Page 56 of Is This for Real?
A tear escapes.
I turn back to deciphering directions. We have to turn right in a hundred meters. If we miss this exit, there’s a good chance we won’t make the ferry. I really don’t want to walk in the rain. But I need to kill these feelings. He says he doesn’t want a relationship. I can do it.
I let us pass the exit.
“Ohh, that was the exit,” I say. “We need to take the next exit and go back.” I lower the music and put on the audio for directions.
The voice says, “Recalculating.”
“I’m sorry.” And I am. I shouldn’t have done that.
Rory says, “Don’t worry about it.”
We circle back around and get back on the route, but it’s time lost. The navigator says we will arrive with five minutes to spare. Now four minutes.
We are not talking, both just willing the car to make it in time, and I don’t want to interrupt Rory’s concentration.
I’m watching the clock as we’re stuck at a stoplight in Bay Shore. The navigator shows us arriving with a minute to spare.
We pull into the ferry terminal just as our ferry pulls out. We both sit there, stunned that we actually missed it.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. My stomach twists with guilt.
“It’s not your fault. I was late from work, and I took it slow in the rain.” Rory shrugs. “Is there a backup plan, or should we head back to New York City?”
He’s so reasonable. I’m almost annoyed that he’s so laid-back about this. The rain is still coming down.
Hesitantly, reluctantly, I reveal the backup plan. “We can park here and take a taxi to Field 5 and then walk two miles to the house. Over the beach. Or there’s a sand path.” At least there’s no lightning or thunder.
Rory nods slowly and, tilting his head, looks at me. “I once invited you to join me in a MUDder’s Day Run, and you said that wasn’t your thing.”
I laugh. Apt comparison. “Maybe I didn’t think that was challenging enough?”
“That must have been it.”
“I mean, we weren’t going to have to carry two-days’ worth of food and clothing,” I say. The one supermarket is closed in the off-season.
“And it wasn’t at night and in the pouring rain,” Rory says. “Well, let’s get some dinner at Nicky’s Clam Bar so at least we’re well fed. I’ll park the car.”
“Let me make sure we can get an Uber or taxi to Field 5 first.” I arrange a taxi and get a table in the front as Rory parks the car. Our luggage—one cooler on wheels, my suitcase on wheels, and Rory’s backpack—are stacked next to me. There’s no way we’re going to be able to wheel them through wet sand. But I’m not going to think about that now. If Rory can stay positive, so can I.
Rory comes in, wiping rain off his face, and hangs his dripping-wet jacket on the hook by the door.
“I hope they have hot soup,” he says as he sits.
“We should probably take some to go.”
“Nothing says beach vacation like hot soup and cold rain,” Rory says.
“I’m sure there’s an ad concept in there somewhere.”
“It’s certainly a new spin on the tried and true.”
We eat our clam chowder and fish and chips quickly; I don’t think either of us wants to be walking across the dunes at midnight. We take turns using the bathroom, and then we each pull on our still-soaked rain jackets. The taxi is outside, waiting.
“Terrible weather,” the driver says as we pile in. “Missed the last ferry?”
“Yes,” I say.
