“What are you thinking about?” he said, gesturing for her to step first onto the sand.
She kicked off her sandals and set them to the side. How should she answer that? Surely she wouldn’t say she was thinking about him, although that’s exactly what she’d been doing. She walked down to the water and let the swelling sea foam float over her feet. “Nothing,” she finally said as he walked up behind her.
“You’re in your head too much.” He playfully shook her shoulders. “Loosen up!” he smiled.
She bent over and picked up a seashell no bigger than a quarter, just as the tide washed over her fingers, taking the sand off the shell for her. One side was ridged and white, rough like the sand, but the other side was smooth like a pearl and iridescent pink and purple in color. She ran her finger along the smooth side. She’d seen hundreds of these shells as a kid, she’d even collected them, but she’d never stopped to take in their beauty.
Like her, the shell seemed to be perfect on the outside: strong, flawlessly shaped. That’s how it’s judged, by its exterior; nothing could penetrate it or mark it. But on the inside, as she turned it to the light, there were an infinite number of colors, all of the shades blending with one another. It was hard to pick out exactly what color was inside. She’d chosen the life she wanted for herself, and so had Pete, but it didn’t stop the colors from running into each other, from blurring, going round and round, just like her shell. She slipped it into her pocket.
Pete gently tugged at her arm and she turned around. “I’m sorry about what I said earlier about you not being a family person.” He looked straight into her eyes and she could tell he was genuinely sorry. “It must be weird to be back with your mom.”
She nodded. “It is strange being back. I feel like I don’t fit in here. I’ve always felt that way.”
He took in a large breath and blew it out through pursed lips, seemingly contemplating something. Then he said, “Do you remember Catherine’s swing we used to play on? It’s just down the beach.”
“Of course I remember. I ran into Catherine in town. Do her parents still live there?”
“Yeah. Why don’t we go and take a look at that swing?”
Libby walked along the beach, taking in the cottages one at a time as they passed them, thinking about how different the landscape was now that she was an adult. Some of the smaller houses had been torn down for larger ones, and some of the ones that had been lovely as a child were now run down and in need of upkeep.
It was so interesting to see things through the eyes of an adult. There were so many more factors involved now. Cottages weren’t just pretty; they were outward expressions of pride and care and investment, years of work. Like relationships. When they were kids, Libby and her friends just coexisted, swinging on tire swings, drinking lemonade, running in the woods. They didn’t have to work at social exchanges or pay attention to codes of ethics. They just were. But she had been taught to pay attention to the code, not to let the freedom of summer overwhelm her need to focus on her path for success. Watching Pete and her friends as a child, she was able to see a little of that summer magic, even if she hadn’t entirely known it herself. As an adult, the magic of the summer wasn’t there at all. It was yet another set of days to do work and live life.
After a few minutes’ walk, she could see the old swing still hanging from a branch high up in the tree. The beach under it seemed smaller now, narrower. She walked up to the tire and gave it a push, her memories moving with it. She’d been terrified to get on it, but Pete always talked her through it, and after she did, she was glad that he’d helped her to enjoy herself.
“Let’s have a swing like we used to,” Pete suggested.
“What?”
“Hop on.”
“We can’t. We’ll break it!”
“No we won’t. Look at the size of that branch! It’ll hold us. Watch.” He stepped up onto the tire, his feet inside the center, and held on to the rope. “Get on the other side,” he said.
Libby was still afraid it wouldn’t hold them. But she wanted to step out of her world for a minute and go back to a time when standing on a tire with Pete had been a perfectly normal reality. Carefully, she wedged her foot between his and, with a quiver, put her other foot on the outside of his foot. The rope was strong in her hands, her fists rubbing against his, their faces only inches apart.
“See?” he smiled. Then, with one foot, he stepped down and pushed off the ground, sending them wobbling toward the woods. He kicked against the tree to get them going.