Page 22 of Seashells and Other Souvenirs

Part of me was buried with her

But parts of her lie buried in me

“She told me she was proud of me once,” Jude says.

I pull the last cookie from the foil and set it on the plate in front of him. “Who?”

“Your grandma.”

“What?” I try to be patient as I watch him pick up a cookie and take a bite. But the prospect of a story I’ve never heard before about Grandmama is too much. “When?”

“The summer before eighth grade. Auditions for the school play were always at the end of the summer, a fact that would have normally meant absolutely nothing to me. But I’d heard they were doing Little Women and was seriously considering auditioning for Laurie.

” He passes me a cookie, but I’m only hungry for more of this memory.

“Rather than just reading lines, they made everyone memorize a passage to perform for the audition. It was the scene where Laurie proposes to Jo.” He shrugs.

“You’d have thought I’d have an edge because I knew the character so well, but I couldn’t decide if I should go more book-Laurie or movie-Laurie.

And I couldn’t get the lines down. I would sneak out super early in the morning to practice under the house; I knew Gavin would never let me live it down if he heard me.

Anyway, that morning I had run through the thing a couple times before I finally felt good about it.

And when I turned to go inside, I heard clapping from under the house next door.

And there was your grandma, sitting on the porch swing with a Bible in her lap.

She said I sounded great and that she hoped I got the part. ”

He pauses, and I lean forward, desperate for him to keep talking about her.

“I told her I wasn’t sure if I was going to go through with the audition,” he continues. “She asked if she could give me some advice.”

“What was the advice?” How many times have I wished I could hear just one more piece of Grandmama’s advice?

“If you want something badly enough, it’s worth taking a risk.

” He notices my eyes filling and passes me a napkin.

“I told her that was what I needed to hear, and that I was going to sign up for my audition as soon as I got inside. And that’s when she said it.

‘Well, young man, whatever happens, I’m proud of you.

’” He studies the counter. “It wasn’t something I heard often, so it meant a lot. ”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “She always made sure we saved some of her famous cookies for you guys, you know.”

“She only saw us one week a year, but she always made us feel special. I think she probably knew we needed it, felt sorry for us.”

“No. I think she just loved you guys like we did.”

“Did?” he jokes.

“Do.” I laugh and hand him another cookie. He turns it over in his hand.

“Hey, can I show you something?” He sets the cookie down, opens the laptop beside him, and starts typing. I walk around the counter to join him. I’m expecting to see a proposed change to Ty’s website, but it’s a job listing that fills the screen.

“Finally insisting I get a job and start pulling my weight around here?” I question as he pushes the computer over. I take in the island’s city logo at the top of the webpage and scan the words “Community Outreach and Events Manager, Full Time.”

“It’s sort of everything I want to do,” Jude explains, “without having to reinvent the wheel by starting my own business. And I could still help Ty if he wanted me to, maybe even steer some more tourists his way, create some kind of official promotional partnership with the city or something.”

In typical Jude fashion, he’s obviously spent a lot of time thinking this through, figuring out how it will affect not only himself but the people around him; it’s one of my favorite things about him. I scroll through the list of job responsibilities. “Jude, you’d be perfect for this.”

“Yeah, but it will still be a few months before I get my degree. And even then, it’ll be in business, not hospitality.” He frowns. “And they prefer experience.”

“You have experience. You’ve been running Ty’s surf company.

And you’re working in several tourism industries right now.

Besides, I can’t think of anyone better to represent this island than someone who’s lived here his whole life.

You have to apply.” I sound like Sutton.

“Sorry. What I meant to say was, whatever you decide about this, you have my support.”

“No. The first thing was what I needed.” He studies the screen as if he’s not read the information multiple times, though I’m sure he has. “You really think I have a chance?”

“Absolutely. And like my grandmother would say—”

“If you want something badly enough, it’s worth taking a risk?”

“No.” I look him straight in the eyes and hope that he hears every ounce of sincerity in my voice. “Whatever happens, Jude, I’m proud of you.”

“This one’s kind of cool.” He stops flipping through the binder of designs and points to the page that lies open on the store counter.

“No! You can’t show me. It’s got to be a surprise.”

“Right.” He resumes his page turning. “Any other rules?”

“It needs to be something meaningful. To you. Something that represents an aspect of this particular summer that you want to memorialize.”

“Hmm. This feels like a lot of pressure.”

“That’s because it’s your first tattoo. It’s normal to be nervous.”

The man behind the counter who’d earlier introduced himself as Big K clears his throat. “You do know this is just henna, right? It’s not permanent.”

“Don’t ruin this for us, Big K. We want the full tattoo experience.”

He holds up his hands in surrender. “Yes ma’am. Let’s get you guys inked up. Who’s first?”

“Me,” Jude answers right away.

I survey the rows of T-shirts and beach towels and handmade jewelry. “I’ll look around until you’re done, and then we can switch.” I rest a hand on his arm and say in mock solemnity, “You can do this. Be tough.”

Big K snickers as I walk away.

Half an hour later, we step outside into the sunshine, and Jude says, “Okay, let’s see what you got.”

I balance on one foot as I turn my ankle to show him the still-raised shape of a tiny crab. “To remember my narrow escape the other night.”

“It’s perfect. I thought about getting a broken flashlight.” Jude grins. “We would have matched.”

“So what did you decide on? It has to be good if it beat out the flashlight.”

He gingerly pulls up his sleeve, taking care not to bump the drying art, to reveal the outline of a tiny cereal box.

A sound of unfettered happiness bubbles out of me, and I open my phone to take a picture.

“So it’s better than the flashlight? You like it?” Jude asks.

“Way better.” I snap the photo. “And I don’t like it; I love it.”

It’s late when I finally finish strategically skirting Sutton’s questions via text and tell her my last lie of the day. I should get some sleep. Goodnight.

When I get down to the kitchen, Jude’s laptop is open on the counter, but he’s not behind it.

I grab a drink from the fridge and pull open the drawer to retrieve my notebook.

There’s a loose piece of paper tucked into the spot where I left off.

I unfold it and read the neat but distinctly masculine handwriting.

Someone once told me that

The human body is sixty percent water

And that my sixty percent is

Probably mostly ocean water

Because when you live next to the sea

It starts to live inside you

Maybe that’s why

I spent sixty percent of my childhood

On the edge of this island

Dreaming of leaving it behind

But never could do it

And why the waves within me

Can only be calmed by the ones without

And why I fear if I ever lose the ocean

I might just lose most of myself

When I look up from the page, he’s standing on the tiled floor, watching my face, waiting.

“You lied to me,” I whisper.

His vulnerable countenance morphs into confusion. “What?”

“You said you weren’t a writer.”

His fingers flutter to the arm of his glasses. “I’m not. This is just . . .”

“Beautiful. And I feel really special that you let me see it.” I smooth the page out. “Can I just make one tiny suggestion?”

He walks over to the counter and sits on the stool beside me. “Sure.”

“Will you copy it into the book?”

He stares at the notebook I just placed in front of him. “Alex, this is your book.”

“Maybe it’s not just mine though.” Why am I the nervous one here? “I’ve been thinking that there’s no way I’m going to be able to fill all these pages by the end of the summer. Maybe I’m not supposed to?”

He picks up the pen, lets it hover above the paper, and finds my eyes. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

I watch as he slowly tattoos the page, and—while I try not to scrutinize the thought too closely—I’m vaguely aware that something between us has just shifted permanently.