Page 45 of The Beachgoers
sixteen
— Then —
10 Years Ago
That Same September Week
The Ring
IN THE QUIET CONNECTICUT TOWN of Westcreek, a car pulls into the parking lot of a two-story, wood-framed building. Hanging beside the building’s front door is a burgundy-and-gold sign:Reed and Reed, Attorneys-at-Law. There’s an apartment on the second floor, above that law office. There’s also a young guy standing at one of the apartment’s open windows. Right when that car turns in, he backs up a step. He’s tall, and crosses his arms as he leans against the wall, unseen, right there. The evening is still, so noises carry: passing traffic on the road; that now-parked car’s doors slamming; voices of a woman and older man getting out of the car.
The guy standing in shadows at the window dips his head and listens.
“Thanks for the ride, Dad,” the woman in the parking lot says. “I’m still too shook up to drive myself.”
“That’s okay, honey.” Her father is busy lifting empty cardboard boxes out of the car’s trunk.
“I’m just going to pack up a few things I kept here at Kyle’s. It’s time to bring them home.” The woman takes one of those boxes in her arms. “Everything’s done.”
“Well, you call me if you want me to pick you up later,” her father insists. “It’s a long ride from here.”
“I’m all set, Dad. When I called Kyle earlier, he said he could drive me back.” They walk to the building’s side entrance, which opens to a staircase leading to the second-floor apartment. “He knows I’m just loading the rest of my stuff. Clothes, hairbrushes. Some belongings.”
“You sure about this, Lauren?” her father asks as he holds the door. “Moving your things back home? Maybe it’s too soon.”
She hesitates, the woman, as she shifts the empty box in her arms and begins climbing the narrow stairs to the second floor. “We broke up, me and Kyle. It’s over between us. So I have to finish things now,” she says with a glance behind her. “But I’ll see you and Mom later tonight, when I’m home for good.”
“Do you want me to come in?” her father asks as he makes a second trip up the stairs with more empty boxes. He stacks them on the landing outside the apartment door. “Would it be easier for you?”
Lauren shakes her head. After she does, her father nods, gives a slight wave and turns to leave.
She waits there, then. Just stands there wearing a lace cami over her fitted tee. A wide leather-and-coin belt is slung on her low-cut bell-bottoms. Her long blonde hair is twisted in a messy bun this warm evening.
What she doesn’t know is that Kyle waits, too. He stands on the other side of the door. His head is dropped; his hand is on the doorknob. Once Lauren’s father is outside again, leaving her alone on the landing, she knocks on the wooden door.
* * *
Things change when Kyle opens that door and Lauren walks in carrying a cardboard box. There’s some awkwardness between them—a discomfort Lauren did not have with her father. Kyle motions her in and hefts the other three boxes off the landing. He carries them through the kitchen, down a short hallway to a bedroom and leaves them on the bed.
Lauren inhales an aroma in the kitchen. “Are you cooking something?” she calls out.
“Chicken thighs,” Kyle says as he walks back into the kitchen. He’s wearing a black tee over wrinkled cargo shorts. Beat-up boat shoes are on his sockless feet, and those shoes scuff along the floor. Kyle bends and opens the oven to check the food. “They’re just about done.”
“Oh.” Lauren backs up a step. “Well. I won’t keep you. I can just get my things and leave. My dad drove me over.” She quickly looks out the window and sees her father’s car still parked below. “Oh, good. He’s still here. Let me go down and tell him I need a ride.” She turns on her heel and is almost to the door when Kyle’s voice stops her.
“Wait.” Kyle says it over his shoulder before pulling two pans out of the oven—one of chicken, one of sliced-and-roasted potatoes. He turns off the oven, too, and lifts a serving platter from a wire shelving unit in the corner. “Stay for dinner.”
Uncertain, Lauren takes it all in as Kyle grabs tongs and lifts the crispy chicken thighs to that platter. What she’s seeing is two place settings of chipped dishes and faded flatware arranged on the old Formica-top table. She’s seeing the two paper napkins, and two drinking glasses. Seeing the slices of white bread set on a plate near the toaster.
Seeing Kyle watchinghernow when she looks over at him standing at the stove.
“Just stay for dinner,” he says again, hitching his head toward the small table.
“Kyle.”
“Come on.” With a spatula, he lifts the roasted potato slices and spreads them around the chicken thighs on the platter. Reaches into a cabinet near the stove, too, and grabs a jar of parsley flakes—which he sprinkles onto the chicken. “The food’s ready,” he says as he first presses that sticking cabinet door closed, then mixes some olive oil into a pot simmering with canned beans.
“I don’t know. It’s not right.” She catches a glimpse out the window of her father’s car pulling into traffic, then gives a small sigh. “It’s just not right.”
