Page 2 of When We Had Forever
BEFORE
The day I met Michael, I hit him in the face with a pie.
It’s a breezy Sunday in June, and downtown Seagrove bustles in a way I rarely see. In the summer, our quaint seaside enclave attracts its fair share of visitors, but a typical weekend sees tourists strolling past the muted green-and-red shopfronts at leisure, coming from or going to the beach in no particular hurry.
Today, though, Seagrove hums with life. The animal shelter I’ve volunteered at for the past three summers has organized a fundraising carnival, complete with vendors hawking sweet-smelling funnel cakes and booths offering massive stuffed animals to anyone who can land a wooden ring around the neck of a bottle. Laughter mingles with the bright cries of gulls. Peaked canvas tents rub shoulders, each one crowned with a jaunty yellow flag that flutters in the breeze.
The liveliness of the day takes the edge off my guilt. It’s almost like Seagrove has arranged this send-off for me. Like in its mind, I’m not making a gigantic mistake, even if everyone else seems to think so.
And byeveryone else, I mean my best friend, Kate. She strolls along beside me, turning heads in a fluttering floral sundress that showcases the stunning length of her legs. Buttery hair cascades down her back, and with her oversize sunglasses and sun-kissed skin, she looks like an incognito celebrity summering at the seaside while hoping no one will notice.
Everyone notices.
Not that Kate notices them back. She just measures out bites of funnel cake, as if tearing her guilty indulgence into tiny pieces will somehow vaporize half its calories.
“So.” She pops a tidbit into her mouth. “Am I ever going to see you again? I mean, I know we always said we’d move away after college, but I thought that meant to Seattle. I didn’t think you’d get on an airplane and ditch me completely.”
I swipe her next morsel of cake for myself. Something that’s thickening my arteries with a single bite has no right to taste so delicious, but the sugary greasiness makes me groan.
“Rude,” Kate says.
“I’m not ditching you.” I suck my fingertips clean. “And I’m not getting on an airplane for another month. You know you’re welcome to come hang out with me in Seattle ’til then. The house I’m staying in has two bedrooms.”
“That old lady’s house, you mean? The one who just died?”
I give her a significant look. “If byold lady, you mean my great-aunt Rosalie, then yes.”
Kate sniffs. “Oh, come on. She was ninety-three. That definitely counts as an old lady.”
I sigh, but know better than to expect delicacy. Kate’s about as delicate as a herd of stampeding buffalo. And to be fair, I only met my great-aunt Rosalie once. I don’t remember much more than her shouting orders at me to make fried-bologna sandwiches so she wouldn’t miss the faith healers on TV.
“It’s a house,” I say with a shrug. “And it wouldn’t cost you anything.”
Kate’s nose crinkles. “Didn’t she have like, eighty cats?”
“I’m pretty sure it was three.”
“Whatever. It probably stinks in there. Besides, what would I do while you’re busy listing her stuff on eBay all day?”
“Um...the usual Kate things? Make salads? Do absurd amounts of cardio?”
“Okay, that is halfway tempting.” She drums her fingers against her chin. “But what about when you jet off to Greece next month?”
That oh-so-casual question ripples through me, building toward either excitement or terror—I can’t tell which. “Then you could wave goodbye to me at the airport?”
“Gee.” Kate’s tone goes flat. “Wave to my best friend while she leaves me behind. Sounds awesome.”
I wince. “I told you, I won’t be in Athens forever. Just long enough to break a few hearts and get a really great tan. Then it’s back home to do real life.”
I don’t add that if I had my way, I’d hopscotch around the world for a year or three or ten. There’s no point in saying so, because there’s no way in hell my mother won’t force me to come home. It doesn’t even matter that I’m twenty-two. Protective is essentially her middle name. Or maybe Petrified.
Corrine Petrified Sutton. It does have a certain ring.
And honestly, I’m no less terrified myself. I’m still working up the courage to tell her I’m going abroad. I figure once I do, I’ll have three months of freedom, maybe four, if my courage and my bank account hold out that long.
“Why Athens, anyway?” Kate says. “It’s not like you speak Greek.”
“WhynotAthens? Give me one good reason. Besides the fact that I’m a stupid American who only speaks English.”
