Page 4 of Seashells and Other Souvenirs

“I’m nervous.” Elle pulled at the sleeve of my former dance recital costume as we waited under the stairs for our turn to grace the backyard basketball court turned stage.

“Don’t be.” Sutton applied another layer of sticky lip gloss and tucked the tube into the pocket of her glittery jumper. “We’re going to be fabulous. Just don’t forget your lines.”

It was the day before I turned nine and the night of my playwriting debut. The Henry Family Talent Show was a vacation staple, and this year, we had been preparing our act for months .

“But that’s what I’m nervous about,” Elle groaned.

Rebekah squeezed between Sutton and Elle. “You won’t forget, Elle. And if you do, just make something up. Or Alex can whisper the lines to you.”

I folded the script I was nervously studying even though I knew it backwards and forwards, the one I’d worked on since Christmas, painstakingly made three handwritten copies of, and mailed off to my cousins in February.

It included five short scenes based on characters from our favorite movies and a dance number to cap it off.

My cousin Sean’s saxophone solo ended and my Uncle Zack’s loud voice boomed, “And now, we present ‘Beauty and The Sea Beast!’”

“Here we go.” Rebekah adjusted her mermaid tail and led us in front of the sold-out crowd.

For the next handful of minutes, we told the dramatic story of Gail Scale, the merman’s only daughter who was destined to break the curse of the handsome octopus prince. We performed our little hearts out.

Aside from Sutton dropping the magical seashell once, Elle accidentally calling her Queen Sutton instead of Queen Starfish, and one slight wardrobe issue with a twisted tail, we were flawless.

We finished our dance with a flourish, breathless and beaming in our perfect ending poses. A standing ovation followed. Even the three siblings on the back deck of the house next door clapped furiously and whooped from their rocking chairs.

“Looks like we have a future writer in the family,” Uncle Zack commented as we exited the stage.

My heart swelled.

“So, anything you need as far as linens or toiletries will be in this closet. Laundry room is under the house. And obviously, help yourself to anything in the kitchen.”

We’re standing on the beige carpet outside the upstairs bedroom filled with the bags Jude helped me carry in from my car. The room clearly used to be Kelsey’s. Though the one next to it had a little more space, I couldn’t handle the idea of staying in Gavin’s old room.

“Anything else?” Jude’s hands find his pockets again. “I mean, I’ll just be downstairs if you think of anything.”

It’s starting to sink in how absurd and awkward this whole arrangement is, and the thought of spending the next several hours alone in this house with a practical stranger is making me sweat.

I pick at the chipped polish on my thumbnail. “You know, I was thinking I might make a quick run to the store. Stock up on some supplies.”

“Supplies?”

“Yeah. If you’re going to get the full experience, at the very least we’re going to need some vacation food.”

His body language relaxes and amusement dances across his features. “And that’s different from regular food, how?”

“Regular food is practical, balanced, reasonably . . . reasonable. Vacation food is all the junk you’re never allowed to buy or eat any other time of year. Trust me; it’s a thing.”

“Well, you’re the expert here. I’ll grab my shoes and keys.” He starts walking but turns back around, the slightly nervous kid I once knew emerging again. “Unless you wanted to go alone. I didn’t mean to invite myself.”

I laugh out loud. “Jude, I showed up on your front porch and somehow ended up staying here for the summer. You can ride with me to get groceries.”

“I’ll drive.” He smiles and disappears down the steps.

As he backs out of the driveway a few minutes later, I wonder aloud, “Isn’t it crazy that the last time I saw you, neither of us could drive yet?”

“Yeah, but you probably got your license the next week.”

I adjust my seatbelt and turn to face him. “I actually failed my test the first time.”

“Well, I’m glad I offered to drive then.”

“And I’m glad you feel like you still know me well enough to be mean to me.” I turn the radio on, but he immediately reaches to turn the volume down.

“I didn’t have a chance to ask about your family yet. What’s everyone up to now?”

“Hmm.” I tuck a stray piece of hair behind my ear. “Sutton is married now and has a little girl. She’s running a nonprofit from home.”

Jude chuckles. “I’d have guessed she’d be running a country by now.”

Not many people could get away with a comment like this, but when he says it, fondness laces his voice.

“You’re not far off.” I snicker. “But once she saw there were no openings for dictators, she found that motherhood suits her just as well. She still gets to boss someone around.” I cringe at the bitterness I can hear behind my words and hope Jude doesn’t notice.

“She always reminded me a little bit of Kelsey. What about Rebekah and Elle?”

“Rebekah just started a job as an ICU nurse. She’s a little overwhelmed, but I know she’s amazing at it.

She’s dating a new guy, but we haven’t decided yet if he’s good enough for her.

And Elle.” I pause to swallow down the sudden lump in my throat.

“Elle’s been studying abroad in Spain. She flies home the week before the reunion.

It’s been really weird having her so far away. ”

“I always wondered how you guys survived in different towns when you left the beach every year.” He’s pulling onto the bridge.

“Oh, hold your breath!” I instruct before gulping in a lungful of air.

“What?” He looks over at me.

I puff out my cheeks and widen my eyes at him until he complies.

The second he drives over the other side, I exhale loudly and he follows suit. “We always hold our breath when we cross the bridge. Congratulations,” I say. “You’ve just completed your first classic beach trip tradition.”

“Perfect,” he laughs. “I’ll add Bridge Breath Holding to the tourism brochure as soon as we get back to the house.” Turning left into the grocery store lot, he eases into a parking spot.

When we get inside, he frees a shopping cart and gestures to me.

“Lead the way, Al.” If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought it was just yesterday that we were riding in a crowded golf cart, listening to the radio, and ranking our favorite Christmas movies.

Any trace of unease melts away, and I’m convinced that this summer is going to be amazing after all.

I head straight for the cereal aisle.

“Starting right in the middle of the store, huh?” The cart’s wheels squeak as he strolls up beside me. “Are we going in order of meals here, starting with breakfast?”

“We’re not here for meals, Jude. We’re here for snacks.” I scan the shelves. “Except for breakfast food, which can serve as either a meal or a snack.”

“Should I be writing this down?”

“Here they are.” I proudly hold up the quintessential beach breakfast item, and Jude looks it over.

“But since you’ll be here all summer, wouldn’t it make more sense to buy a big box of cereal instead of eight little ones? It’s cheaper.”

I gasp. “You can’t put a price on tradition.”

He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Of course, of course. I didn’t mean that. But for my notes, what makes the little boxes special?”

“Tradition! Keep up, buddy.”

“Right.” He reaches for two more packs and tosses them into the cart. “Better?”

“You’re a natural.” I spin the cart around and take the helm. “Now, on to the snack cakes.”

After a thorough search of every aisle, we pull into the checkout line with a kitchen’s worth of junk food as well as a few actual meal essentials. “This should last us at least a week or two.”

Jude tries not to smile but fails. “Think we got enough cheese?” he remarks as he helps unload everything onto the conveyor belt.

“Impossible. But it will have to do.”

“You really like cheese, huh?”

“No, I LOVE cheese. It’s basically medicinal. Ask any one of my cousins and they’ll tell you that a cheese-based snack is scientifically proven to improve my mood by one hundred percent.”

“Noted.” He reaches for his wallet, but I step in front of him.

“This is my contribution, okay?”

He hesitates but eventually nods in agreement.

As we pack the trunk I ask, “Are you starting to wonder what kind of psychopath you just invited into your home?”

“Only a little bit.”

I have so many questions for him, so much to catch up on, but I know we have time.

We spend the ride back compiling a list of everything each of us can cook and which recipes include cheese.

The conversation flows freely, minus the forty-six seconds we hold our breath as we drive back onto the island.

“Okay, but what is your absolute favorite pizza topping?” he asks as he cuts the engine in front of the blue house.

I don’t even have to consider. “Pineapple.”

Silence.

“Jude Alford. Don’t tell me you don’t like pineapple on pizza.”

“It’s not that I don’t like it,” he hedges. “I’ve just never tried it.”

I cover my mouth and hang my head.

“Are you wondering what kind of psychopath you’ve just agreed to live with this summer?” he teases.

“Only a little bit.”