Page 10 of The Words We Lost

Inspired by the sight, I fisted a handful of sand and plucked out the colored pieces of pebble-like glass one by one.“My dad says this is what happens when sadness and saltwater meet. It creates ‘ocean tears.’ He’s called them that since I was young.”I dropped a nickel-sized piece of garnet-colored glass into Cece’s open bag.“He says the ocean is the only place big enough to hold all the sorrow in our world.”

I’d expected Cece to smile at the nickname and then continue on around the bend, but instead, her brilliant blue eyes misted, her voice cracking as she spoke over the soundtrack of rolling waves.

“My mom always says God sees every tear we cry—that He collectsthem in a bottle. And I guess, when I think about it, it makes sense that God would use the ocean as His bottles.”She faced the water then and waved her hand over it like a magician setting up their final act.“What if all our tears are out there somewhere, tumbling around in the surf, just waiting for their chance to become something beautiful?”

I hadn’t answered her then, but I never stopped hoping she might be right.

When the ferry makes her final push for the Bremerton terminal, I trade the last remnants of this memory for a reality that’s becoming as clear as the journey ahead of me. When an automated voice crackles an announcement over the speakers for drivers to gather their belongings and return to their vehicles to await further instruction on exiting the ferry ramp upon our embarkment, I allow myself a parting glance at the Pacific. And then, with determination in my step, I head to the bottom of the ship to locate my rented Prius and make the drive back to my past.

5

Just over an hour later, as the sun is beginning to make its descent, I roll up to the fence bordering Cece’s daffodil-yellow, A-frame cottage and idle in front of a security gate I didn’t even know existed until Joel texted me the entrance code. For as often as Cece had Facetimed me with her latest furniture finds and renovation updates, she’d never mentioned this addition to her property. Of course, I can understand why extra security measures might have been encouraged. After all, she was a single woman living alone, one whose private life had been catapulted into the public eye the moment her debut novel appeared on every bestsellers list.

I punch in the four-digit code and wait for the electric gate to slide open before I pull through and drive past the detached single-car garage to park at the bluff’s edge. It overlooks a secluded, nameless beach, one we’d combed dozens of times together in summers past. I exit the car and take in the surroundings for the first time.

The early evening sun sits bright in a near cloudless sky and my breath catches at the one-hundred-and-eighty-degree view of the Strait of Juan De Fuca and the pocket-sized islands to the southeast. I squint at a cruise ship headed in from Victoria, British Columbia, and marvel at just how different this all looks in person than on a tiny, handheld screen.

Much like with my hair, the sea breeze tangles my emotions intoa twist as I’m absorbed by memories of the day Cece FaceTimed me her good news.

“Guess what just happened?”Her blond curls had bounced in the frame of my phone screen as she waved a piece of paper in her fist.“I just made a down payment on the cottage—the one on our bluff! And if things go as well as you and Barry project with these first two books, I should have enough to start renovating it by spring. Mom’s already making me a vision board.”She rolled her eyes and laughed.“She thinks we can save the floors. As long as we can dry them out, they should have this gorgeous driftwood-like finish.” She released a giddy shriek.“Can you believe it, Indy? I just bought my dream house, and it’s all because you forced Barry to read my first draft! Maybe instead of a book, I should just dedicate this entire cottage to you instead!”

I twist now to scan the quaint cottage to my left, the one Cece had called her “dream house.” Once an abandoned shack ravaged by storms and neglect and entrapped by thorns and thistles, Cece had seen something in this property that nobody else had. It was a gift she’d come by honestly, and one that didn’t stop at foreclosed properties.

As I cross the pavement to the cottage, I startle at the sight of a Campbell Hotel club car parked under the shade of a maple tree in the side yard. How long has that been parked here? And where is the driver? Or perhaps a better question is—whois the driver? I run my fingers through my windblown hair and straighten my top. It wasn’t that I hadn’t expected to see Joel; I just hadn’t expected to see him until tomorrow.

Random cleaning supplies and grocery bags peek out from the flatbed at the rear of the miniature vehicle. I slide my gaze from the open driver’s door to a side entrance of the cottage, which has been propped open with a sturdy box of Grape-Nuts.

I lean into the kitchen and call out, “Hello?”

But the only reply I hear is in the form of a Taylor Swift song with a distinctly female vibrato. I recognize the lyrics about a lost first love immediately.

“Hello?” I try again, creeping into the entryway.

Cautiously, I trail through the narrow, galley-style kitchen I’ve glimpsed dozens of times while Cece made her morning coffee or popped her favorite brand of popcorn in the evenings. The walls are painted a soft, buttercream yellow, with cupboards refinished in crisp white to match the beadboard ceiling overhead. I touch the matte black hardware she went back and forth on for weeks until I finally convinced her to flip a coin. I wish I could tell her it was the perfect choice.

I wish I could tell her a lot of things.

A vase of wildflowers sits on the butcher-block countertop, and when I skim the petals with my fingertips, a sense of wrongness settles between my ribs. Cece would have reveled in the role of tour guide. I push away the thought before it gains any real traction.

As the mystery singer belts a new Taylor Swift song throughout the cottage from an undisclosed location, I step into the quaint living area, noticing the hardwoods for the first time. I smile at their driftwood-like charm she described. Looks like Wendy had been right about drying them out.

Just as I reach the far living room wall made up entirely of windows, a scream splits the air. I jump and scream back, throwing my hands above my head, ready to drop into a full duck and cover when—

“Oh my gosh! It’s you! You’re here!” A girl not much over the age of twenty squeals at the top of her lungs as she rips out her earbuds and hops up and down as if she’s just stepped on something sharp. “You’re Ingrid, and you’re here!”

Before I can even attempt to lower my heart rate, she’s velcroed herself to me with the kind of hug one might extend if they held proof of a matched blood relation. Which is more than implausible, considering her blond-brown hair and aqua eyes. Not to mention the fact that she’s roughly as tall as Chip, who claims to be one pair of basketball high tops over six feet. As quickly as she appeared, she pulls back, the momentum swooshing her ponytail to the opposite shoulder.

“Um, hello?” I respond, unsure which kind of salutation should follow such an exuberant greeting. “Sorry I startled you, I did call out a few times but ...” I shake my head. “But yes, I’m Ingrid.”

“And I’m Allie.” When she places her palm flat to her chest, it’s clear she assumes this isn’t our first introduction. “Allie Spencer.”

Allie Spencer.There’s a faint ping of remembrance when I hear her full name, but I have no clue as to why.

“I job shadowed under you and Cece at the hotel for a few weeks the summer I turned fourteen while my older sister was off at ballet camp—or maybe it was fashion camp.” She smiles, shrugs. “It was one of those. My folks arranged for me to get some work experience with the Campbells while we were in town that summer, because heaven forbid I actually get to relax during a vacation or anything.” Allie rolls her eyes good-naturedly while I work to sort through my memories of those last couple of summers at the hotel.

Allie must interpret my struggle to place her face and she’s quick to come to my aid. “I was about a foot shorter then and had braces and a pretty janky haircut up to my ears because I did it myself,” she amends with a grimace. “Zero stars. Do not recommend.”

I nod as the image she’s painted comes to life in my mind. “I do remember you, yes. You were the best linen napkin folder we ever had.” I chuckle at a memory I hadn’t thought of in years—a night of origami napkin folding in the basement with a teenage helper who was far more creative than either Cece or myself when it came to folds. “It’s good to see you again.”

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