Brooke sets her beer firmly down on the bar. “I’ll probably regret saying this in the morning, but I had something of a celebrity crush on you.”
“On me?” Jake knows he sounds surprised, though he’s aware there was a small part of the female electorate across the country who turned a Jake McCloud crush into a thing. (There had been an article in The Cut entitled “The Very Real Sex Appeal of Mister UDG.”) At nearly every event Jake did on behalf of his wife, someone would slip a note to him or brazenly approach his security detail, asking for a “private meeting.” Jake always told Ursula about these overtures and when she could spare a few moments of her attention, she would pat his cheek and say, “I’m well aware how appealing you are, the adoring, devoted husband, handsome and well-spoken, and I’m grateful.” This patronizing response had stoked Jake’s resentment—Ursula only cared about how Jake’s persona reflected on her—but Jake had continued to be up-front about every woman who approached him, in the name of propriety.
Brooke says, “You’re the executive director of the CFRF. And my nephew, Charlie…” She stops and her eyes shine with tears. “We lost him to cystic fibrosis a few years ago.”
“I’m so sorry,” Jake says. “And I didn’t mean to be flip when I said everything works out the way it’s supposed to. In my business, I know that’s not the case. How old was he?”
“Twenty-six,” Brooke says. “He was my sister’s only child.”
“That’s so difficult,” Jake says. “I lost my twin sister to CF when we were thirteen.”
“I know,” Brooke says. “I read the profile of you in Time. I just want you to know how grateful I am for all the work you’ve done, the money you’ve raised for research. You became my sister’s personal hero.” When she blinks, a single tear rolls down her flushed cheek. “I can’t believe I’m talking to you here, at the Chicken Box.”
Jake wants to take the conversation in a lighter direction, but how? He has no experience talking to women like this, as evidenced by the fact that Brooke is now crying. “Do you live here year-round?”
“I do,” Brooke says. “I teach English at the high school.”
“You…what?” Jake says. He feels a surge of energy course through him. “Did you know my friend Mallory Blessing?”
Brooke’s face drops. “I only knew of her,” she says. “Dr. Major hired me to replace Mallory.”
Before Jake can react—this is Mallory’s replacement?—Cooper appears, sweaty and grinning.
“Why’d you leave?” he asks Brooke. “Band’s just getting started.”
“I was thirsty,” Brooke says. She looks between Cooper and Jake. “Do you guys know each other?”
“Best friends,” Coop says. He lifts one of the unclaimed Coronas off the bar and takes a swallow. Coop looks at Jake. “Brooke is here with Mallory’s friend Apple. It’s Apple’s birthday.”
Whoa, Jake thinks. It’s a small island. He listened to Mallory talk about Apple for years and years—her best friend, the guidance counselor at the high school, married to Hugo, mother of twin boys who might be in high school or even college by now. But Jake never met Apple and Apple doesn’t know Jake exists.
“I’m sure Apple is wondering where I’ve gotten to,” Brooke says. She offers Jake a tentative smile. “Want to join us on the dance floor?”
Jake knows the fun, good-sport answer is Sure, why not? But dancing up front at the Chicken Box is too far out of his comfort zone.
“You kids go have fun,” he says, and he feels only the slightest pinch of regret when Cooper takes Brooke by the hand and leads her away.
When the lights come on and the bell rings for last call, Jake wanders through the bar, weaving around couples making out, taking selfies, drunkenly debating where to go next, until he finds Coop standing with Brooke near the exit. The three of them step out into the warm, dark night.
“We closed the Box!” Coop says.
“A dubious distinction,” Brooke says. “Especially if one of my students finds out.”
“Brooke is a high school English teacher,” Cooper says. “She was hired to—”
“Yes,” Jake says. “She told me.”
“That’s crazy, right?” Coop says. “So should we go get pizza?”
Brooke laughs. “I’m afraid I have to call it a night.” She twirls her braid and looks up at Jake in a way that seems meaningful. “It was nice to meet you guys. I hope to see you both on Sunday.”
“What’s Sunday?” Jake says.
“Apple is hosting a beach picnic at Fortieth Pole,” Brooke says. “She invited you both.”
“We’ll be there,” Coop says. “Let me walk you to your car.”
“I’ll be fine,” she says. “I’m just across the street.” She looks at Jake again. “It was nice meeting you guys.” With that, she slips across the street and both Coop and Jake watch her until she disappears.
“Is it Sunday yet?” Coop says.
In the morning, Jake tiptoes out of his room so as not to disturb Coop, who is sprawled across the big white sofa that Mallory had nicknamed Big Hugs. Jake pours himself a cup of coffee—it’s the Frayed Edge Platinum that Fray brought as a gift, which was an excellent surprise because it retails for $45 a pound—and steps out the back door to tie up his running shoes. Thanks to the wine, the beers, and the late night, Jake’s head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton batting, but the morning is clear, with just a hint of coolness in the air—autumn is coming—and Jake doesn’t want to waste another second sleeping. Back when he used to visit Mallory, he would only sleep a few hours per night. The rest of the time he would spend watching Mal, memorizing her face, drinking her in—and yet he was never tired. He always left the island with his emotional batteries recharged. Perfect love existed, he would think. It existed here on Nantucket.
He sets his cup of coffee on the porch railing and listens to his joints pop as he touches his toes. Then he sets off running down the no-name road, which meanders along Miacomet Pond.
He heads all the way out to Surfside Road, then loops around to the other side of the pond and only then, when he’s hot and sweaty and parched dry, does he realize he’s come too far. He can’t get back to Mallory’s cottage this way without a significant beach walk. This, however, will be shorter than retracing his steps, so he sits on a rock to take off his shoes. He becomes mesmerized by the clear green water lapping at the muddy shore. Is he thirsty enough to drink a handful of pond water? No, but close.
He’s just about to head up over the dunes to the beach when he sees a woman walking a Bernese mountain dog, holding the dog’s leash in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. She looks like a goddess from a Greek myth.
“Hey!” the woman calls out. Jake wonders if he’s trespassing.
When she gets a few steps closer, Jake sees that it’s Brooke. Her hair has been let out of its braid and it’s long and wavy under a navy-blue Nantucket Whalers baseball cap.