“It’s okay,” I say. “Enough about me. Let’s get you downtown.”
I take a deep breath. I’m backing out of the parking spot when I hear a loud honk. There’s a red Land Rover pulling out at the same time. Our bumpers almost hit but don’t: a near miss.
My heart picks up speed. I’m driving Lottie’s old Jeep, and beyond being the only car we have, it holds extra sentimental value. The good luck charm Lottie placed underneath the rearview mirror—a gold evil eye pendant hanging from a string of colorful beads—still dangles exactly as it did the day she left. Evidence of my great-aunt’s life is everywhere: the worn leather seats, the sand in the plastic mats, the “lucky pennies” she kept in the center console. The interior even smells like her, if that’s possible. Or maybe Lottie just smelled like the island, sweet honeysuckle and salt air and warm sand and freshly mowed grass.
If I had totaled the car—one of the last places we can still feel Lottie’s presence—I’d never forgive myself.
“Lily,” says Mom in a serious voice. “Are you sure you’re okay to drive? I can drive. Or, I can skip tonight altogether. We can go home and watch a movie instead.”
“No, I don’t want to ruin your night. It’s okay. I can do this. I’m an adult.”
If Mom disagrees, she doesn’t argue. We’re quiet as I drive the familiar route to town, passing the long line for the Chicken Box. I wonder if the girls from the store have made their way in by now or if they were rejected by the bouncer. I wonder if their lives are going to fundamentally alter tonight like mine did the night I met Henry seven years ago.
“Remember how scrawny Henry was when we first met?” I say.
Rose shifts in her seat. “He was a sweet kid.”
We were eighteen, about to head off to college. It was Memorial Day weekend, just like it is right now, and I started working at asweatshirt shop downtown. The job was boring and repetitive, folding T-shirts and various other Nantucket merchandise for hours on end. I’m wearing one of their products: a souvenir from the summer that changed everything. One of the other employees invited me to a house party on Cliff Road after work, and it was there that I met Henry.
I remember spotting him by the pool. It was still cold out, and none of us wanted to jump in, but he was trying to start a movement. He dared me to go first, and I did, because why not? He followed shortly after. We spent the rest of the night huddled in pool towels, shivering in our wet clothes, talking in the corner. Later, one of his friends drove a bunch of us home in the back of his pickup truck. We sat side by side, towels flapping in the wind, watching the clapboard houses in town grow smaller. The truck bumped over the cobblestones, Henry wrapped an arm around me for stability, and it felt like the beginning of something—like my life was finally starting. The cold air dried our towels, and when it was my stop, he asked me out before I could hop out of the truck: my very first date.
Everything was simpler back then.
“Remember our first date to the movies?” I say to Rose. “Remember how nervous he was?”
“Is this reminiscing really helpful?”
We were shier than when we first met, because we no longer had the fever of the party and the beer to encourage us. When he approached, he left at least three feet between us and said, “Hi,” with an awkward wave, and I said, “Hi,” back and forced my body into motion to give him a side hug that was all arms and elbows. I remember how he said, “Shall we?” formally, and I giggled and said, “We shall.” He opened the door for me and I imitated a curtsy, and he asked, “Did you really just curtsy?” And I admitted, “I think I did.”
I had only ever been on “group hangs” in middle school and high school, where the large numbers provided a sort of protective buoyancy. When we took our seats, my palms were clammy, and I kept them stiffly at my sides, which Henry misinterpreted as a signal that I didn’t want to hold hands.
The air smelled like Sour Patch gummies and buttered popcorn.
Afterward, he suggested we go for a walk on the docks. I had dressed up for the occasion: a nice dress and wedges that were far too fancy for a movie date. As we walked, I remember thinking it was the first time in my life conversation flowed effortlessly with someone who wasn’t Rose or Lottie. Talking to him felt like one of the satisfying tennis rallies Lottie was always watching on television. Every ground stroke I hit, he returned with equal force. It was beautiful, almost holy. The conversation was so mesmerizing I didn’t even notice that the straps of my shoes had begun to dig into my ankles, making my skin slick with blood.
The blisters turned into scars: thin, raised white lines like the rings of a tree. I showed them to Henry weeks later.
He said, “I guess you’ll never forget me then.”
I said, “I guess not,” and the idea wasn’t sad yet.
“He can’t be engaged,” I say now. The idea makes me sick, physically nauseated. I think about the scars on my ankles—the ones I still have to this day.
“I know,” Rose sighs. “It’s hard to believe, but he is. And you have to move on, honey. I know it’s hard, but it’s the only way.”
“Is that what you did?” I ask. “I mean, how did you get over him?”
Sometimes, I have a hard time saying the word “dad.” Even “father” unsettles me. The words seem to imply a certain intimacy my father doesn’t deserve. They connote a role in my life he has never played.
Rose has been single ever since she left him when I was only a year old. She went on a few dates here and there, but never anything lasting. I think she wanted to protect me, keep me from getting attached to anyone who could hurt us like my father did. Sometimes I feel responsible for her singleness. She always put me first, even to her own detriment.
Mom looks surprised. “What do you mean? How did I get over who?”
“My father, obviously,” I say, confused. “Who else would I mean?”
Her cheeks look pinkish and warm to the touch. “No one. I mean, of course you meant your father.”
It’s a strange reaction. She sounds almost… guilty. “So, how did you get over him?”
