Slow Dancing on Price's Pier (17 page)

“I don't really do sports.”

“Women it is,” Garret said, lifting his glass to clink his brother's. “So tell me. Not that I'm rushing you into anything. But when you
are
ready to start playing the field again, exactly what kind of woman are we looking for?”

“I'm not sure.”

“Come on, Jon. What type are you into? Curvy blonds? Petite brunettes?”

“I don't know,” Jonathan said. “Maybe . . .” He looked around the small bar. Old men sitting alone, minding their own business. A few women in the corner, their heads bent low. “Maybe someone like her? Maybe?”

Garret glanced over toward a woman in the corner, and his throat went a little tight. “All right,” he said. “That's a start. Now we're getting somewhere.”

“So what do we do?”

“We go up to her. Buy her a drink. See if she's wearing a ring.”

“It's that easy?” A light danced in Jonathan's eyes, just the faintest dim flicker. But it was a light nonetheless.

“Come on,” Garret said, not giving his brother a choice. He readied his most charming smile as he walked across the room, ignoring the sinking feeling in his chest, toward the woman who looked, for all the world, just like Thea.

 

 

When Thea was young, long before Garret and Jonathan had moved to Newport, she'd had her first kiss. She'd known something was up when the boy, whose name she no longer remembered, had asked her to walk home with him. His backpack was stuffed with books, his sneakers were gray and worn, and his hair was a dazzling, otherworldly red. When he tugged her into an alleyway between two buildings, the smell of mold and damp assailed her nose—but she didn't hold back.

Five seconds,
she'd said.
We have to kiss for at least five seconds. Like on TV.
The boy's tongue had been alien and strange bumping up against hers. His mouth had seemed like a cave—the space behind his teeth was wet, dark, vacant. His kiss did not draw her in, did not make her go misty-eyed and smile against his lips like the heroines in movies. And when his watch beeped and five seconds was over, she picked her backpack up off the pavement and walked herself home. She'd found the precise taste of disappointment inside his mouth.

But years later, she knew: what had passed in the alley had been nothing but a choreographed meeting of lips—and not a kiss at all. When Garret kissed her, his mouth was not some dank and fearful cave: it was a darkness to fall into, a darkness that swallowed her up, left her with so much pleasure it was close to pain.

She could not get enough of him. They made plans to meet between classes, to sneak into a quiet stairwell to steal a fast and risky kiss where no one could see. She couldn't stop herself from thinking of him, from anticipating the next time they would meet—and kiss again—so that at every moment it felt as if he was with her, a secret companion who kept her company even when she was alone. The thought of him and what they'd come to share gave her the feeling that no woman on earth had ever fallen in love before her—that she was the first, the last, the only one.

And yet, all her extremes of brightness came with extreme dark. Garret had insisted that she not tell anyone about them—
What,
he asked her,
is there to tell?
He made no promises to her. He did not say he loved her. On some days he seemed to forget her. He flirted outrageously with other girls, touching them, smiling at them, while Thea bottled up her pain as she passed him in the hallway without so much as a wave. Or he turned down her offer to help with his homework in order to play foosball with his friends. She was sure that each and every instance that he ignored her was a sign that he no longer cared for her at all—that his glance over her shoulder signaled the end. On some days, she knew he did not love her, did not even like her, and was on the brink of casting her aside.

Only his kiss could save her from herself, her doubting. One kiss, rushed in secret in the parking lot or gym, could lift her whole day out of the mire of despair, could make her feel as if she were shining under her skin. His mouth could not lie. His lips didn't speak of mere passing infatuation—what he wanted from her was serious, intense, a thing that he starved for and that no other girl could give. And she wanted to give—everything that she was. Body and soul. She was not a prude, and if he were another man she would have already let his frustrated kisses play themselves out on every part of her body—that, and more.

But she loved him. She knew him. She'd seen the tides of his interest in other girls swell and then fade, and she was not about to join their ranks.

And so in the hallway, when his hands strayed too far, when his hips against hers made her want to fall against the wall behind her, she forced herself to do the thing she wanted least in the world—she pushed him away.

 

 

For a long time, Thea had avoided giving the drinks at the Dancing Goat overly cutesy names. She served three types of coffee every day—the dark house blend, a mild blend that she changed up every week, and decaf. Coffees that were flavored with hazelnut or raspberry were not given silly monikers that appealed to happy tourists; they were simply called hazelnut coffee or raspberry. But in recent weeks Irina had been getting on her case about changing the names of her drinks, saying that zanier names would draw attention to the drinks they wanted to move, and Thea was beginning to wonder if her precocious daughter had a point.

Now, on the first scorching day of August, she sat with Dani, Lettie, and Irina at a table in the coffee shop while Claudine and Jules manned the counter. Thea had conceded that she would add three “drinks specials” to the menu that would have unique names—on a trial basis. If Thea's lobstermen customers got tongue-tied and embarrassed while trying to order coffee, then the experiment would be considered failed.

“It's gonna work, Ma,” Irina said. “Trust me.”

“What's the first drink?” Dani asked.

Thea handed them each an espresso cup filled with a decaf sample of her latest concoction. “It's a vanilla latte with a hint of cinnamon. I wasn't going to put this out until the fall, but since we're going public with new drinks now . . .”

“Oh, wow,” Dani said, her voice trailing off as she looked up from her cup. “This is delicious.”

Lettie closed her eyes. “Very good.”

“Now we have to think of a name,” Irina said.

Thea took her own sip—the drink really was good, comforting smooth vanilla, a little kick of cinnamon, and rich espresso as the foundation that held the other flavors up—but she wasn't too keen on playing the name game. If Irina wanted a cute name for a drink, she would have to invent it.

“It's like a hug from the inside out,” Dani said, cupping her hand around the tiny drink.

“No, it's more like a snuggle,” Thea said. “Because it lasts longer than a hug.”

“It's a huggle!” Irina said. “It's a vanilla-cinnamon huggle.”

“How 'bout just vanilla huggle,” Lettie said, delighted. “And the cinnamon is a surprise.”

“Vanilla huggle.” Thea rolled her eyes, but wrote the name down. “Why do I get the feeling that none of my locals are going to be ordering the vanilla huggle?”

“They will, Mom!”

“What about the men?” Thea asked.

“The men can have it too,” Irina said. “Let's do the next one!”

Thea pushed another set of coffees toward them, careful not to mix up regular with decaf. She didn't want her daughter to be up all night. “This is coffee flavored with banana and walnut extract. Like, banana nut bread meets coffee.”

“I like it,” Dani said.

Lettie wrapped her hands around her cup, her thick knuckles pressed against the heat. “But what do we call it?”

Irina gave the drink her fullest concentration, her eyes closed to focus on the flavor before she swallowed. “Something about banana . . . nutty banana. Split. Like a banana goes crazy and splits up from a nut.”

Dani laughed. “I'm not sure that quite rolls off the tongue . . .”

“How about the No-Fault Split?”

Thea felt the blood draining away from her face. She hadn't been talking to her daughter about the intricacies of divorce—the logistics of it all. But she should have known Irina would hear. She heard everything.

“That's not a very cheery name,” Thea said. “I wouldn't order it.”

“No—it's a good name. It's funny.”

“I don't like it,” Thea said. She could feel Dani and Lettie watching her.

Irina threw her hands up. “Well, I don't know what you call it then!” she shouted. She pushed her palms against the table edge, toppling cups and splashing coffee on the floor. Thea jumped, avoiding the flood, but a few ounces of coffee spilled on Irina, soaking her legs. Luckily it hadn't been too hot.

“Oh dear!” Lettie got to her feet. “I'll get some towels.”

Thea leveled a serious gaze at her daughter. “Okay, we're done with this for the night. If that's how you're going to act, then we'll have to finish this up when you can behave.”

“I
am
behaving,” Irina said. But her face was already turning red, and her eyes were already filling with tears. She was about to blow. “It was an accident.”

Thea took a deep breath. “Go to the bathroom and clean yourself off, and then we're heading home.”

“But we still have one more drink!”

“Irina . . .” she said, her voice full of warning.

“Fine.” Irina stomped toward the bathroom to get what coffee stains she could out of her pants.

When she was gone, Thea stood still for a moment to close her eyes and regain her composure. Lettie returned with paper towels and a garbage bag; she and Dani set to work cleaning up.

“You don't have to do that,” Thea told them.

“Nonsense,” Lettie said.

Dani wadded big fistfuls of paper towels in her hands, soaking a puddle of coffee that had landed on the floor. “She okay?”

“I don't know,” Thea said. “It's not like her to be so angry. I don't know what to do to make her stop hurting. I feel like a terrible mother.”

“Stop that,” Dani said, standing. “You're a great mother, and you know it. Irina's just going through a difficult time. You all are.”

Thea held open the garbage bag for Dani. “Sue thinks Jonathan and I are being reckless. That we shouldn't do this so fast.”

Lettie's voice was gentle as she blotted the coffee rings that had formed under their cups. “Of course she has to say that. She's concerned about her family. And rightly so. But only you can know what's right for you in the end.”

“I'm not so sure that's true,” Thea said. “Maybe I should try harder. Tough it out. For the sake of the family—for Irina, but for Sue and Ken too.”

Dani shook her head. “You can't stay married to Jonathan because you're afraid of losing his family.”

“I don't want to be the cause of anyone's pain,” she said, and strangely enough, she didn't find herself thinking of Jonathan and Irina, but of Garret—of all the years he'd stayed away from his family because of what she'd done. “I've been there before. I don't want to do it again.”

Dani took the garbage bag away from Thea. “Here's what it looks like from where I stand—and keep in mind that I've been through this before. You're in a good position to stay friends with Jonathan right now. But not if you keep drawing things out until they get messy.”

Thea nodded. “You're right. You know that? You're right. I think Irina will feel a lot better once we get into a routine.”

“Let us know what we can do to help,” Lettie said.

Thea glanced toward the hallway, where Irina was walking as slowly as she possibly could, foot over foot, to rejoin them in the shop. “I may take you up on that.”