“I’m sorry, I didn’t bring anything.” She looked aghast. I needed to work on my caretaking skills. I should probably keep snacks with me when I was looking after her. “Come on,” I suggested. “Let’s head back to the house and get you some lunch.” We ambled in together. Her little hand in mine, I felt grateful for the gift of being an auntie.
After a quick bite, I showered and changed into a tank top and shorts. I slipped on a pair of sneakers and with no makeup, my hair pulled back into a simple ponytail, I was ready to go. How delightful to not be trying to impress or compete, no goal big or small to be striving toward. It was just me, heading into town to poke around a bit before I met up with Whitney later that afternoon. She’d invited me to join her for a drink and with nothing else going on, I’d agreed.
I grabbed a cruiser bike from our boathouse. We had far too many, kept in way too excellent condition for a house that mainly sat empty and rarely housed bikers. That was my mother, though. She had strict notions about the requirements for a beach house. All forms of recreational equipment needed to be at the ready at all times. You never knew when F. Scott Fitzgerald and company would stop by for lawn tennis.
I might roll my eyes, but I knew I had nothing to complain about as I set off on a well-oiled, perfectly inflated bike, heading down a path toward town. Traffic during peak tourist season was horrendous. It was far better to bike, feeling the wind in my hair and arriving in five minutes than sitting behind the wheel of a car, steaming and stewing for twenty. I knew I should wear a helmet and really I wasn’t trying to tempt fate, I just knew the path so well and it wasn’t far at all and really it had always seemed to me that certain rule didn’t apply on Naugatuck.
I’d hitchhiked on the island, something I’d never dream of doing anywhere else. I wouldn’t even do it again now at 25. But at 17 my friends and I had hitchhiked as a legitimate form of transit, hopping rides all the time to cross the island. We felt like we knew half the people there, anyway, and nothing bad had ever happened to us. Liam had told me that was stupid, though. I’d stopped hitchhiking the summer I was 18. He and I were together all the time anyway, and I could have sat in traffic for hours with him and not even noticed.
Crossing a small bridge over an inlet, I glanced down at the high tide. Over seven years the coastline had altered somewhat. Erosion had worn down the dunes and I noted the bridge had new concrete fortification. I wondered if Liam had changed, too. I knew, of course, he had. Seven years was a long time. But would it be a recognizable sort of change like that inlet, or a whole-scale, washed-away-by-a-storm change? And why was I wasting time thinking about it when I’d been the one to walk away?
I’d shut him down hard back in the day, as only an 18 year old could, too young and stupid to realize the rare beauty of what I was rejecting. I’d thought people fell in love like that all the time. As if maybe next month I’d feel exactly the same way about some new guy. The promise of professional dance, the opportunity I had waiting for me in a coveted spot in the New York Ballet Company, plus the vehement objections of my mother had persuaded me to turn him down.
My mother had flipped out when I’d told her our plan. Liam had wanted to come with me to New York while I studied ballet. It had been easy for me to dismiss most of her protests. I didn’t blame Liam at all for Ian’s injuries. Sure, they’d both been stupid and stolen a boat and gotten caught out in a storm, but that had been as much Ian’s doing as anyone else’s. And who cared that Liam came from the wrong side of the tracks? That never mattered to me.
Where she got me was when she told me it would be unfair to drag Liam off to New York City with me. I’d be busy all the time pursuing professional dance and he’d be a fish out of water. She told me that he belonged back in Naugatuck with his family and friends. He wouldn’t know a soul in New York. He wasn’t a city person and never would be. It wasn’t right to make him tag along on what was essentially my adventure.
Breaking hard, I stopped at a street to let traffic pass. I guess I should have expected some of these memories to return when I headed back to Naugatuck. It was why I hadn’t set foot on the island once in the past seven years. I’d wanted to come back, felt a deep yearning, a pull in my soul to the place and the man I associated with it. But I had discipline, maybe too much of it, and a seriously huge capacity for self-denial.
Because once I’d said no, I knew it wasn’t fair to Liam to waffle. He needed a clean break so he could move on and find someone else to love. Even though that made me feel like someone had kicked me swift and hard in the gut. But that’s what it meant to truly love someone, didn’t it? You had to let them go. That’s what I told myself when I lay awake at night thinking of him, then fell asleep only to keep doing the same in dreams. The worst thing I could do would be to call him, text him, show up on his doorstep asking for one more kiss. Even though I ached for it so damn badly sometimes I thought I was going crazy.
I could have given a heroin addict a run for his money the way I jonesed, obsessed, craved. I’d even made myself a chart, a box for each day. I told myself it would take one year to stop thinking about Liam. I just had to make it one day at a time. Each night I’d cross out a box telling myself time was the only solution. In time, it would hurt less and the truth of my mother’s words would prevail. Seven years later I’d stopped crossing off boxes, but I was still waiting for that magical day when it didn’t hurt anymore.
Arriving in the quaint downtown, I shook off the heavy memories and smiled at the charming stores around me. With cobblestone streets and gas lamps, it still looked like a little fishing village from the 1800s. White, purple and blue hydrangeas bloomed, brick paths wound around white picket fences and wooden benches beckoned with full water dishes at their sides for visiting doggies. It all felt like returning home. I couldn’t believe I’d stayed away for so long. Now that I’d come back, I never wanted to leave.
Locking my bike to a rack, I undid my ponytail and ran my fingers through my hair. What weather we were having, with sunshine and a light breeze. I sauntered down the sidewalk, enjoying recognizing the old stores and exploring the new. At a leisurely pace, I let my feet take me where they wanted.
Until, toward the edge of downtown, I stopped. The center wasn’t big, only about five square blocks total, and I’d reached a storefront at an outer corner. It stood apart in a detached two-story home, the lower story vacant. I remembered that in the past it had been a boutique with gleaming wooden floors and high ceilings. Peering in, I cupped my hands around my eyes to block out the sunlight.
Inside it was dim and hard to see, but I could make out the wooden floors. It looked like it had lain empty for a while. A dust ball the size of a small dog sat in the corner. I tried the doorknob. Of course it was locked, but I wanted to explore inside.
Sneaking along the side of the house, I tried a window but it was locked, too. I tried another window with the same result. At the back, I held my breath and tried that knob. Locked. Why hadn’t I ever learned how to pick a lock? I remembered seeing movies where people used credit cards or hairpins, but I had no such skills.
Frustrated and disappointed, I made my way around the other side, stopping at a large window to look in again. Behind my back was the ocean, so that meant if you were inside the studio you’d have a view of the water.
Studio. I turned the word over on my tongue, realizing I was imagining the space as a dance studio, just like Eloise had suggested that morning. The storefront could become a studio where I could teach dance, maybe working with little kids who hadn’t learned yet to hate and starve their bodies. Maybe I could teach them a love for classical technique, the lines and form of ballet without the harsh punishment for shortcomings?
Looking in, I could tell there was something about the space. Dusty and dormant as it lay, it also felt wide open. I could almost hear the floor planks creak under little feet as they moved, and I could picture a piano in the corner. What would it be like, teaching dance? Would I like it? Would I be any good
at it?
“Excuse me.” A family brushed past me along the walking path. I stepped to the side, then headed to the front again, already embarrassed that I’d seriously contemplated trying to break in. I snapped a quick picture of the realtor’s number with my phone. Maybe I’d give her a call and get some more information. Maybe I wouldn’t.
I hadn’t really been thinking about teaching dance until Eloise mentioned it that morning. Of course it was a natural and easy path for former dancers to pursue, but that was if they still loved dance and wanted to share that passion with others. Me? I’d been feeling like I wanted to get as far away from dance as I possibly could. I’d packed up all my toe shoes, leotards and tights, my hair nets, pins and gel, plus my leg warmers, wraps and ace bandages and put them all into storage. I hadn’t quite been ready to give them away—they’d been in my life every day for as long as I could remember—but I hadn’t wanted any of it anywhere near me anytime in the foreseeable future.
Next door, I popped into a coffee shop called Cuppa Joe. In the age of the chain store, I always liked checking out independent shops. This one felt homey and welcoming with a couple of couches and 70s funk playing in the background.
“What can I get you?” a friendly, round-faced woman asked at the counter. She looked about my age and vaguely familiar.
“A small black coffee, please.” Old habits died hard. Maybe I’d add some sugar afterward, but honestly I liked the taste of it plain when the coffee was good.
“Coming right up.” She turned to grab a small paper cup, but then asked, “Do I know you? You look so familiar.”
“Maybe,” I agreed. “I spent a couple summers here growing up. I’m Sophie Douglas.”
“Douglas…” The woman tilted her head in thought as she filled the cup with coffee. “Are you Ian’s sister?”
“Yes, you know Ian?” That hadn’t happened for a while. There’d been a time when everyone had known Ian. He’d been that charismatic kid everyone wanted to be friends with. Girls had started crushing on him early and by the time he’d turned 14 we’d practically needed to fight them off with riot shields. But then the accident had happened and everything changed.
“I knew Ian.” She nodded, seeming contemplative. “A while back. I grew up here, so.” She shrugged. “Anyway, how’s he doing?”
“He’s…” I looked at the counter, bumping up against my small talk block yet again. Maybe in another life I’d figure out how to bullshit and say what people expected, or at least what was required to smooth over stretches of silence.
“Sorry to hear that,” the woman supplied, helping me out. “I know he had it tough after he got injured.”
“Mmm.” I swiped my card, still not meeting her eyes. It wasn’t that I was ashamed or even awkward about my brother’s struggles. It was that it felt too raw and personal to discuss it, as if I were airing his private pain for others to dissect. He wouldn’t like me talking about him, I knew that much.
“Anyway, I’m Regina.” She handed me my coffee with a disarming smile. “Good to meet you.”