Discovering Delilah(2)

Ashley.

Ashley. Ashley. Ashley.

I even love her name. It’s feminine and confident, just like her.

After our parents died, everything about our Connecticut house, from the conservative neighborhood to the house itself, felt repressive, stifling. When Wyatt suggested that we come to Harborside after the funeral, I practically ran to the car. I met Ashley the first night after we arrived, at a gathering at our house, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her since. She came with Brandon, and I remember thinking that she was the prettiest girl I’d ever seen, then immediately pushing that thought away because I felt like, even dead, my parents could read my thoughts. Ashley and I clicked right away. When we decided to do shots, Jesse took everyone’s keys so no one would drink and drive. We have seven bedrooms, but that first night the downstairs beds weren’t made up yet, so Ashley slept on the futon in my bedroom. I think I spent the whole night staring at her.

I think about her all the time, count down the hours until I’ll see her again, and I swear when she’s around, gravity doesn’t exist. It’s really hard to stay grounded and focused around her, because I spend my time admiring her and wanting to touch her. Not even make out with, just touch, like when you sit with someone who’s funny and warm and smart and you want to be closer to them. That’s me with Ashley—although I also want to make out with her. God, do I want to.

My pulse quickens, and I shift in my seat. I can’t even think about her without getting all hot and bothered.

I guess I zoned out because the counseling session is over and everyone’s leaving. It’s late summer, and when I step outside, the cool evening air stings my cheeks and clears my head. I head down the concrete steps and start my short walk home to our beach house. When my parents died, my twin brother, Wyatt, and I inherited everything—the house in Connecticut where we grew up, the beach house here in Harborside, Massachusetts, where we’ve spent summers since we were kids, and the Taproom, the best bar and grill in town. We’ve been living here and running the bar for a little more than two months, and Wyatt and I finally decided to sell the house in Connecticut this fall. Too many ghosts in that house.

“Wait up.” Janessa jogs to catch up. “Are you okay? You seemed down tonight.”

“I’m okay, thanks. Just thinking.” We walk down the dimly lit residential street toward the lights of the boardwalk. Harborside is small enough to walk most places but still big enough that the outskirts of town are more secluded and less commercialized.

“Yeah, that’s kind of what this whole grief-counseling thing is supposed to do to us, right? Make us introspective and force us to deal with our feelings.”

I know Janessa lost a family member, but she was already attending the group sessions when I started, and she’s never said exactly who it was that she lost. I’m not about to ask. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in group, it’s that when people want to talk about their grief, they’ll bring it up.

“Yeah, I guess it is.”

“Want to grab a cup of coffee at Brooke’s Bytes?”

“Brooke’s is so crowded at night. How about someplace else?” I try to say it casually, but the truth is, counseling leaves me feeling uneasy, and the last place I want to be is near giddy teenagers in a boardwalk café. Not to mention that my friend Brooke owns the café, and I really just want to be away from people I know while I come down from group.

Janessa’s eyes drop from mine, linger around my mouth, then lift to my eyes again. Her scrutiny makes me nervous, but it feels good at the same time, and I’m not sure how to handle it, so I tuck my hair behind my ear to distract myself.

“Sure,” she says. “The Sandbar, over on Shab Row?”

The Sandbar is a pub, so I know we won’t be drinking coffee. Ashley is working at the surf shop tonight, and my other friends are just hanging out at home, which means I have no plans, and looking at Janessa all night is not a hardship, so I agree.

Shab Row is a quiet street with old-fashioned, bulbous streetlights on tall black poles, brick pavers, and only a handful of shops. Unlike the many commercial streets of Harborside, which boast bright signs and sidewalk displays, Shab Row is more subdued. The signs have muted colors of slate blue, maroon, and earth tones, and the most paraphernalia that I’ve ever seen outside are holiday lights on the wrought-iron railings lining the steps into the shops and pub.

The bar is dimly lit and nearly empty. We sit at a booth in the back and order drinks from a tall, slim waiter who looks like he wants to be anywhere but here. My phone vibrates and my heart skips a beat when Ashley’s name appears on the screen.