14
Now
Bridget decides she doesn’t have patience for the tourists at Green Gables, and since she’s craving an oat milk cappuccino, we take the Mustang down to Summerside. It’s the largest city on the island after Charlottetown, which means it’s still small—not quite 15,000 people. I call Farah from the car to check in, and both she and Bridget snipe at me to relax. I end our conversation quickly and text her all the things I remembered in the shower this morning.
When I look at the green and red out the window, I’m reminded of the first trip Bridget and I took here together. I fell hard for the island—both the beauty of the place and the warmth of its people. I fell harder for my friend, too. There were all these things I hadn’t known about her—she loved to paddleboard, swelled up with every mosquito bite, could read sheet music, and knew how to knit a scarf. Her accent came on stronger when she was at home, too.
She seems brighter than she did yesterday, the circles under her eyes almost gone. Maybe I’ve been worrying needlessly. Maybe she really was homesick. When we first met, she missed her family and the island desperately. She was considering moving back home. Maybe all she needs now is the ocean and rest.
After we hit up the coffeehouse downtown, Bridget takes me on what can only be described as the Bridget Clark Nostalgia Tour. We drive past her old high school and the hospital where she volunteered as a teenager. Bridget
wanted to be a doctor before her tendency to hit the floor when she saw blood had her rethinking her strategy. We visit the two-story Colonial where the Clarks lived before her parents bought Summer Wind, and the house where her first boyfriend’s parents still reside. She parks on the curb opposite, and we duck low in our seats while she points out the treehouse where they went to second base.
“Where is he now?” I ask as we spy on the MacDonald home. I’m trying to gauge if Bridget’s trip down memory lane will end with me talking her out of midnight-messaging her ex after she’s gotten into the rye. My best friend is usually as predictable as a clock, but right now, I have no idea where her
odd behavior will take us.
“He’s still here, closer to Miscouche.”
“Is he cute? Single?”
“Mmm . . .” she says. “I think he’s divorced. Big guy. Beard.”
“You could be describing a third of the men on this island.” I look at her out of the corner of my eye. “Are you thinking of looking him up?”
“God no,” she says. “We have nothing in common. And I doubt Miles would be thrilled about me getting in touch with my high school boyfriend days away from when we’re supposed to get married.”
“Supposed to?”
“Bad choice of words.” She sits up and starts the car, the Mustang’s thundering engine putting an end to our conversation.
I’d like to tackle her and force her to talk, but I know Bridget, and if I come on too strong, she’ll go on the attack.
Our last fight wasn’t that long ago. It was one of the few evenings recently where it was just the two of us, with no wedding-related crafting or planning involved. I’d brought a homemade caramelized onion and Brie dip to her condo, along with a fresh baguette and wine. Bridget refused to let any of it pass her lips, despite the fact that the dip was a personal triumph. She poured herself a vodka-soda, saying something about photographs and “feeling confident,” and I scoffed. Bridget never needed help feeling confident. I launched into a tirade about unrealistic body standards, and as I scolded her, her face turned crimson. When Bridget gets mad, she looks like
a pissed-off angel, and sometimes it’s cute enough that it takes the steam out of my anger, but not that night.
“If you have to be a stick to walk down the aisle, I’m never getting married,” I announced, with my hands on my hips. Not that I was looking to get married. My aunt’s independence appealed to me far more than my parents’ humdrum coexistence.
She pointed her finger at me. “You’re never getting married because that would mean you’d have to care about someone more than you care about your job.”
I’d stared at her in stunned silence, the statement sitting between us like a grenade. Despite my preference for casual relationships, I have had one long- term boyfriend. Carter. Who dumped me a year ago precisely because of my work.
Bridget apologized quickly. “I didn’t mean it,” she said, roping her arms around me. “I’m sorry. Carter was a potato. And you’re right—diets are dumb, and I miss carbs. Let me try some of that dip.”
But the truth of what she said about Carter stuck with me. I’d like to think he broke up with me because he wasn’t secure enough to be with a career- minded woman, but some of the things he accused me of rang true. I was always running late. I was always on my phone, checking In Bloom’s social media. I canceled plans if a venue had accidentally broken the centerpieces or if the bouquets had unexpectedly wilted.
Bridget started eating bread and cheese again after our fight, but it was one of the few times I’ve managed to change her mind. Usually our arguments end with me frustrated and saying a variation of, “I don’t even know what we’re mad about anymore.”
I don’t want to go down that road with Bridget now, but I can’t ignore that there’s something wrong. I’m nervous that the weekend will come and go, and I’ll still be on this island without answers.
“If there’s a problem, it might help to get it off your chest,” I say to Bridget now. “I won’t judge. I won’t tell you what to do. I hope you know you can talk to me about anything.” I realize she doesn’t like getting advice from anyone ever, but sometimes it feels specific to me.
Bridget’s distracted, her attention on the road, so it surprises me when she says, “I know, Bee. I trust you. More than anyone.” But she doesn’t say anything more.
My guilt fills the silence that follows. I’m such a hypocrite. There are things I haven’t told her, too.
• • •
I TEXT WITH LILLIAN, MY CONTACT AT CENA RESTAURANT GROUP, ON THE WAY TO Shack Malpeque until Bridget reaches across and takes the phone from my fingers.
“Your phone has been attached to your hand all morning. Unplug for a little while, okay?”
I was trying to set a new time for our meeting about the contract next week. This is a big opportunity that’s on the line, and I’m worried I’ve started my relationship with Lillian on the wrong foot. Besides, Bridget’s one to talk.
She’s been messaging all day, too. Presumably with Miles.
Bridget finds the last parking spot at Shack Malpeque. The restaurant looks over a bay that shimmers blue like it did the day I met Felix. There’s a boat out at the mussel floats, two farmers inspecting the ropes. The parking lot is full, and so is the patio that looks over the water. But unlike the bay and the boats, it wasn’t here five years ago, and the building is less shack-like than it used to be. It’s had a fresh coat of sea blue paint, and there are window boxes planted with red impatiens.
But stepping inside is like traveling through a time portal. Suddenly I’m twenty-four, Bridget has missed her flight, and I’m fresh off an argument with my parents about leaving my PR job to work for my aunt.
Bridget takes my elbow, snapping me back to reality. “Oh good. There are spots at the counter.” She points to the row of stools where Felix is working.
His head is tipped down and his hair topples over his forehead. With every twist of his knife, his forearms flex. And just like that, I’m thrown into the past again. When he glances up, his eyes find mine. For a fleeting slice of
time, Felix looks at me almost like he did back then, with fire in his eyes, and my heart thuds happily in my chest. But then Bridget pulls out a chair, and the flame is extinguished.
Bridget orders mussels and I order lobster and shrimp tacos with French fries, and the three of us chitchat about vacations past while Felix pries open one oyster after another. Trivial Pursuit tournaments won and lost. The year Zach brought a diagram of how to replicate the Panmure Island Lighthouse to scale for the sandcastle competition. There’s none of Felix’s usual flirting.
There’s no teasing, no shimmery eyes. But when our gazes snag, I feel it like a shock—longing and heat and something else more treacherous.
Bridget is doing an impression of her grandma’s failed attempt to teach me to square dance—“You don’t just have two left feet, Lucy; you’ve got three!”—and Felix is chuckling. It strikes me how the two of them connect in a way I never have with my brother. It could be that Lyle is six years older, or it could be that we don’t have shared interests. He’s a dentist like my mom and a jock, and even though I love him, I also find him a little boring. His husband, Nathan—a chatty real estate agent with a Harry Styles obsession— is the most interesting thing about him. But unlike our parents, Lyle is vocally supportive of what I do.
Stacy believed she was the reason my parents didn’t approve of my becoming a florist—that it was about her rocky relationship with my mom and not about job security, as they claimed. I suspect it was both. Over time, they’ve grudgingly accepted my career, but they’re not exactly enthusiastic, and they don’t attempt to mask their anxiety about my life as a florist. I try to brush their worrying off, but I’ve never managed to escape it entirely. It’s Bridget I turn to when I need reassurance.
When the lunch rush passes and Felix’s former boss hollers at him to take a break, Bridget and I relocate to the patio while he fixes himself something to eat. I send Lillian another message about our meeting.
Would Monday evening work?
If we fly out Monday, I could meet her later in the day. Otherwise I’ll have to push it until next week to give myself enough time to prepare for Bridget’s wedding on Saturday. If there’s a wedding. Tension knots in my neck, and I rub my shoulder.
I close my eyes and try to enjoy the salt air, the rumble of boat engines, and my one-beer buzz. Bridget is similarly lizard-like. We stay that way until her phone rings. She frowns at the name on the screen, then looks to me.
“Take it,” I say. “I’m happy sitting here on my own for a bit.”
She exits the patio and makes her way toward the beach, out of earshot.
She’s facing the water, so I can’t see her expression. I’m trying to read her body language when Felix sets a dozen oysters on the table, along with a basket of onion rings.
“So you don’t have to watch me eat,” he says, biting into a tomato and cheese sandwich. But I love watching Felix eat. Even his sandwich chewing is hot. Ugh. I’m the worst.
“Is she speaking with Miles?” Felix says, turning to look at Bridget.
We observe her for a minute. “I’m not sure.”
I face Felix again, and there’s an awkward pause. “I wanted to apologize to you,” I tell him.
He sets his sandwich down, his focus on me fully. There’s no feeling like it—the rush of holding his total attention.
“This morning on the deck, that’s what I was trying to say.” Felix is perfectly still, but his eyes sail across my face, waiting for me to go on. “I’m sorry for how I left last year. You were so good to me, and I didn’t have a chance to thank you properly. Or say goodbye.” I hold up my hands. “So this is me saying thank you.”
He studies me for a moment, his gaze softening. “You’re welcome, Lucy.”
It feels good to clear the air. “I owe you big-time.”
“You do.” A smile creeps over his lips slowly. “A breakfast, if I remember correctly.”
I look over his shoulder. Bridget is striding toward us.
Felix follows my gaze, and says, “You can pay me back later.”
