“What? How’d she find out?”
“Mrs. Latham came in for breakfast at the crack of dawn, apparently.”
“Oh. Oops.”
“Yeah, oops. So I had to go back and put the gnomes in their rightful and pure positions.”
“Spoilsport.”
“Right? Though I swear to god, Mom was trying really hard not to laugh while she chewed my ass out.”
I smile and take a deep breath to steel myself for three more hours of dodging Eva in a very tiny restaurant.
“Hey,” Luca says when I’m on my second deep inhale. “Don’t forget, July Fourth party on the boat.”
Every year, for as long as I can remember, Luca and Macon take out their boat—their dad’s boat, which he left as a sort of pathetic consolation prize and is huge and beautiful and fun as hell—and anchor it a few miles off the coast. They invite whoever they happen to be dating—until Macon roped himself to Janelle for life, that is—a few of their less annoying guy friends, and me. We drink beer and eat hot dogs and Cheetos and watch fireworks kaleidoscope over the sprawling sky, their reflection a sparkle of color on the water.
“The Fourth is two weeks away,” I say.
“Yeah, but last year you and Maggie had just moved and you couldn’t find your swimsuit or any of your summer clothes. You came in sweatpants. Remember how bitchy you were the entire time because you were so hot?”
I scowl at him. A big dramatic glare that I hope covers up the tightness in my jaw and the ache behind my eyes from the fact that my life is a total effing mess and has been for years. Sweatpants because I couldn’t find my clothes? Christ on a cracker, it sounds so ludicrous coming out of his mouth.
He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I’m just reminding you so you can start looking for your swimsuit now.”
“Not like I’m going to swim in deep water anyway. Hello, water beasts.”
He rolls his eyes several times to let me know how ridiculous I am. “Just find it.”
“Fine. Who all’s coming?”
“You, Kimber and me, Macon and Janelle, and Eva. Going simple this year.”
“Oh. Eva’s coming?”
Luca pulls a face. “Um, yeah. Considering she lives with us and all, I figured it’d be pretty rude to not invite her.”
“Right. Right, okay.”
“What the hell’s up, Gray?”
“Nothing.” I pull my order pad out of my pocket and fiddle with the pages. “It’s just—”
“Grace!” I hear Emmy call through the swinging door into the dining room. “You have a four-top!”
“Okay, thanks!” I stuff the pad back into my apron. “I’ve got to go.”
“Hang on.” Luca hooks his finger through the waistband of my apron. “What’s going on?”
“It’s nothing. Eva and my mom are just hanging out some, and it’s weirding me out.” I say it really fast, like speed can make it less weird.
“Oh,” Luca says, wincing a little. “Yeah. Mom and Eva have had some words about that.”
“What do you mean?”
He rubs the back of his neck. “You know . . . Mom’s just concerned. I mean, she hasn’t told Eva too much about Maggie’s . . . history. She wouldn’t do that, but Eva’s having a hard time settling in with us, and Mom’s trying to figure out the best way to help her. Maggie told her to quit dance, for crying out loud.”
“She didn’t tell her to quit. She told her she didn’t have to do it.”
“Is there a difference?”
“I think so.”
Luca frowns. “Well. Mom’s still worried. And you know how Maggie is.”
I fold my arms. “Yeah. I do.”
He presses his mouth flat and gives me this Come on, Grace sort of look. “Then you know she’s probably not the healthiest influence on Eva right now.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah. I mean, don’t you think?”
“No, I don’t think.”
He stares at me before shaking his head and walking over to the time clock on the wall. “Kimber was right; this always happens,” he mutters.
My stomach clenches. “Kimber? What always happens?”
“You and your mom. You can’t be pissed off about her bullshit, Grace, and then get pissed at me when I call her on said bullshit. You can’t have it both ways.”
“I’m not trying to have it both ways.” But even as I say it, I know that’s exactly what I’m doing. In the back of my mind, I know Emmy has every reason to be wary. She and Mom have a precarious relationship for a reason. Healthy moms don’t take off on their kids for a few days, only to turn up like nothing happened. But the minute anyone actually says this, my hackles go up.
“Have you told Eva anything about Maggie?” he asks.
“No. You think it’s easy to talk about?”
“Of course not, Gray. But I don’t want Eva to get hurt,” he says, jabbing at the numbers on the screen. “And if you’re really friends, if you’re . . . if you like her, how could you not tell her?”
I ignore that last part, because I don’t know. I don’t know. “She won’t get hurt.”
He turns to me, his eye narrowed in unbelief. “You can’t know that. You get hurt every single day. And usually I don’t say anything because I know that’s not what you want, but that doesn’t mean I’m not thinking it.”
“Eva can take care of herself.”
“Like you, huh?”
My mouth falls open, but I quickly snap it shut. Still, Luca sees it and rakes a hand through his hair.
“Grace!” Emmy calls again.
“Just go,” Luca says. “I’m doing inventory today, so I’ll see you tomorrow.”
God, I hate fighting with Luca. Hate it. “You want to do something tonight?” I ask, needing to smooth this out.
He shakes his head. “Kimber and I are hanging out at her place.”
I press my lips together to keep them from trembling. I don’t know what else to say or do, so I leave, unsure how things with Luca went south so fast.
Chapter Nineteen
THAT NIGHT I CAN’T SLEEP. WHEN I GOT HOME AFTER logging a few more hours on the piano at the Book Nook, Mom and Pete were arguing about how much of his beer she’s been drinking lately, and then they disappeared into their bedroom, dinner be damned. They haven’t emerged since, and, honestly, I really don’t want to know why. I feasted on a bowl of maple-and-brown-sugar instant oatmeal. Jay had some of his miscreant friends over until long past midnight. And while he did offer a pretty human-sounding invitation to join them, I declined and locked myself in my room. By the time the house quiets, it’s nearly two a.m. and I still haven’t slept.
Nights like these, when Mom is totally unavailable—either physically or emotionally, which, let’s be honest, is a lot of the time—I actually miss my father. I don’t know what I miss, exactly, because I literally have zero memories of him. It’s just him. The other half, a presence to help me with Mom, to take me out for ice cream, to have some sort of healthy litmus test when dealing with guys and my suddenly temperamental best friend. Then again, if Dad were here, my mother would be a very different person. I would be a very different person. Maybe we wouldn’t even live here; I wouldn’t know Luca; I’d never have met Eva; I’d be cute and sweet and easy to trust and love.
Sometimes I wonder if Mom glosses right over me because of the way I look. I have her coloring—the same blond hair and pale eyes and freckles spilling over my cheeks, but that’s it. My mouth and nose and ears, the shape of my face, even the arc in my eyebrows, are all James Glasser. When Mom looks at me—really looks at me—I always get the feeling she’s looking at a ghost. And maybe, if Dad were still here, I’d be flesh and blood to her instead of a memory. I’d just be her daughter.
I let out a shaky breath and turn over on my side, facing the dark expanse filling the window. Thoughts finally begin to still, and my eyes are just starting to grow heavy when I hear a plink against the
window. I prop myself up on one elbow, barely registering what I’m seeing when the window begins to lift, a brown hand curling under the sill and pushing it up. Cool, briny air blows in as Eva squeezes herself through the opening and lands on my bed with a soft Oof.
“Of all the bad habits to choose from,” I say, “sneaking in through people’s windows is a poor choice.”
“I don’t know,” she says, closing the window before tucking her legs underneath her. Moonlight paints my room silver, and I can see her smile. “Keeps you guessing.”
“Trust me, I’m always guessing. I’ve got enough of that.”
Her smile fades. “What do you mean?”
I swallow hard. “Nothing. Just . . . you know. Life.”
She nods, then turns her head away to look around my room. When she doesn’t say anything, I lie back down, suddenly exhausted. Eva’s hair is wild around her face, her chin a sharp line as she looks everywhere but at me.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
She turns to face me, but I can’t make out her expression in the dark.
“Eva.”
Still silent, she kicks off her shoes, and they slide off the side of the bed. She removes her glasses and places them on the windowsill before she pulls back my sheet and slips in next to me. I’m in a pair of boxers and a thin tank top. She’s in all black, but black shorts, and her legs are smooth and long against mine. She nudges toward me a little, and I scoot over so she can share my pillow. All the air leaves my lungs as she tucks her hands against her chest, her forehead nearly touching mine.
Nearly, but not quite.
“I was waiting for you,” she says. “At the lighthouse wall.”
“Why?”
She shrugs. “It’s what we do, right?”
“We’ve done it twice.”
“More than enough times to form a habit. You said so yourself about my breaking and entering.”
“I don’t want to go up to the lighthouse, Eva.” Although my heart feels like a herd of gazelles right now, I keep my voice calm and even, and it’s enough to flatten out that little smile pulling up one corner of her mouth.
“Okay. We don’t have to,” she says.
“I thought you were pissed at me.”
“I thought you were pissed at me.”
I was, I think. Wasn’t I?
“I’m sorry,” she says when I don’t say anything.
“For what?”
“I don’t know. But I can tell you’re upset, and I just . . . I want to be friends. I feel like I did something wrong. Maybe I moved too fast or—”
“You didn’t.”
“But something’s wrong,” she says. “You’re sure this isn’t about last night in the tree?”
“It’s not about anything.”
She nods, but her brows are creased with unbelief. “Is it about your mom?”
I stare at her for a few minutes, wondering how much I let leak to the surface today in the bookshop and in the break room at work. She looks so concerned, so I give her something true. Something safe, something that gives us both what we need right now.
“My mom and I . . . we have a . . . weird relationship sometimes.”
“She doesn’t know, does she? That you’re bisexual?”
“Honestly? I don’t know.”
“What do you mean? Did you tell her or not?”
See, these seem like simple questions, but they aren’t. Did I tell her? Yes. Did she get it? No.
“I’m not embarrassed for her to know. It’s just . . . like I said. Weird relationship.”
Eva nods and I can tell she wants to understand. She searches my eyes, seeking unspoken truths. “It seemed tense today, in the bookstore.”
“Did she say anything? After I left?”
“No.”
Of course she didn’t. Mom is an expert at telling herself everything is all glitter and rainbows between us.
“Mom and I have just been through some crap, Eva, and we . . . I don’t know what else to say. It’s not always easy.”
“I know.”
I suck in a breath. “You do?”
“She’s still dealing with so much after losing your dad.”
A cavern opens up in my stomach. “Oh. Right. My dad.”
“I mean, that’s sort of why she helps me. I just feel so helpless all the time, and she gets that. She’s still there, you know?”
“And you don’t find that kind of weird?” I ask before I can stop myself. “My dad died fifteen years ago.”
Eva frowns, like the idea never dawned on her. Hell, it probably hasn’t. “Grief doesn’t follow a pattern. It’s not linear.”
“Did Maggie tell you that?”
“No, Emmy did.”
“Well, doesn’t Emmy help you too? She used to be a grief counselor. She knows you better; she knew your mom.”
Eva nods. “I know, but, like, that’s why. It’s easier talking to your mom because she doesn’t know me or my mom or about ballet, but she knows this.” She taps the side of her head with her forefinger. “She’s not pushing me to dance so I can get back to normal, whatever the hell that is. I don’t want someone to spout some ‘time heals all wounds’ bullshit to me. I just want someone to say how much this sucks. Let me do what I need to do. Maggie does. And she’s not always trying to fix me. She just lets me hang out with her and talk if I want to, shut up if I want to. Does that make sense?”
It does make a weird sort of sense. I nod and lean toward her, inhaling. God, I want to kiss her again. Want to so badly, it almost feels like a need. Even if she wanted to as well, it doesn’t feel right to close these last few inches between us when just hours ago I couldn’t think about her without dropping the eff-bomb. I want her to make the first move. I need her to, if nothing else to prove that me freaking out over her and my mom in the bookstore didn’t scare her off.
She doesn’t kiss me, though. Doesn’t move even a centimeter closer. Just searches my face like I’m an abstract painting she can’t quite figure out.
“You really do play beautifully,” she finally says.
“Really?”
She nods, her hair tickling my face. “So gorgeous. Today when I heard you, watched you play, I was . . . God, Grace, you belong on a stage.”
Her words feel like the first spring day after weeks of snow. I want that—me on a stage, an audience rising up in front of me and waiting for me to spin them a story with my fingertips. It’s an old, deep ache. No matter how much I tell myself I’ll never make it, never measure up to other pianists my age who haven’t had to work two part-time jobs for years just to pay for lessons, I can’t stop wanting. And every time I look at Eva, I see all that want reflected back at me.
“I don’t think you should quit dance,” I say.
She blinks and puts a few inches of space between us, her little smile now a slack frown.
“I don’t mean go back to it right away. Maybe you’re not ready and I get that, but I can tell you love it, Eva. I think you’re still a dancer.”
Her expression softens, and she brushes my forehead with hers again. “I don’t know. Maybe I . . . I just don’t know. It almost feels like . . .”
“Like what?”
Her throat bobs with a hard swallow. “Like I’m betraying her. Because I can dance and she can’t.”
“Eva . . .” I don’t know what else to say, so I don’t even try. But I do reach out and touch her hair, gliding my hand over her curls. She looks down and all I see are tear-dolloped lashes and cheeks, a kind of sad beauty that makes my chest hurt.
We lie there for a while, breathing quietly in the dark. I love this almost as much as talking—just being.
“You smell like peanut butter,” I finally say.
She laughs softly and wipes at her eyes. “Probably because I feasted on some Peter Pan on the way over here.”
“That sounds kind of dirty.”
“I meant it to.”
I smile at that, then push back the
covers. Lying here with her is pure bliss, but the longer we lie here, the more likely we are to talk about things we’ve both had enough of for now.
“Let’s go,” I say, handing over her glasses and pushing the window up.
“Where?”
“The lighthouse.”
Eva smiles and slips on her glasses.
“I’ll meet you by the wall,” I say. “I’ve got to grab the key.”
“You promise?” Eva asks, one leg out the window. “You’re not just trying to get rid of me, are you?”
She’s smiling, so I start to crack a joke, but there’s a sliver of uncertainty in her tone.
“I promise. Bring the peanut butter.”
She grins before disappearing out the window.
It doesn’t really matter who we are during the day. These nights—they’re ours. We’re not Grace Glasser or Eva Brighton. Just Grace and Eva. Two girls who need to feel young and free, need to feel like girls. Need to scream from the top of a lighthouse and eat peanut butter out of a jar and swear and accidentally brush up against each other and giggle about it.
So that’s what we do.
Chapter Twenty
FOR THE NEXT TWO WEEKS, EVA AND I FALL INTO A PATTERN. The days pass in a blur of serving onion rings and Emmy’s famous Better Than Sex pie—yeah, that’s what it’s called on the menu, although all the little old ladies of Cape Katie call it BTS—practicing for hours and hours at the Book Nook in the afternoons, and trying not to think about anything beyond the next sunset. My audition still feels so unreal, but as we move into the beginning of July, my stomach coils into knots every time I sit down to the piano.
Eva and I don’t talk much during the day. We work together, circling each other like acquaintances, communicating the status of ketchup bottles and fresh coffee. Twice, Mom came in for lunch. She fawned over me for about three damn seconds before smacking a kiss to my forehead and disappearing with Eva into a corner booth on Eva’s meal break. Once, they even left for the half-hour, meandering down the beach with their shoes hooked on their fingers.
I try not to think about what they’re talking about, what Eva is getting from all this. I try not to think about what Luca said about Eva getting hurt, about me getting hurt all the time.
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