes Tyler, but none of us can say no to a party—or rather, none of us can say no to Hattie, the real wizard behind the curtain of more than one Boucher’s employee party.
Tyler wasn’t even Hattie’s boyfriend until she told him she was pregnant. To be honest, he’d been playing Russian roulette with almost every straight girl in town, and Hattie happened to be the one who lucked out. When his mom heard he’d gotten a girl knocked up, she kicked him to the curb. Now he’s either being faithful to Hattie out of sincerity or because he needs a place to crash. It’s hard to tell which.
Hattie doesn’t see that. All she sees is a future with her baby girl (she’s sure it’s a girl) and Tyler, who is unemployed and sleeps more hours a day than Mrs. Pearlman’s Maine coon.
But all I see in my future is Hattie and me taking care of the baby while Dad works himself to death, trying to make ends meet like he always has. Except with a baby, there will be more bills and more mouths to feed.
I shuffle back to the kitchen to hide Stella’s cake and when I return, I find Hattie crouched behind the bar pouring red wine into a sippy cup she bought at the grocery store last week, which I had assumed would someday be for the baby.
“What are you doing?” I whisper-spit at her.
She tugs me by my wrist so I’m below the counter with her. “The internet says I can have two glasses of wine a week, okay?” She hands me the bottle of wine. “And don’t look at me like that.”
“You don’t even like wine.”
“Hey,” she says. “I’ll take it where I can get it. But don’t tell Ruth. She’s all over my ass about caffeine and deli meat and Caesar dressing and all kinds of crap.”
She would be. Ruthie wants to be a doctor, and she’s going to be a damn good one. “But what’s the deal with the sippy cup?”
She flips the cup upside down. “Spill proof. A hack from my party-girl days.” Her voice is reminiscent of a time that feels far away, but was as recent as early summer. Quickly, she kisses me on the cheek. “Thanks for the cake, sis.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Hattie hasn’t offered to pay me back for the cake, which really wouldn’t bother me much. I mean, the line between what’s mine and hers is invisible if not nonexistent. But the fact that this is for Tyler—Tyler, of all people. Well, it rubs me the wrong way. Hattie’s never been good with money anyway. She thinks money is only meant for spending.
Hattie shimmies her way over to Tyler, who I don’t think even showered before his own party. His acid-washed skinny jeans are at least one size too small, but I think that’s on purpose. His skin is so white it’s almost blue, and I guess that makes sense if you consider all the time he spends in front of televisions.
Hattie pulls Tyler from the booth where he sits with his friends and several already empty beer bottles. Reluctantly he follows her to the makeshift dance floor, where Saul is thrusting his way between two rows of shrieking waitresses. When he’s done, he whips around and beckons Tyler. At first Tyler shakes his head, but then, surprising me and, well, everyone else, he hands Hattie his beer and sprinklers his way down the dance line to Saul, who greets him by grinding on his hip. Whatever possessed Tyler to dance in the first place is short-lived, as his friends boo and he returns to his booth.
“Heteronormative bullshit,” Ruth mumbles as she reaches behind the bar for an empty glass.
I shove the cork back into the wine bottle Hattie opened and grab an almost empty handle of Fireball whiskey.
I hope I’m wrong about Tyler. Because maybe if I’m wrong about him, my gut could be wrong about Grace. And maybe—just maybe—Tyler will stick around and be the guy Hattie deserves.
I head for the outdoor seating, past Hattie and Saul grinding on each other while Ruthie takes video that will someday serve as incriminating evidence of our youth.
Boucher’s sits on the edge of a long dock, so I settle in with my bottle on the patio and decide I probably won’t be getting much sleep before my paper route. Out here the music is faint, quieted by the wind and waves, like I’m hearing it through an old telephone. I take a swig of whiskey and let it burn all the way down my chest.
Grace never really mixed with my friends. I think she was sort of intimidated by Saul and Ruth. Somehow making out with a girl was okay, but hanging out with her gay friends? Well, that was taking things too far. And she and Hattie never clicked either. If I had to guess, it was because Grace always wanted us to spend time alone and Hattie isn’t big on privacy.
“You mind sharing?”
I turn around to find Freddie framed in moonlight with a bag of chips in hand.
“Hey,” I say as I drag a chair around next to me. “Sit.”
He plops down and tears open the bag of chips. “Felt like I should bring something.”
I reach in for a handful as I pass him the whiskey. “Good thinking.”
“Sorry I’m late. I, uh, got stuck on the phone.”
“Who even talks on the phone anymore?”
He snorts. “Plenty of people. You know, we used to be stuck writing letters to each other and waiting weeks or even months to hear back. The phone is a modern miracle, and now all of a sudden we’re too cool for it?”
I laugh. “Okay, okay. Calm down, buddy. I didn’t realize phones meant so much to you.”
He smiles, but there’s none of that easy charm I remember from yesterday morning. He’s stiff and irritable. I know the signs all too well.
“Girl trouble?” I ask.
“Something like that.” He sits down and glances around at the empty patio before taking the bottle from me. “Not much for parties?”
I shake my head. “Not tonight. Just enjoying the view, I guess.”
“The view? Nothing to see out here.”
He’s right. All that lies in front of us is a curtain of pitch black with a few flashing lights off in the far distance.
“It’s good, though,” he says. “I like it. The rhythm is calming. I used to get really scared of the ocean when I was a kid. You remember that?”
I do, but barely. Way back when my parents were together and my mom worked at the beach-chair rental stand, Hattie and I would spend our mornings coloring and reading books while we sat under the fan in the rental hut. Agnes would come every afternoon with Freddie and take us off my mom’s hands.
It started out with her renting a few chairs, but soon she noticed the two girls cooped up under the counter. It didn’t take much convincing for my mother to let us play with Freddie on the beach during her shifts. Those few hours turned into afternoons at their rental, and soon enough it was a yearly thing. But at the beach Freddie was a wreck, especially when the water was murky. It didn’t seem so weird, though. When I was a kid I was terrified of highways. I would call them “the road” and howl anytime we got near one.
“My gram,” he says, “she’d make me close my eyes as we tiptoed into the water, and she’d say, ‘Take it one step at a time.’”
I close my eyes now. I guess he’s kind of right. Just the sound of the gulf. It’s like I’ve broken the world down into little bite-size pieces. And maybe that’s how I can survive without Grace. That’s how I’ll survive Hattie, and the baby, and Tyler. One day. One hour. One minute at a time.
I open my eyes again, forcing myself back into this moment here with Freddie.
“I can’t believe you live here,” I say. “And that you’re . . . well, you.”
“It’s wild.”
“One summer y’all just didn’t come back.” I was nine, and hanging out with boys was suddenly a big deal to everyone except me. But the summer Freddie didn’t show up . . . that left a hole in my world. One that made me angry. I’d been left. Again.
“My gramps,” he says. “His head started getting foggy.”
“Alzheimer’s?” I ask. Walter, our old next-door neighbor before Mrs. Pearlman, had Alzheimer’s for the longest time before anyone knew it. He was always a serious man, but every once in a while he would start talking like his trailer was a submarine and that his kids were Russians. One day my dad caught him using the big Oriental planter pot he kept in his yard for cigarette butts as a toilet. It wasn’t long before his kids moved him out and into a home.
“Yeah. Yeah, he would do things like take me to swim meets at my soccer field or call my grams my mom’s name.”
My brain pauses on the words swim meets, but I shake it off.
“But then it got worse. He got mean. We had to start hiding his keys and his wallet.” He takes a swig of whiskey and laughs. “He bought an aboveground pool from an infomercial one night and had it installed in our front yard when my grams was at work.”
I laugh, and then catch myself. “I’m sorry.”
“S’okay. It was pretty hilarious.” And then he adds, “He died of an aneurism the summer before ninth grade. In his sleep.”
His hand sits on the armrest of his chair, and I place mine on top of his for a moment.
He flips his palm over so that we’re holding hands.
I’m the one trying to comfort him, but this small bit of human contact feels like aloe on a sunburn. Maybe I miss Grace that much. I’m reminded of all the things Freddie doesn’t know about me. I’m so used to everyone in my life knowing that I’m gay that it almost feels like I’m lying to Freddie by omission.
“I think my gram was relieved,” he says. “Can’t blame her.”
We sit there for a minute, until I finally break the silence. “I don’t mean to be an asshole by changing the subject, but you were on a swim team?”
He grins. “Yeah. Bet that’s a surprise.”
“I just—you hated the water.”
“Gram always harped on me about turning my greatest weakness into my biggest strength, so she joined a club and got me signed up for the swim team. I even swam on my school’s team freshman, sophomore, and junior years.”
I’m awestruck and jealous at the same time. “Wow. You must be pretty good.”
He shrugs, and turns his head away.
“Eulogy doesn’t have a team, though,” I tell him.
“I know,” he answers flatly.
I think I’ve struck a sore spot. The heavy air around us is cut by my sister’s voice. “Ramona, get your ass in here! And who’s this—”
Freddie stands to greet her and he flips on that charm like a light switch. I can’t believe the transformation. “Hey, Hattie.” He grins.
She makes a show of squinting. “Well, shit,” she says. “Little Freddie Floaties?”
He rolls his eyes. “Nice to see you, too, Hattie. And I can swim in the deep end now, just so you know.”
She skips forward and gives him a wet kiss on the cheek. “Puberty was kind to you.” Hattie turns to me. “I’m totally introducing him to Alma, that new waitress. How cute would they be?”
I shrug, but there’s a warmth in my chest that I can’t quite process. “Pretty cute, I guess?”
Freddie chuckles nervously. “I sort of—”
Heavy footsteps smack against the patio. “Babe!” Tyler slurs. “Where’d you go? Don’t I get some birthday kisses?”
She smiles at us both, like it’s so obvious how irresistible Tyler is, as she grabs each of us by the hand. “Cake time!”
Inside, Freddie follows me to the kitchen while Hattie corrals everyone into a circle. I dig around for the birthday candles we use for customers, and Freddie helps me light each of the twenty candles until the cake is glowing. It’s beautiful, and I only hate that it’s for Tyler.
Freddie watches me from the other side of the cake through the tiny flames. “Let’s blow them out,” he says.
“What?”
“Do you like your sister’s boyfriend?”
I wait too long to answer, which is more than I need to say.
“Steal his wish,” Freddie says. “You deserve it.”
A smile tugs at my lips. Freddie was always such a Robin Hood. He shared everything right down to the shells we’d spend all day collecting, and he expected others to do the same. “Okay.” I close my eyes, and my head is filled with too many requests, like when you’re a kid and you want to wish for infinite wishes. I think I want more from life than my cup can hold.
Inhaling deeply, I open my eyes and blow out each candle.
Freddie grins. “I feel good about it. Some good mojo in this room.”
He relights the candles and we take the cake out to the dining room and no one suspects a thing. After everyone sings “Happy Birthday,” Freddie turns to me. “You wanna go for a walk or something?”
We take what’s left of the whiskey with us and walk down to the other edge of the boardwalk past all the nighttime fishermen and their coolers of bait and beer. Alongside the beach, overnight drivers pass us by on Highway 90. The streetlights are concentrated on the road, leaving the sand cool and dark between our toes.
“I don’t know when I’m going to get used to you living here,” I tell Freddie. “Doesn’t it kind of suck that you’re starting over for senior year?”
He shrugs and takes the bottle from where it dangles from my fingertips. “It really does. Or did at first, I guess. I fought with my gram, begging her to wait a year or let me stay with friends, but—” He stops abruptly.
“But what?”
He looks at me. “I decided it was finally her turn. She raised my mom and then me. I’ll be gone in a year anyway. And I’ve got you, right? So I guess I’m not really starting over.”
Ruth and I aren’t like this with each other. Our friendship is much too utilitarian for that, so it’s hard not to melt a little when he says things like that. “You’ll make friends at school,” I tell him. “You’re just that kind of guy people want to be friends with.”
In my pocket, my phone vibrates and I pull it out to check my messages. I don’t even realize I’m holding my breath until I exhale, but it’s only my sister.
HATTIE: heading home soon. your bike is still here. are you okay? ARE YOU DEAD? DID FREDDIE FLOATIES KILL YOU?
on the beach with Freddie, I type back. see you at home.
“Not who you expected?” asks Freddie.
I shake my head glumly.
Freddie kicks off his flip-flops. “Come on. I haven’t been to the beach since I got here.”
I step out of my sandals and push the glass bottle into the sand so that hopefully the wind won’t carry it away, then follow Freddie past the shoreline. It’s curious to think how well he knows me, but then again not at all. Eight years feels like a long time, but I can so easily remember us chasing each other on this exact beach. In the time Freddie and I have spent apart, we’ve changed in ways that have defined us. And yet there’s something so familiar about this. About us.
“So you miss your swim team?” I ask.
He shoves a hand in each pocket. “I guess you could say that.”
The tide splashes against our ankles and then pulls back in a rhythm that is steady as a beating heart.
“Have you ever tried so hard to be good at something . . . so perfect, but it just wasn’t . . . enough?” Freddie asks.
I know what he means, but no matter how far back I try to think, I can’t find an example. How is that possible?
All I can do is I offer him a sad smile and a nod.
He lets out a long sigh before squatting down and using both of his hands to splash me.
I shriek and splash him back, thankful to him for lightening the mood.
We skip around in the water, never going much farther than the hem of our shorts. I leave thoughts of Grace and the future on the beach for a little while.
We walk back to Boucher’s, and I offer to give Freddie a ride on the back of my bike so he won’t have to walk home. After I put my hair up so it won’t slap him in the face, he stands on the seat stay and holds on to my shoulders. We both hoot as the wheels speed down his hill.
In front of his house, he hops off the back of my bike and pulls me to him for a hug. My chin fits snugly in the crook of his shoulder. Hugging at this height can be so awkward, but nothing about our embrace makes me feel like I’m bumbling.
In sophomore chemistry, Mr. Culver told us the most important thing to take away from his class was that the world isn’t made up of isolated incidents. Knowing the elements was important, but even more relevant was knowing how they changed when combined with others. And that’s what I’m most terrified of right now—how Freddie and I will change when combined with others.
I watch as he sneaks around the side of his house into the backyard.
I have some time to kill before my paper route, so I go home to change my clothes. Hattie is spread out in my bed with a limb touching each corner, and the bathroom smells like puke—from Tyler, I assume. Even though it might be nice to crash on the couch for a little bit, I can’t get out of here fast enough. The whole process of being in my house feels like I’m creeping against the wall of a narrow, smelly hallway. Nothing about it says home right now.
As I’m walking my bike out of the trailer park, my phone buzzes.
GRACE: How can I be this lonely when I’m surrounded by people? I miss you.
Normally this sentiment would feel all too familiar, but tonight I didn’t feel lonely. Not at all.
Some days are worse than others, I finally type. I miss you, too.