Usually, he’s a back sleeper. We used to fall asleep curled up like this, but we’d never get any rest until he shifted onto his back. If we were fitted together like spoons, he’d always start moving restlessly in his sleep, and we’d find our way to each other in a heady, lust-crazed blur. Which was great until the morning, when we both had to get up for work or school.
He’s made it through the whole night beside me, but the whole night, for us, was no more than a couple of hours.
He doesn’t so much as stir as I slide out from under him. He always looks younger when he’s asleep. I wonder if that’s some evolutionary trait: What animal could stand attacking someone who looks so peaceful and innocent?
Okay, I could, but the nice thing would be to let him sleep.
I pull on a pair of jeans and a sweater and sneak out of the room, making my way through the silent house. As eager as I am to fix what happened last night, everyone’s either still asleep or in hiding.
After a couple of minutes of aimlessly wandering the kitchen, I decide to walk into town and get everyone drinks from the Warm Cup as a peace offering.
I’ve often thought that the world saves its very best weather for days when you feel like everything’s gone wrong, and today is no different. It’s gloriously sunny, with a refreshing breeze. When the sun reaches its high point, Knott’s Harbor will no doubt be sweltering. Or sweltering for the midcoast anyway, which is to say extremely comfortable when compared to the swampy summers of southern Indiana or the burning-under-a-microscope heat of July in New York City.
A midcoast summer day is the exact day you pine for in the dead of winter.
Still, after ten minutes of following the curving road, past overflowing rhododendron bushes and graying wood-shingled inns being scraped and repainted for the hundredth time, I’m wishing I’d put a tank top on under my sweater.
I’ll have to find a cab back, easier said than done in a tiny village like this. Usually, Sabrina schedules our transportation, and I’m not sure how far ahead she has to do it.
If I waited on all of you, this friendship would already be over, she said. She’s not entirely wrong. Friendship with Sabrina, with this whole group, has always felt like a current I could toss myself bodily into. And that’s what I’m most used to: coasting along on other people’s whims and feelings.
It had never occurred to me that that could be read as apathy. That they might think I just don’t care. Guilt twinges through me.
The cracked sidewalk turns and deposits me in town in front of the coffee shop. Under the faded awning over its walk-up window, collecting a recycled drink carrier, is Cleo.
She stiffens at the sight of me, slowly lifts one hand.
I do the same.
For a moment, neither of us moves. Then the barista calls out, “Doug!” and the only other waiting customer nudges Cleo aside to pick up an order.
She ambles toward me with her carrier, and I meet her halfway, in front of the cheerily painted bench in front of the Italian restaurant. In between rows of cutesy red cartoon lobsters, in cutesy font, are the words FOR CUSTOMERS ONLY!!!
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi,” I say.
She lifts the drink carrier. “Coffee?”
“Then you’d only have three left,” I say.
She cracks a half-hearted smile. “The salted-caramel latte is for you.”
I look down at the carrier. Three very average-sized drinks, and one that’s the coffee shop equivalent of a Big Gulp. “So they were out of 5-Hour Energies and Adderall, I see.”
Her smile widens. “I couldn’t carry five drinks. So I got one big-ass Americano for Sabrina and Parth to split, a black coffee for Wyn, and a matcha for Kim.”
My chest stings. “You have our drink orders memorized.”
She lifts one shoulder. “I know you.”
Another beat of silence.
“You want to walk for a minute?” she asks.
I nod.
“Here.” She balances the carrier on the bench and pries my paper cup out of it.
“I’ll Venmo you,” I say.
She winces a little. “Please don’t.”
We meander down toward the water, the brine in the air thickening.
After a second, I tell her, “I never learned how to fight.”
She glances sidelong at me.
“Especially not with people I care about,” I say. “I mean, not with anyone. But especially not with the people I love. In fact, I specifically only know how to avoid fights. Or, usually I do.”
She watches me with a divot between her eyebrows.
“I don’t know how fights are supposed to end when you love the person you’re fighting with,” I go on. “In my family, everyone always left when things got bad. Eloise would storm out, or my parents would send her to her room and then go shut themselves in opposite sides of the house, and things never got better afterward. They always felt a little worse.
“And I guess I thought . . . if I kept us from ever fighting, then everyone would stay. I was never trying to cut anyone out. It was the exact opposite. I haven’t been fun to be around in a long time, Cleo.”
Her brows knit tighter, an air of utter mystification to her expression. I wonder if I accidentally said the whole sentence backward.
“The point is,” I say, “I’m sorry. I should have told you about Wyn and me. I should’ve called more.”
After a moment, she looks back over the water. “I wasn’t totally fair last night,” she says. “I understand why you wouldn’t tell us.”
“You do?” I say.
She looks back at me, nods once.
“Lucky,” I say. “Can you explain it to me like I’m five years old?”
She doesn’t crack a smile this time. “You were in denial,” she says. “And telling us would’ve made it all feel real. And even if it is real, even if it’s what you chose, you still know it’s going to change everything, and that’s scary. Because you need us. We’re your family.”
I stare at her. “Damn.”
“Was I close?” she asks.
I set my drink down on one of the posts that line the water here, thick rope strung between them. “More like, are you psychic?” I say.
She lets out a little breathless laugh and looks back to the water sloshing against the bank. Tears glint in the corners of her eyes. “I’m pregnant,” she says.
I know there must be sounds all around me—the water, the low horn of boats leaving the harbor, the lobstermen across the bay shouting back and forth, ribbing one another as they load and unload traps.
But it’s like someone’s clipped the wires to my ears.
When it rushes back in, I hear myself burst into tears, which makes Cleo burst into tears.
I grab the drink carrier from her hands and deposit it on the next post over. Then I pull her into a hug.
“Why are you crying?” she asks wetly, arms twining around me. “You’re not the one who’s going to have to push a squash out of her body.”
“I know!” I say. “I’m just so happy.”
Cleo laughs. “Me too. And fucking terrified. I mean, I chose this. I knew what it meant—it’s not like I tripped through the door of a sperm bank. We spent months choosing the right donor. But . . . I think I expected it to take longer. To have longer to wrap my head around the idea of being a mom.