We passed a jewelry store and stopped to admire the diamonds. “What kind of engagement ring would you want?” I asked.
“Not a diamond,” she said. “Maybe a ruby.”
“I think that might be bad luck.”
“Superstition.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Emerald would be fine, too. How about you?”
“Something super simple, but very sparkly.” I pointed to a pear-cut solitaire. “That one is pretty.”
But Suze had moved on to the bracelets. “Wow,” she cried. “Look at this one!”
It was a delicate tennis bracelet, set with small, square-cut jewels in the colors of the rainbow, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple. It was set in silver or maybe white gold, and it shot fire from every stone.
“That is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” she breathed. “What kind of wife would be lucky enough to have a bracelet like that?”
“It’s beautiful. Maybe it wouldn’t be a wife, but a mistress.”
“Imagine having something that was so beautiful. For no reason except beauty.” She touched the glass, and I could feel her yearning like a fire. It made me wish I could buy it for her myself.
After that, we spent ages wandering the record store and the bookstore, and then split up for one hour. We would shop for each other and then meet at Walgreens for lunch and eat strawberry shortcake and exchange presents.
I headed for the makeup counter and bought the eyeshadow and liner, then rushed to Foxmoor for the silky shirt, and then popped into the bookstore and bought a copy of Green Darkness, a time-travel novel by Anya Seton, which my grandma told me we’d both like. I’d give it to her, then borrow it back.
I barely made it back to Walgreens in time, but Suze wasn’t there. I popped into the store side and bought a funny birthday card with a kitten on the front. She wanted a cat so badly.
Her beauty always made it so much easier for her, I think now, feeling anxious about my body as I flip through the clothes in my closet.
The thought lands with a thud in my gut, full of the weight of the lies I tell myself about her. Easy? No. Life was never easy for Suze.
When Ben comes to the door at last, he’s carrying a bouquet of pink and white carnations. “I actually bought these,” he says with a wink. “They didn’t have anything as pretty as the farm, but pretty enough.”
I laugh and bend my head to smell their pepperminty freshness. “One of my favorites to paint, honestly. Thank you. Let me put them in water and we can go.”
He follows me to the kitchen, watches as I pour water into a vase and cut the packaging from the stems. I’d settled on a simple wrap dress. I’m suddenly conscious of the plunging V-neck, the way it hugs my gigantic butt. In contrast, he’s brushed and polished, wearing a softly elegant blue suit coat over a pale-pink shirt and jeans. Dressed up but not too much.
And so gorgeous. His bright eyes, his beard, his wavy, dark hair. Every woman over forty on the entire Oregon coast would be more than happy to invite him into her bed. What in the world is he doing with me?
Stop that. Again, I would hate it if Stephanie or Jasmine thought that way about themselves. I meet his eyes. “You look wonderful. Every woman in the county will be jealous of me.”
“Not as jealous as the men will be of me.” He admires the display of cleavage with a smile. “That dress suits you.”
“Thank you.”
He holds out his arm. “Shall we?”
We drive up the coast to a restaurant that’s locally famous for its setting, Poseidon. It sits by itself on a promontory overlooking a stretch of ocean littered with sea stacks and crashing waves. With very little beach for humans, it attracts seals and sea lions, and at certain times of year, whale sightings are not uncommon.
“I love this place,” I say as we pull into the parking lot. I’m feeling as giddy as a teenager, full of anticipation and possibility and nerves, but I’m also steadied by the recognition that this is Ben beside me. Ben, who’s been in my kitchen and my studio a hundred times the past few months. Ben, who makes tea the way I like it. Ben, who is as steady as anyone I’ve ever met. “My grandma and dad and I used to come here.”
“It’s an institution, for sure, but they say it holds up pretty well.”
“I’m sure it does.”
The building itself is a ’60s beauty made of timber and glass. The host leads us to a corner table, with views for miles outward to the horizon. Beneath us, high tide is rolling in under the blue dusk, and for a moment, all I can do is admire it. This. The view, the low murmur of voices and clink of dishes, the smell of garlic wafting through the air. How long since I’ve been out? Ages. Years.