Page 7 of A Thousand Little Goodbyes

Chrissie felt her cheeks burn. The bright pink string bikini she wore left little to the imagination—and lots to the powers of gravity. “I couldn’t find mine, so I had to pack one of Kat’s. It was either this or a horrible white crocheted thing that Idefinitelydidn’t buy her.”

Scarlett’s laugh sounded again. “I know you didn’t. I did.”

“Scarlett!” Chrissie cried again, this time without either heat or surprise. Since Scarlett was also the source of Kat’s septum piercing, a brush with purple hair in the seventh grade, and a promised tattoo the day her daughter turned eighteen, Chrissie should have known that her friend wouldn’t balk at a buying a bikini that was literally holding on by a thread. “Do you have any idea what happens to white yarnwhen it gets wet?”

“Well, you’re not supposed to get itwet. It’s a lounging suit, not a swimming one. I bet she looks amazing in it.”

She did, but that wasn’t the point.Everyonelooked good when they were sixteen. Their skin still had all its elasticity.

“Here. Stand next to that towel rack and give me a pouty look. I think we should send Kat a proof-of-life photo.” Scarlett snagged Chrissie’s phone and gestured toward a cedar panel with puffs of steam billowing out from a grate on the floor. “And if she happens to realize her mom is a serious smokeshow in the process, so much the better.”

The last thing Chrissie wanted was to preen against the splintery side of the building wearing a bright pink piece of floss, but Scarlett started shouting out commands in a way that brooked no argument. As she also knew all the best ways to pose a half-naked body—Jut that hip! Show me a little cleavage! Run from the camera like it wants to bend you over the table!—Chrissie knew she’d get results. Especially since that last one made her laugh out loud.

“Oh, yeah. That’s the one.” Scarlett returned Chrissie’s phone. “I wish you’d laugh in pictures more. Even if you’re in your stupid sweatpants and Crocs, your laugh always makes you look like you belong on the cover of a fashion magazine.”

Chrissie sucked in a sharp breath as she glanced at the picture in question. With her hand on her hip and her head tossed back in laughter, the steam wrapping around her as if she’d just popped out of a genie’s magical lantern, she looked… What exactly? Confident? Beautiful? Sexy?

Happy, she realized with a start.I look happy.

“Uh-oh. What’s wrong? Did I give you a double chin or something?” Scarlett made a motion as if to grab the phone, but Chrissie snatched it out of her reach.

“No, it’s perfect,” she said, her lower lip wobbling—not in a sexypout, but with the sudden urge to burst into tears. If Scarlett had asked her, two hours ago, the last time she’d felt truly happy, she’d have had a half dozen replies ready to go.

Watching Kat’s volleyball team sweep the semifinals last month had been exhilarating. The one—and only—time Rufio had willingly crawled into her lap in a bid for affection had delighted her so much that both of her legs had fallen asleep under the cat’s reassuring weight. She’d even taken herself out to a movie last week when one of her regular massage therapy clients had canceled at the last minute.

But Scarlett would have roundly dismissed each of these claims as a paltry offering on the altar of self-sacrifice. And Chrissie, though prepared to defend her life choices in almost every other setting, would have eventually been forced to agree.

Here, however, was concrete proof that she still had joy inside her—and that with the right coaxing, joy was ready to come out and play.

“I’m sending it to Kat right now,” Chrissie said as she typed into her phone. “She’ll probably just text something back like, ‘Ew, now I can never wear that suit again,’ but that’s what the wine is for.”

No sooner had they gathered up their towels and headed out to the first of the hot-spring pools when her phone chimed back.

I know I said you didn’t have to pay me for taking care of Kat, but if this is how you plan to reimburse me, I take back every word.

“Oh-god. Oh-my-god. Oh-dear-god, what-have-I-done?” Each word came out of Chrissie in a staccato burst. Her hand shook as she shoved her hair out of her face and looked closer at the phone. Sure enough, the recipient of her photo wasn’t her sarcastic and wholly unappreciative teenager, but the man she’d basically coerced intotaking care of her.

“No, no, no,” Chrissie moaned. Scarlett opened her mouth as if to demand enlightenment, but Chrissie beat her to it. She shoved the phone in her friend’s face. “I can’t believe this. I sent the photo to Walsh instead of Kat.”

Scarlett’s gaze flicked up along the rest of the text conversation, most of which included last-minute reminders about feeding Rufio and a profusion of thanks for Walsh’s generosity—a thing Chrissie felt sure she’d never be able to repay, even if she were to send him a hundred semi-scandalous bikini photos.

“Wait. Walsh is the volleyball coach, right?” Scarlett asked.

“Yes.Yes.What do I do?”

Scarlett ignored her and scrolled higher up the conversation. “The one who has the crush on you?”

“He doesn’t—I mean, that’s not—Scarlett, you’re not taking this seriously!”

“The one who said three days ago, and I’m quoting directly from the source here, ‘I’m tempted to cast the girls to the wolves and drive across the country with you?’”

If Chrissie were a woman given over to acts of petulance, she’d have stomped her foot right then and there. As it was, all the petulance had been mortified right out of her.

“Ooh, wait,” Scarlett breathed. “He’s texting again.”

Chrissie’s hands were shaking too hard to take the phone back, so she leaned over Scarlett’s shoulder as the three dancing dots gave way to text.

By the way, I stopped by your house to feed Rufio like you asked. He seems lonely. Are you sure you don’t want me to move him in with us until you get back?