Mystic Summer (12 page)

Evan has chosen a little Thai place in Central Square for dinner. “No more pencils, no more books!” he'd said in a playful message that morning. Although it's only been a couple of days since I've seen him, so much has happened that he's missing out by default. There's a lot I want to talk about with him. As I tell the hostess I'm meeting someone for dinner, it feels like that
someone
is about a hundred miles away.

But he's not. Evan's sitting at a table for two, by the window. He stands as soon as he sees me, a grin spreading across his handsome face.

“Look at you.” He plants a soft kiss on my lips, and suddenly that distance closes by at least twenty miles.

“I've missed you.” I notice that he's wearing the blue checkered shirt I gave him for his birthday back in April, and the margin closes some more.

“I went ahead and ordered you a glass of Riesling. Goes great with spicy food, okay?” Before I can answer he hands me a menu. “Take a look at the curries. I'm thinking maybe the red one?”

“Oh. Okay, thanks.” Evan's efficiency always unhinges me for a few seconds, as I'm someone who likes to ease into things. But I can use some wine. We place our orders, for the red curry, a coconut soup, and dumplings as an appetizer.

“So, school is out and the world is your oyster. What are your plans, Maggie Griffin?” My grip on my wineglass tightens. I have no plans. What I do have is a trunkful of teaching supplies, an apartment lined with cardboard boxes that need to be filled, and an apartment search I have thus far been avoiding despite the fact that my days as a Back Bay tenant are ticking down.

The server brings our dumplings and I watch as Evan digs in. “I don't know,” I admit. “We're all heading to Mystic for the weekend to check out Erika's new wedding venue. Beyond that, I really don't have any big plans.” I take another gulp of Riesling. Summer vacation is the most eagerly anticipated time of year by teachers everywhere. It spells freedom and flip-flops and sand between your toes. And I finally understand why that sensation is so delicious: it's because it's fleeting. Up until now, every summer vacation has had an end date. A date when we must fold up the beach chairs and exchange our summer reading for textbooks. But not this year. This year my summer stretches out into the uncertain wide open, with no expiration. I don't know yet if Darby will be taking me back. I don't know where I will be living after August. Basically, beyond Erika's wedding and my mother's insistence that I come home to Mystic, I don't know what to do with my summer.

Sharon was wrong. Instead of feeling liberated, my lack of
plans begins to swathe me like a dark shroud. What I really would like is a weekend away with Evan. Preferably to a place void of school-age children, brides-to-be, and inquiring family members. A weekend in Cape Cod would be a good start.

“I was thinking we should get away for a weekend,” I say.

“I should have some time off in July.”

I stuff a dumpling in my mouth. July seems about as close as Siberia.

Evan studies me. “Since you're going to be in Mystic with the girls this weekend, why don't you stay awhile? Your mom has been asking you to. And you said, yourself, that you really need a break.”

True. But I was thinking of getting away with
him
.

“Besides,” he's quick to add, “I got my new script for the next episode, and I'm going to be tied up for the next couple of weeks.”

I groan. “Nights, too?”

Evan shrugs apologetically. “Sorry, Mags. It looks that way.”

I'm disappointed, but he's right, I really could use a week away. There are beautiful ocean beaches just a few miles from Mystic. And since the private schools get out a couple weeks earlier than the public ones, downtown Mystic wouldn't be crowded with throngs of tourists just yet. But I can't help but feel like Evan isn't missing our time together as much as I have been. Couldn't he at least ask me to hang around town? Or wrangle one measly night for us to get away together? Summer is finally here, and yet we have not one trip planned together. I stab another dumpling then dump it back on my plate. I've lost my appetite.

“Maybe I will stay in Mystic for a while,” I mumble. I look up at him to gauge his response.

But Evan is already onto something else. He sets his fork down and looks right at me. “I've been thinking.”

Those three words cause me to put my own fork down. “About?”

There are too many
somethings
he could be leading into. Erika would say,
Getting engaged?
Jane would say,
Breaking up?
Yet, as his girlfriend, I have to wonder at the fact that I have absolutely no idea what Evan is about to drop on me.

“You've been worrying about finding a new place after Erika moves out,” he says, finally.

I let out a breath. An apartment! “Well, technically, we're paid through the month of August, but yes, I need to start looking.”

Evan smiles uncertainly. “I was wondering, what if we moved in together?”

The restaurant has gotten crowded, and the couple at the table next to us is commenting loudly on their spring rolls. I lean forward to make sure I've heard him correctly.

“You want to move in together? To your place?”

He shrugs. “We could. Or we could look for a slightly bigger place. Somewhere between both of our jobs.”

Finally. Something good!

It's something that I'd been thinking quietly about all spring. But what if he thought it was too soon? What if he thought my wanting to move in together was just a knee-jerk reaction to my friends getting married and moving on? What if it was? And so I decided to wait a bit before bringing it up. And yet Evan has, happily, beaten me to it.

“I would love that!” I say, reaching quickly for his hand. Images of a classic brownstone flash in my head. I can just
picture us strolling along Newbury Street together on a Sunday morning, grabbing brunch at one of the restaurants. Or cozying up in a bookstore with a cup of coffee before popping into a market to pick up some dinner things that we'll cook together in our sun-filled two-bedroom with a balcony. I lean forward to kiss him.

But instead Evan drops my hand and pulls out his iPhone. “Good. Because I'm thinking that between our two jobs, the Beacon Hill area might make the most sense. I've looked at some listings and I think we could get a good deal—”

“Wait,” I interrupt. Evan looks up. “Before we talk leases, can we talk about us?”

Evan frowns. “Do you need more time to think about it?”

I shake my head. “No, no, it's nothing like that. It's just that this is exciting! It's a big step for us. Let's toast! Or something.”

“Oh, okay.” He lifts his glass and I lift mine. “To us. And our new apartment. Wherever that may be!” We clink glasses. “So, getting back to some of the listings . . .” Evan holds up his phone so that I can see the screen. “I've bookmarked a few for you.”

“But we still don't know where I'll be teaching next year, yet,” I remind him. “Maybe we should hold off on neighborhoods.”

“Most likely you'll be at Darby. I'm sure they'll work something out, right?”

I'm a little surprised by Evan's take on this. In fact, I'm somewhat irritated, both by the efficiency with which he is handling our big decision and by his casual sentiment about my uncertain employment—something I'm not feeling at all casual about, myself. I know he means to be positive, but it comes off as dismissive.

“I haven't heard a final decision from the board. But if they do cut my position, I could end up anywhere in Boston.”

Evan thinks about this. “But you do plan to stay in the metro area, right?”

He's missing my point. “School just ended. Why don't we spend tonight savoring our decision and worry about next steps after the weekend?”

Evan holds up both hands. “You're right, I'm sorry.”

The server returns and clears our appetizer plates. I take a sip of wine, trying to push away the sense of disappointment that has crept in. Moving in together is good news. This is something to look forward to.

“So, what's going on with the show?” I ask, switching the subject.

He looks relieved. “They've added more scenes for Jack,” he tells me. It still strikes me as funny to talk about his character as if he's a real person.

“That's great. So, is Jack becoming the lead male role?” I like to tease him about this.

“Nah, but the writers are thinking of ways for him to grow as a character,” he says, in his usual self-deprecating way. “I've been meaning to tell you, they've decided to make Angie's character a love interest. You know, to add a little spice.”

I nod, willing my expression to stay neutral. Beyond the red curry we just ordered, I don't recall Evan mentioning anything about
spice
.

“So, does that mean your two characters are an item?” A fictional match, I remind myself.

Evan shrugs. “Looks like it.” He looks at me apologetically. “But you know this is just part of the job, right?”

“Pure acting,” I say, to show that I agree. I get it. I'm cool with the fact that a model from last year's
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit issue will be dating my boyfriend on television.

Evan looks relieved. “Exactly. It's purely fictional.”

“So, when will
that
become part of the storyline?” I won't call it a relationship. Because it's not.

“Soon.” He looks down at his lap. “Uh, I just got the script today, and it looks like we have our first love scene next week.”

We
have a love scene. As if this love scene belongs to Angie and him, not to those oh-so-fictional characters we were just talking about.

“Is that so,” I say, this time working extra hard to keep my expression as impartial as I hope my tone is. But I can tell he's studying my reaction, and I know this is my chance to reassure him that I'm not going to let this become an issue.
God, I would suck at acting.

“Well, I can't say the thought of you making out with another woman is the best news I've had all day. But like you said, it's just work. Right?”

Evan looks relieved. “Exactly. There are about twenty other people on the set, with lights and cameras zooming in on every angle. Believe me, it's about as embarrassing as it gets.”

Every angle, I think. Which leads me to the next question blaring between my ears. “What exactly does this love scene entail?”

Evan looks pained, so much so, that I actually feel for him. “The first one is just some kissing. That sort of thing.”

“And the next?”

He folds his hands neatly on the table in front of him. “They have sex.”

Outside, the light has faded. The taillights of cars flash in the growing darkness of Mass Ave. Sort of like the cloud settling over our table. “But, it's not like you guys will actually be . . . ?”

“Naked?”

I wince.

“No, no,” he laughs, sitting back in his seat like this is actually funny. “Nothing like it. There's all kinds of coverage the cameras don't show. There're cover-ups. Oh, and tape.”

I take another gulp of wine.

Evan reaches across the table for my hand and squeezes it. “Can I just say how much I appreciate that you're okay with all this?” He's so grateful that I can't possibly ask what I want to ask. Like, how much tape are we talking? And, what exactly is being taped? The combined image of tape and Angie Dune brings something far more bondage than coverage to mind. Instead I force a smile.

“What a relief,” Evan says.

The server arrives. Between the steam of our coconut Thai soup bowls something else rises in the air. Jealousy? Fear?

“Would you like another glass of Riesling?” the server asks me.

I glance self-consciously at Evan's still-full glass. “Yes, please,” I say. What I really want to tell her is, “Make it a shot.”

I
t's a girls' weekend!” At least, that's how Erika's trying to sell it. Saturday morning finds the three of us heading down the Mass Pike, Erika and Peyton in Trent's BMW and me following. I've decided to go home for a couple weeks, after all. I can apply for jobs online anywhere. The only pressing thing for me to do in Boston is pack up the boxes in our apartment. The real estate agent called and said she has several showings of our apartment this week, and rather than dealing with cleanups and rushing out the door, I'd rather not be there at all.

So far only Peyton is genuinely excited about this trip. Erika is still worrying about the venue change. Which means that this is a working weekend, and my real “break” won't begin until they head back to Boston on Sunday.

“What's first on the agenda?” Peyton asks excitedly, when we stop off to grab iced coffees somewhere north of Providence.

“The yacht club,” Erika says. “We've got to meet with the club planner to talk food and setup. And all the colors have to be changed.”

“What happened to celadon and gold?” Peyton asks. “You
love those.” Erika and I exchange a look. Those were Peyton's wedding colors.

“I don't know. Nautical seems more appropriate, now that we're seaside. Don't you think?” Erika asks.

As the two debate the pros of blue and white stripes with a splash of lobster red, my thoughts wander. The farther away from Boston we drive, the more my thoughts drift back home to Cam.

And in no time we're sailing off Exit 89 and pulling into the village. As I trail them down Main Street, Peyton points to Mystic Pizza. I imagine she's asking Erika if that's the same one from the movie.

At the stop sign in front of the pizza place, Erika smiles back at me in the rearview mirror. I'm right. Every time we've brought out-of-town friends home, it was usually the first question we were asked. As teenagers we watched the movie nonstop, partly because we were suckers for all things Julia Roberts. But mostly because of the picture-perfect ending. The autumn leaves. The seashore. Small-town life. And despite all of it, Julia Roberts ended up with the ridiculously cute (if short) guy. These days Erika claims to have tired of the movie. But I still fall for it every time.