“I see your point. Still, one can’t discount the importance of new experiences.”
“Oh, god,” I say, picking up the spoon and holding on to it. “You’re not one of those people with carpe diem tattooed on your ass, are you?”
She lifts her brows. “No, but now I’m feeling inspired.”
We both laugh while she wipes away the last bit of salt from her cheeks. I watch her put all of her stuff into her messenger bag, sand and all. Her slender arms flex with lean muscle, her collarbone delicate under her skin. Both ears are lined with tiny hoops and studs. Every movement graceful and intentional.
It’s a good fifteen seconds before I realize she’s done packing up and is watching me, too. We’re pretty much staring at each other like dumbasses. I clear my throat and run both hands over my hair, which the wind has whipped into a fine frenzy. She follows my movements, then reaches out and catches one of my hands. I’m about to yank it back when her thumb smooths over the lacquered polish of my middle finger. Then my forefinger, followed by my ring finger and pinkie and thumb. Each nail is expertly painted a different shade of purple, from eggplant to lavender.
“Why different colors?” she asks, still gliding her fingers over mine.
I pull my hand back, swallowing hard. I run my own thumb over a few nails, assigning a wish to each one, before tucking my hands behind me, spoon still in my grip.
“Ah, a secret,” she says, offering a tiny lopsided smile. “I get it.”
“It’s not a secret.” I can’t keep the edge from slipping into my voice. “It’s just not your business.”
She nods, her expression unreadable. “Right. Weirdo stranger coloring intricate ocean scenes on the beach and eating sandy peanut butter doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.”
“It’s not that.”
“Okay, well, I’m Eva. Eva Brighton. Now I’m not a stranger anymore. Weirdo, maybe, but not a stranger.”
I inhale some briny air. I don’t want to talk about my nails or purple or anything remotely associated with my mother.
“I know who you are,” I say, tossing the focus back on her. “I’m Grace.”
Her eyes widen. “Well, isn’t that the icing on the proverbial cake.”
“Huh?”
She laughs, but it’s got an exhausted edge to it, and a few more tears trickle out of her eyes. She wipes them away, but not like she’s embarrassed by them. More like they’re simply in her way. “You’re Luca’s best friend. Great first impression, right? Unhinged new girl with her coloring books and sand fetish. Jesus.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
She nods but continues to look everywhere but at me. “You live here?”
I follow her gaze toward the lighthouse, my breath sticking in my chest. Such a loaded word—?live. It could simply mean existing. Heart pumping blood, lungs taking in air. Or it could mean settling into something. Being a part of what’s around you. Investing.
“For now,” I say.
“For now,” she echoes softly. Her gaze shifts toward me, and I find myself staring again. Her face warrants it, familiar and new all at once. Pretty. I force my eyes away.
“I should go,” I say.
“Me too.”
I hitch my bag higher up on my shoulder and start to tell her goodbye when she reaches out and swipes a finger down my cheek. Her touch scrapes my skin, both gentle and rough. I step away from her, ready to unleash a few colorful words about her scratching me, but she holds up her finger, smudged with a tiny dollop of wet sand.
Then she sticks her finger in her mouth. My eyes widen and laughter bursts out of both of us so hard, I feel the sting of tears under my eyelids.
“Oh my god,” I say, trying to breathe normally.
“Not bad, if I’m being honest,” she says, patting her flat stomach dramatically.
“We should ask Emmy to put it on the menu at LuMac’s.”
“We’ll call it Summer Surprise.”
“Instant classic.”
Our laughter continues for a couple more seconds before she takes several deep breaths, each exhale a little shaky. She keeps her hand on her stomach as though she’s holding herself together.
“Thanks, Grace,” she says. Then, before I can ask why she’s thanking me, she turns away and starts off down the beach. Even plodding through the sand, she’s graceful. I watch her get smaller and smaller. I keep watching, her spoon still in my hand, until she’s nothing but a speck on the blue horizon.
Chapter Six
PETE IS HUGE. HIS SUN-DARKENED ARMS ARE LIKE HAM HOCKS, and he likes to grab my mother’s ass. He’s smacked, tapped, flicked, pinched, or patted it seven times since he walked in the door five minutes ago.
“So this is Grace! I remember you,” he says, after they make out for about ten damn hours while I busy myself digging around for some olive oil. He says my name like “Grice,” his lazy southern drawl warping the vowels. He and I only met once or twice while Jay and I were together—?obviously, neither one of us was too keen on meeting the parents. I had totally forgotten that his first name was Pete until a few hours ago. He was always just Mr. Lanier.
Now he winks a gray eye at me and pats my shoulder. His brown close-cropped hair is speckled with sawdust. A little falls onto my forearms. “You sure do make pretty babies, sugar,” he says to Mom with a butt slap. She giggles.
I grit my teeth and turn back to the chicken browning in the skillet. “I take after my father.”
A charged silence fills the kitchen. I fight to keep the smile off my face and glance over my shoulder to find Pete frowning and Mom glaring at me.
“Right. Well, I’m going to hop in the shower,” Pete says.
“Okay, honey. Dinner in ten, right, Grace?”
In reply, I stir the rice a little more vigorously than necessary.
Pete winks at me again and smacks a kiss onto Mom’s cheek before disappearing down the hall.
“You call that trying?” Mom asks as soon as he’s out of sight.
“I call that the best I can do.”
“‘I take after my father’? What the hell was that about?”
I whirl around to face her, rice-covered spatula in hand. “What? I do take after him.”
She flinches, then scowls as she cracks open a Bud Light. “For god’s sake, Grace. Grow up.”
I can’t help but laugh at that one. Grow up? I grew up a long time ago, the first time I walked into the living room to find her passed out on the couch, cozied up with a bottle of vodka. I was eight. It was my birthday.
A door down the hall creaks open and then slams shut. My stomach knots up. I turn off the burners, flip the chicken onto a clean plate, fluff the rice, my hands shaking through every movement.
“Julian!” Mom calls, and I cringe.
“Hey, Mrs. Glasser,” he says. I hear a barstool creak as he sits.
“Oh, honey, call me Maggie. Please.”
“Okay. Maggie.” He drawls her name out using what he thinks is his sexy voice. She giggles. I turn around and glare at him. He winks at me. What is it with these damn Lanier men and their damn winking and my mother’s damn giggling?