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I have the feeling he’s rolling his eyes underneath those sunglasses.
It’s still early, just before noon, when we roll down the kitschy cool streets of Seaside. We used to come here a lot when I was really young, my uncle having a house just down the coast, and I always had the fondest memories of the arcades and candy shops. Nothing much seems to have changed, except that maybe it’s more crowded.
We pull into a large hotel at the very end where the promenade begins. It’s nothing fancy but it is right on the beach. The minute I exit the car I feel relief. The ocean breeze rolling off the Pacific is full in my face, a sharp, mineral wash that coats me from head to toe. It blasts away the humidity that had descended on Portland this month, banishes the cobwebs, even the fear.
I close my eyes, even though I’m standing in a parking lot, and just feel it. I breathe in as deep as my lungs will let me, then exhale.
When I open my eyes, nearly teetering off-balance, I catch Jay staring at me. Actually, I felt his gaze even before I looked, that way he can reach right into me like no one’s been able to before. Or maybe it’s around him that I’m finally making myself transparent.
I hold his eyes for a moment, wordless conversations passing through us, conversations I don’t understand but I feel. Then I shoot him a sheepish smile as he holds the door to the hotel lobby open for me.
Being early, the room isn’t ready yet so we park the car in the garage (far less scary than the last time I was in one) and head out to get some lunch.
Though Seaside is small, the main “downtown” area just one or two streets, we’re immediately swept up into the crowd of vacationers. There are families pushing strollers dragging along kids with sticky hands and melting ice cream cones, young couples holding hands and gazing more at each other than where they are walking (which is into me on more than one occasion), groups of Germans holding maps (of what, the one street?).
And then there’s Jay and I, whatever we are.
Jay has a hankering for some clam chowder, and judging by all the shops selling “The Best Clam Chowder in Seaside!” it isn’t hard to find some. We settle on one that has a diner feel with red plastic booths and seagull figurines dangling from the ceiling.
Jay of course gets the chowder while I decide to be extremely boring and get toast. Normally I’d be polishing off the greasiest thing on the menu, but my appetite seems to be diminishing by the minute.
“Toast?” he repeats after the waitress takes our order, a girl no older than me that stopped snapping her gum for just long enough to give Jay googly eyes. I wanted to employ the same “Eyes right here, buddy” technique that Jay used on the hotel manager last night but the last thing I want is a catfight where hot bowls of chowder are scattered everywhere like landmines.
“Not hungry,” I tell him and he frowns at that.
“You should eat more. You’re skin and bones,” he teases.
I give him my most withering look. “You need to work on your compliments, mister.”
“Thought I gave you a pretty good one last night,” he says sincerely.
Right. I was wondering if that moment would ever be brought up again or if he would pretend it never happened.
“And,” he goes on, briefly reaching across the table to place his large warm hand on mine. Fire transfers through me. “I’m just worried about you, that’s all.”
“You sound just like my dad,” I say, trying to sound light but there’s no mistaking the tremor in my voice.
He removes his hand and the fire stops.
“Fair enough,” he says. “You know I’ll always look out for you.”
“It’s your job,” I concede.
“And I’m rather fond of you.”
I stare at him with startled eyes.
The waitress chooses this moment to plunk our coffees down and I immediately mainline mine, grateful for the distraction. She soon follows up with the toast and chowder.
When I’ve finished half the cup of Joe, black as sin, I wipe my lips on the napkin and say, “Speaking of my father. Do you think he’s doing all right?” I’d texted this morning and he said all was well but I need reassurance from Jay.
“I’m sure he’s forgotten all about last night.”
I doubted that. He would brush the scares under the rug as he always does (ask him about the time a pig carcass was found in the kitchen and his office was splattered with blood. Oh wait, you can’t, because he pretends it never happened). But he’s all about impressions ever since mom died. Like he’s picked up the reins. And he probably thinks he failed at his first dinner party. I make a mental note to cheer him up big time when I return. Whenever that is.
