Dolly All the Time(36)

Chapter 14





The trip out of the cave is less frightening, but I accept his hand because, frankly, I do like the oxytocin. Giving over to the dark and trusting someone else to find the way is a completely new experience for me. I’ve traveled through wind and darkness, and standing at the opening of the cave, having just swum in a secret grotto, something about me feels brand-new.

We find Clay and Gus back on the beach, eating sliders. Gus has used his T-shirt to collect clams, and without a doubt, there will be two rounds of soaking before that thing gets washed.

When they’re done eating, Stewart takes them up the rocks to the opening of the cave. He doesn’t go inside with them because he says having a guide will ruin the fun, but based on my recent experience, I could not disagree more. We’re lying on towels now in our bathing suits, both leaning back on our elbows and sharing a beer.

“Audrey was in the Post again yesterday,” he says. “She and her sister behind home plate.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t know if I said that before.”

“Thanks.” He shrugs.

“Better you know now, right? Are you heartbroken?”

“It stings, but I’m not heartbroken,” he says. “At least I don’t think I am. I never have been before, so I don’t know what that would feel like.”

“Then you’re not.”

“Why are we sharing a beer?” he asks. He pulls two more out of the tote bag, opens them, and hands me one.

“I kinda liked sharing,” I say. “Felt like we were pals.” Pals. I like the way it sounds, and I like the distance it puts between me and whoever I was back in the grotto, longing to run my hands along the waist of his swim trunks.

He smiles at the waves, and I watch his profile.

“I think we’re doing a great job getting to know each other,” I say. “The trust walk into the cave was a good icebreaker. So tell me some more about our love story. We met in Boston Common, illegally riding bikes.” I roll my eyes. “What was I wearing?”

“Denim shorts,” he says. No hesitation. “I liked the way your legs looked while you changed the tire.”

I turn to him. “You fixed my tire.”

“Right. I was thinking about when I actually met you. It’s good when a lie is close to the truth.” My face goes hot. I was in my too-short jean shorts that day. And he noticed my legs. This is the second mention of my legs today, and it flusters me again. “When we fake met, you were on the ground next to your broken bike. Also in shorts, also with nice legs.”

“Okay, stop,” I say, and pull my knees closer to my chest.

“It’s okay to have nice legs, Dolly.” He takes a sip of his beer and grins at me before looking back out at the ocean.

“I thought you were dashing, the way you swiftly mastered the bike repairs.”

He shoots me a look. “So much for staying close to the truth,” he says.

I lie down flat and he does too. I say to the sky, “Oldest son. Maybe some control issues. Taurus. Leg man.” I turn to him and he’s smiling. “On some strange level I think I get you.”

“Not so much to get. Workaholic with a panic-inducing fear of failure. Dr. Meyers got it on the first day.”

“Who’s Dr. Meyers?” I ask.

“My therapist.”

“Ah.” I try to think of something to ask him about his therapist, though I think the whole point of therapy is that it’s private. We lie there as the waves come closer and closer, and when they get to our feet we don’t move. The cool water laps my ankles, and it feels as luxurious as that yacht in the distance.

“Can I ask about Christopher?” he asks after a while.

“Car accident when he was little. The official diagnosis is schizophrenia secondary to a head injury. He’s all over the place, but so good-hearted.”

“Seems like.”

“He may be why I like being around kindergarteners. The way you always know where you stand and how they feel, a room full of Christophers.”

“And that’s always what you wanted to do?”

“I wanted to take over the fish house. You’re not the only scion of industry.” I smile at him. He’s watching me. “But my dad hates all my ideas, so I gave up.”

“And where is your mom?” he asks, such a simple question.

“Virginia,” I say. He turns onto his side to give me his full attention, and I know there’s no way around this. “She left when I was twelve.”

“She just left?”

“She didn’t just leave. It took a while.” I am at a conversational crossroads—go forward or retreat. I could shut this down and change the subject, or I could let him in. It’s no secret in Whitfield that Georgia Brick split. I could just tell him and maybe after all this is over, Stewart could actually end up being a friend. I shield my eyes from the sun with the back of my hand and turn my head toward him. “When I was twelve, she went to visit an old friend in Virginia. She said she’d be back Monday.” I laugh, and he’s looking at me like I need to explain the laugh. “My sister, Patsy, and I have a joke about this. That our mom didn’t specify which Monday, so maybe she really is coming back. Sometimes Patsy texts ‘Happy Monday!’ and I reply with the fingers-crossed emoji, and then we laugh.” It’s been years since we’ve done this. It’s been years since we’ve joked around about anything. Our conversations are largely fact based: Everything okay? Yes, everything’s fine.