This Summer Will Be Different(16)

“I guess a breather doesn’t sound terrible,” I say.

Her dimples pop. “I love it when you don’t argue.”

But it’s jarring—the forced smile and the mauve crescents under her eyes—and it does nothing to conceal the worry on her face.



* * *



? ? ?

Our tradition is the same wherever we travel: Once Bridget and I get settled, we go outside and we walk. It’s our way of shaking off work and urban life. Rain doesn’t stop us. Snow doesn’t, either. On PEI, we head to a beach so we can drink in the Maritime air. I always search for sea glass in the sand and never find it. Sometimes we tromp down to the shore in front of Summer Wind, but today, Bridget suggests Thunder Cove. Neither of us has been since before the hurricane, when Teacup Rock disappeared into the gulf.

We park at the end of a red dirt road, take a path through the dunes, onto the beach. It’s as breathtaking as it was when I first saw it. Red sandstone cliffs rising high above the sand. Caves and crevices, carved by the Atlantic, shaped by wind. Swishing grasses and soaring gulls. I still can’t get over how massive it is. I knew PEI had beaches, but I hadn’t known they had beaches like this.

I used to braid my hair into all sorts of elaborate styles to combat the humidity and wind, but I savor the feeling of the strands lashing against my face, my dress whipping around my legs. It makes me feel small in the best possible way. I’ve been existing on stress and spicy noodles, but that version of Lucy feels insignificant when I’m standing on the edge of the island.

The surf is gentle today, barely crashing. I feel strangely emotional when I see what’s left of the Teacup—where it once rose, majestic, is only a burnished red platform of rock in the shallows of the sea. I hear Bridget sniff.

“Are you crying?”

She touches her cheek. “I guess I am.” She laughs at herself, but the sound gets stuck in her throat and becomes a sob.

“Hey.” I touch her arm. “Let’s stop for a sec.”

I’ve broken down in front of Bridget countless times. But she’s never been much of a crier. We sit side by side on the sand, knees drawn to our chins.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“Don’t apologize. You never have to apologize for having feelings, especially not to me. It’s better to get it out.”

Her chin begins to quake, and her eyes fill. When she blinks, big round tears slide down her cheeks. She shakes her head, bewildered at herself, and then buries her head between her legs.

I rub her back, telling her it’s going to be okay. But it’s almost impossible to keep myself from falling apart alongside her. I look at the sky, blinking back the stinging in my eyes. I want to be the strong one for once. Bridget cries until there are no more tears, only a runny nose.

“Want to tell me what that was about?”

For a minute, she just stares at the waves, at the blank space where a precarious rock once towered. “It’s just gone. The cow, too.”

“The Cows Creamery statue? In the airport?”

“Yeah,” she says. “You loved that fucking cow.”

“I did. But things change, Bridget. Shorelines and airports, especially. It’s not all bad. It just is.”

She turns to me. “It doesn’t bother you that the rock has just vanished?”

“A little. But nothing is permanent. It was meant to go. Everyone knew that thing wouldn’t last forever. You saw it. The top was too heavy for the bottom.”

She looks back at the horizon.

“Can you talk to me about what’s really bothering you?” I ask.

She breathes in. Then out. “I just want to sit here,” she says. “Please. I don’t want to talk.”

We gaze out at the water together, and eventually, Bridget rests her head on my shoulder. A tangle of blond spirals and brown waves swirl across my vision.

“It feels like things are slipping away,” she says.

I don’t tell her that I feel it, too. Natural wonders. Landmarks. My aunt. Bridget, too. Ever since she met Miles, she’s been a little less mine.

I picture Felix’s truck disappearing in a cloud of burnt dust this afternoon.

“I’m always here,” I tell her. “I’ll never slip.”

Not again, anyway.





8





Now





“Do you think there’s any chance your parents have wine in their fridge?” I call to Bridget as she heads upstairs. She always showers after our inaugural walk. She’s the most laidback, chill-mongering version of herself on the island, but her loafing still follows a schedule.

“Not at all,” she says. Ken drinks beer or whiskey, and Christine mostly abstains.

“Rye and peanuts, then?”

She nods. “Rye and peanuts.”

I know when she’s washing her hair, because I can hear her rendition of “Un-Break My Heart” from the kitchen. I’d like to read into the song choice, but it’s one of her lather-rinse-repeat standards.

I should probably make us something resembling a meal. While my greatest culinary achievement is predicting the winners of The Great British Baking Show, Bridget hates cooking. Miles is the chef in their relationship, a very good one. It’s how he won me over—I’m a sucker for a homecooked meal. I survey the meager contents of the Clarks’ fridge. We’ll have to go grocery shopping tomorrow. I hunt out the rye and a bag of peanuts in the shell—two things you can always count on Ken having in stock—and pour myself a finger of whiskey.