Page 53 of Somewhere in the Sunset

Weston’s voice takes me by surprise. I turn to him and we immediately lock eyes. Something tells me he’s been watching me for a while. “For what?”

“For asking me to come out here with you today. For last night,” he says softly. He touches my hand on the edge of the railing and suddenly it’s like we’re the only two people here. “For giving me the chance to prove Icantreat a girl right .?.?. But maybe you disagree. I don’t know. Do I?” He swallows nervously. “Do I treat you right, Gracie?”

“I can’t even imagine how you ever got it wrong.”

Weston’s smile has a hint of sadness. He wraps an arm around me and pulls me in close, and I snuggle up to him, resting my head against his shoulder. I still don’t know what we are. I can’t tell what’s real and what’s not anymore, and I’m too scared to hear the answer. That’s why I don’t ask the question.

I just enjoy the moment.

WESTON

How the fuck I get through my next three shifts, I have no idea. My sergeant has been incredibly understanding with me, pulling me to the side before and after each shift to check in on how I’m feeling. Even Bill has eased off on his strict training regime for the past few days and instead focuses on building up my confidence again. I take charge of each call we get dispatched to. I even get to drive the cruiser. He says, “Good job. You’ve got this,” a lot. But I’m not sure that I do.

When I wake on Monday after coming off my last night shift, I’m relieved to have three days off. The usual feeling of dread that hangs over my head during the lead-up to a shift is kept at bay for now. It allows me to relax, and I stay in bed for way too long, scrolling through my phone.

I’ve gotten into the habit of checking Gracie’s Instagram daily, and she posted another photo last night. Her second one on the account so far. I sent her the photos I took of her by the Golden Gate Bridge and they clearly aren’t ter-rible, because she’s posted one of those. In the picture, she’s laughing naturally, her coppery hair dancing in the breeze, and the caption reads:simply happy.

I love that she’s happy.

I stare at the picture much longer than I care to admit, because when my phone rings in my hand, it breaks me out of my trance. My dad’s calling.

“Hey, Dad,” I answer, sitting up in bed. It’s almost three in the afternoon, so I really ought to get up anyway. These night shifts always leave me so scrambled.

“Are you working today, bud?” Dad asks.

“No. Just finished a bunch of nights. What’s up?”

“I’m in the city,” he says. “Can you meet me? I’ve got something for you.”

Dad’s tone is often impassive and it makes me nervous. I never know if he’s calling with good news or bad news. I figure his calmness is built into his nature from decades on the force. He keeps himself hard and collected, my dad. That’s why I momentarily panic that he’s come to San Francisco bearing bad news. Then it crosses my mind that perhaps he’s performing a welfare check on me. Bill most likely reached out to Dad and told him about my traumatic shift.

“Sure .?.?. Where?”

“Well, do you want beer or do you want food?”

“Can’t I have both?”

“I’m paying, so no.”

“Then beer.”

I meet Dad at a bar in Fisherman’s Wharf. When he still lived here in the city, it was his favorite bar despite it drawing in nothing but tourists, but that’s what he likes. Striking up conversations with the tourists and bombarding them with his local knowledge and offering recommendations. He especially loves helping visitors figure out how to ride the BART system. That’s why today I grab us a table way in the back.

We order a couple beersanda plate of nachos.

“Don’t grumble about the prices when you drink at bars in tourist hotspots,” I tell him, pulling the nachos toward me. They’re overloaded with melted cheese, pulled pork, jalapeños .?.?. Mmm. “Remember that big house of yours? Remember the asking price you paid for that? Yeah. Don’t you dare whinge about buying your kid some nachos.”

Dad grins and plucks a nacho from the plate. “Don’t you want to know what I brought for you?”

“Let me guess: advice?”

“Nope,” he says. “Turn around.”

I crane my neck and find someone standing immediately behind my chair. They lunge forward and grab my shoulders, scaring the fuck out of me, so I don’t even realize it’s her at first. Why would I evenconsiderthe possibility of it being her? She’s been deployed in Kuwait for the past year. Why would she be here in San Francisco?

Dad chuckles, and I turn around fully in my chair. I stare at her wide-eyed until the shock wears off and my brain recognizes her face again after all this time.

“Peyton?” I splutter, shaking my head in disbelief. “Peyton!”

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