Page 7 of Beautiful Place By the Sea

And then there was Alex, who in the end didn’t officially take sides, but who did tell me he couldn’t “openly show favoritism” toward me, because Kyle was probably getting promoted to admin next year, and Alex might “need him.” Alex, who also stopped talking to me at work when other people were around, just in case.

The horrible year went far beyond Kyle or work, of course. Grandma Eleanor died in September, right after we got back from Maine. And then in November, with seemingly no warning, my mom told my dad she wanted a trial separation. As if things weren’t bad enough already.

Yes, the past year has been hellish. I’m not sure I’m ready to talk about it, though. Especially with Laurel, whose righteous fury on my behalf will get me worked up all over again. Besides, I’ve already given her the Cliff’s Notes version in real time via text message. I’m not sure how much more detail she needs.

So I just say, “It was a really tough year. But we’re here now, and I’m looking forward to some time away.”

Laurel’s known me too long to let it go. “Kyle treated you like trash, Ivy. You deserve way better.”

I feel tears start, and I push my sunglasses higher up the bridge of my nose, hoping they’ll catch any stray droplets before my cousin notices. “I know,” I reply softly.

“And your so-called friends? Scumbags, all of them.” Laurel waves her to-go cup around in the air while she talks, sloshing coffee on her pink t-shirt. “Damn it,” she mumbles, digging through her purse for a napkin.

“I agree.” I watch in amusement as she attempts to dab the stain away. “I have a Tide stick back at the rental,” I offer.

“Thanks.” She sighs deeply. “So what are you going to do?”

I tilt my head. “What do you mean?”

“Are you going back in the fall?”

I consider her question. “No,” I want to scream. I’m not sure I can handle being in that building, with those people, ever again. I’m all for not giving in to bullies, or whatever, but this was just too much for my heart to handle. And it’s not like I’m in love with my job so much that I wouldn’t consider going somewhere else. In fact, I’ve been pretty bored at work for the last couple of years.

But it hadn’t really occurred to me before this moment that not going back was a possibility.

“Oh, I’m not sure,” I say, trying to seem like I’ve considered it. “I haven’t really looked elsewhere yet. But maybe I should.”

Laurel nods emphatically. “You definitely should. Why put yourself in a position to be treated like crap again? Find another job and start fresh.”

“You don’t think it would be like letting them win?” I ask.

“They already lost when they treated you like you don’t matter,” she says, patting my arm reassuringly and sounding just like my mother. “And, anyway, who cares? Your happiness is all that you need to worry about.”

“My happiness, but also my bank account,” I respond wryly. “I do have tenure.”

She shrugs. “Eh, you’ll get it again. Somewhere else.” Sipping her coffee, she considers my face. “And who knows, maybe this summer job will turn into something? You’ve always wanted to work in a bookstore and fall in love with Tom Hanks.”

A snort escapes me before I can stop it. “It’s not so much Tom Hanks, the person, as the essence of what he represents.”

“Tom Hanks isn’t exactly my ideal man, either,” she admits.

“Right? Not enough edge.”

Laurel nods. “Exactly. Too clean-cut.”

“So it needs to be a dark, handsome, edgy lit nerd.” I run my thumb over the plastic lid of my coffee cup, imagining how great it would be if such a man actually existed.

“Like Oliver from the bookstore?” Laurel’s eyebrows rise suggestively.

I hit her arm. “Absolutely not like Oliver. He’s too grumpy. We need to find someone closer to the middle of the bell curve.”

“Yeah, but he’s got the dark and handsome thing down,” she retorts.

“I guess.” It occurs to me that she’s right, at least about part of it—maybe this summer job could turn into something more. My heart skips gleefully at the idea of moving to Ogunquit. I love it here. I always have. Sure, I’d miss Boston, but living in my favorite seaside retreat, working in a bookshop? That’s like the stuff of a bibliophile’s wildest dreams.

I check my phone and see it’s almost six o’clock. “Well, anyway, Oliver doesn’t own the bookstore. That discounts him from my You’ve Got Mail-style fantasies.”

Laurel laughs. “I guess that’s true.”