I don’t want to lose Grace. Somehow, while Porter barged in my front door, she sneaked in the back. I try the only thing I have left: the truth.
“You’re right,” I tell her, words tumbling out. “I took you for granted. I forgot about you this morning because I assumed that you’d always be there, because you always are. I can count on you, because you’re dependable. And I’m not. I wish . . . I wish you could count on me like I can count on you. I want to be more like you. You’re not a placeholder for me, Grace.”
She doesn’t say anything, but I can hear her breathing pick up.
“I guess I told myself you wouldn’t miss me,” I say, picking at the yellow lupine shrub. “That’s how I justified it.”
“Well, I did miss you. You picked a fine day not to show. Because I really could have used a shoulder today,” she says, still somewhat upset, but now moving into another emotion I can’t quite put my finger on. It’s hard to decode people when they’re wearing big sunglasses and their arms are crossed over their chest.
A wind whips through my hair. I wait until it passes, then ask, “Did something happen?”
“Yes, something happened,” she complains. But now I can hear the distress in her voice, and when she lifts her sunglasses to rest them atop her head, I see it mirrored in her eyes. “Taran’s not coming back. He’s staying in India for the rest of the summer. Maybe for good.”
“Oh, God. Grace.” My chest constricts painfully.
Slow, silent tears roll down her cheeks. “We’ve been together for a year. We were going to attend the same college. This isn’t how life is supposed to work.”
Tentatively, I reach for her, not sure if she’ll accept me. But there’s not even a heartbeat of hesitation, and she’s throwing her arms around me, crying softly as she clings. Her sunglasses fall off her head and land in the sand.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out, surprised to find that I’m crying along with her. “For everything.”
My old therapist warned me that avoidance is a dysfunctional way to interact with people you care about, but now I’m starting to understand what he meant when he said it could hurt them, too. Maybe it’s time I figure out a better way to deal with my problems. Maybe Artful Dodger isn’t working so well for me anymore.
“I’ve never been alone with a man before, even with my dress on.
With my dress off, it’s most unusual.”
—Audrey Hepburn, Roman Holiday (1953)
23
* * *
In the middle of July, Porter and I have another day off together. He tells me we can do whatever I want with it, that he’s my genie and will grant me one wish. I tell him that I don’t want to see another soul for an entire afternoon. I have something I’m ready to share.
He picks me up in the camper van at noon, two hours after my standing breakfast date with Grace.
“Where are we going?” I say, folding down the visor to block the sun as I hop into the passenger side. I’m wearing my white vintage Annette Funicello shorts and the leopard sunglasses Wanda and Dad brought me back from San Francisco. My Lana Turner ’do looks especially perfect.
Porter glances at my sandals (they’re the ones he likes), and then my shorts (which he continues to stare at while he talks to me). “You have two choices, beach or woods. The woods have a stream, which is cool, but the beach has an arch made of rock, which is likewise cool. God, those shorts are hot.”
“Thank you. No people at either location?”
“If we see anyone, I will act crazy and chase them off with a stick. But no, these places are both usually deserted.”
After some thought, which included taking deep-woods insects into consideration, there’s really no choice for the purpose I have in mind, so I gather my gumption and say, “Take me to the beach.”
The drive is about fifteen minutes. He has to squeeze through a narrow, rocky road through the woods to get to the beach, pine branches brushing against the top of the van. But when we emerge from the trees, it’s glorious: sand, gray pebbles, tide pools, and rising up from the edge of the shore, an arch of mudstone rock. It’s covered with birds and barnacles and the waves crash through it.
The beach is small.
The beach isn’t sexy.
The beach is ours.
Porter parks the van near the woods. He slides open the side door, and we take off our shoes and toss them in the back. I see he’s got his board and wet suit neatly stowed; he’s been surfing almost every day.
We splash around in the tide pools for a while. They’re teeming with starfish, which I’ve only ever seen dried on a shelf in a souvenir store. He points out some other critters, but I have more than coastal California wonders on my mind. “Hey, where’s the nude beach?”
“What?”
“There’s supposed to be a nude beach in Coronado Cove.”
Porter laughs. “It’s up by the Beacon Resort. It’s not even fifty feet wide. There’s privacy fencing on both sides. You can’t see inside, nor would you want to, I promise.”
“Why?”
“It’s a swingers’ club for retirees. Our parents are too young to get in.”
“No way.”
“Yes way. Ask Wanda. They get busted for violating after-hours noise ordinances with all their swingers’ drinking parties. That’s why they had to put up the fencing. People complained.”
“Gross.”
“You say that now, but when you’re eighty and just want to get nude and be served a fruity umbrella drink on the beach by another eighty-year-old nude person, you’ll be thankful it’s here.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
He squints at me. “Why are you asking me about this?”
I shrug. “Just curious.”
“About getting naked on a beach?”
I don’t say anything.
His eyes go big. “Holy shit, that’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?” He points at me and shakes his head. “Something’s not adding up here. This isn’t you. Now, me, I’m a fan of all things naked. And if you asked me to strip right now, I will. I’m not ashamed. I spent the first few years of my life on this planet naked in the ocean.”
I believe that. I really do.
“But you?” He squints at me. “What’s this all about?”
Hesitating, I chew the inside of my mouth. “You remember when we were making out that night in the museum?”
“Like every waking minute of my day,” he says with a slow smile.
I chuckle. “Me too,” I admit before refocusing. “You remember when you started to touch my stomach, and I stopped you?”
His smile fades. “Yeah. I’ve been wondering when you were going to tell me about that.”
“I think I’m ready now.”
He nods several times. “Cool. I’m glad.”
Of course, now that I’ve said this, fear overtakes me. I hesitate, gritting my teeth. “Thing is, I need to show you, not tell you. I think this is one of the reasons I’ve hated beaches for so long . . . the bikini issue. So I think I should just do this, you know?” I’m not sure if I’m talking to him or myself, but it doesn’t matter. “Yeah. I’m going to do it.”
He looks confused.