Lane stepped out of the terminal into the crisp morning air, and being this close to the ocean, it smelled clean and salty. Lane took in lungfuls of it. It definitely beat the stale, pressurized air on the two planes she’d had to take to get here.
Lane had called a cab from the tiny Provincetown airport. It was the strangest airport she’d ever been in. Literally one room with a vast collection of snow globes on the only counter in the place.
And the plane ride over here from Boston had been something else. Lane didn’t consider herself a bad flyer, but that plane was small and loud and looked like it might drop out of the sky any minute and plummet to the earth in a fiery ball of regret and bad life choices.
Fortunately, the plane was in good condition, the pilot experienced and friendly, and so she was still alive.
She had managed to get a room in town thanks to a last-minute cancellation. She’d had no idea Provincetown was such a popular destination, though she had to admit that she hadn’t researched it at all. She was here because Meg was. She’d get her back and head home to London with Meg. Or if Meg wanted to stay in the US, they’d find a way to do that.
Lane’s attention was drawn to the sound of an engine. It was coming closer and getting louder. Slightly alarmed, she wondered what on earth could make such a noise.
Then she saw it. It was painted all the colours of the rainbow and maybe even some that had never been seen before. The car was splattered in mud and was adorned with various bumper stickers saying things like Fenway Forever, Two words, One finger, and Lane’s personal favourite I don’t like you. The monstrosity did not look the slightest bit roadworthy. Lane squinted. Did the car really have a fluffy pink steering wheel?
The vehicle pulled up beside her, and the driver’s window rolled down slowly. “Boyd?” a voice from inside asked.
She dragged her suitcase over. “Are you here for me?” Please God this wasn’t her cab.
A woman in her late fifties stuck her head out the window and scowled at Lane. “I don’t know. Are you Lane Boyd?”
“I am.”
“Then yes, I’m here for you. Name’s Cab, Dolores Cab.” The woman rolled her window back up and stared straight ahead. There was a click, and the car’s boot popped open. Lane guessed she wouldn’t be getting any help with her bag from Dolores Cab.
She dumped it in the boot and climbed in the back seat. “I’m going to the Monument Bed and Breakfast. Do you know it?” Lane asked.
The woman stared at her in the rear-view mirror. “Yeah, I know it. Belt up.”
With that, Dolores stuck the car into drive and tore out of the car park going what had to be well over the speed limit. Lane was thrown back against the seat. “You’ve lived here long?” Lane searched around for conversation as she tried to steady herself.
“You want to talk the whole way there? Because that’ll cost extra,” Dolores snapped.
Lane sighed and closed her eyes.
It took less than ten minutes to get to the bed and breakfast—which made sense because they drove there at about forty miles an hour. Dolores had not taken one turn she’d felt required her foot to leave the accelerator. Lane imagined there was a dent from where Dolores kept it permanently pressed to the floor.
Lane shot out of the cab, grabbed her bag, and just about managed to shut the boot before Dolores revved then roared out of the little car park, spraying Lane with gravel.
Lane shook her head.
“Oh, dear, you took Dolores Cab.”
Lane spun round at the voice. “There was a card at the airport. I had no idea she would be deranged.”
A woman stood on the doorstep of the Beacon looking like she wanted to laugh. “Dolores isn’t dangerous, don’t worry. Eccentric, perhaps.”
“She’s not at all friendly. Is she even licensed?” Lane dragged her suitcase up the small set of steps.
“In answer to both your questions, absolutely not,” the woman said. “I’m Ella—I own the Beacon.”
“Lane Boyd. You’re English.”
“I am. I moved here about ten years ago. Come inside—it’s freezing this morning.”
Lane followed Ella inside. “Is it always so overcast?”
“No, the weather’s been particularly bad the last week or so. Tea? Coffee?” Ella asked.
“No, thank you. I’d just like to go to my room and recover from Dolores Cab.” Lane grinned.
Ella laughed. “I don’t blame you. When you are recovered, there’s tea and coffee in the kitchen. We put out bread and pastries for breakfast as well, so help yourself.”
“Thank you.”
Lane followed Ella up a narrow set of stairs to the first floor—wait, second floor. The place was nice. Homey. Not exactly what she was used to, but it was clean and central, and she didn’t plan on staying long. Just long enough to get Meg back.
* * *
Meg rolled over and opened her eyes. She silenced the alarm on her phone. It took her a minute to work out where she was. Home. Couch. Shit, she didn’t even get to drink her tea, and the TV turned itself off hours ago. She sat up and shook out the crick in her neck. She really had to stop doing this. Her neck would ache all day and bring on a headache that aspirin wouldn’t touch. Shit.
And why was she awake so early? Who set their alarm for eight a.m. when they only got home at three a.m.? Oh, right. Joanne. After the conversation with Wendy last night, Meg wanted to drop by and see if she needed anything. And to find out when she’d be back at work. Despite the extra money, the long hours were kicking Meg’s ass.
She yawned wide enough to crack her jaw and went into the kitchen. Goddammit, no coffee. She’d forgotten to go to the store. Which meant she also had no bread for toast. She rifled around the cabinets hoping for something. Maybe a bagel she’d forgotten about, a spoonful of coffee at the bottom of a packet she’d pushed to the back of the shelf.
But no. Nothing. Meg didn’t forget about food or open a new packet before the old one was finished. That behaviour was ingrained in her from a lifetime of being broke. She’d grown up poor, and because she’d spent so long saving for her dreams—the year in London, her own bar—she lived as frugally as possible. She rarely ate out or went to the movies unless it was on a date. And she hadn’t been on a date in months.
Even in London she’d gotten most places on foot and made the most of the free museums and galleries. Well, until Lane. But Lane was generous—too generous sometimes, and it made Meg uncomfortable. Sure, Lane had a ton of family money, but Meg liked to pay her own way. She didn’t want anyone saying she didn’t. Another hangover from growing up poor, she guessed. Always feeling less than everyone else because they could afford stuff her mother couldn’t. New sneakers, class trips, vacations.
Meg loved her mother and admired her. She’d brought up four kids by herself and worked two jobs. She’d never taken a handout in her life, and Meg respected that. Her mother was her hero. Speaking of which, she should call her later. Meg tried to remember the last time she’d spoken to her mother. Last week? The week before? The fact she couldn’t remember wasn’t good.
First things first, though. She needed to check in on Joanne and go to the store. And they were in opposite directions. And she had to be at work at eleven a.m. Maybe this one time she could treat herself to coffee and a muffin at the Wired Puppy. The hours she was working, she deserved a treat.
Meg jumped in the shower and cranked up the cold water to try to wake herself up.
* * *
Lane took a left at the top of Winthrop Street like Ella told her. Construction machinery sat idly by. Lane remembered—this was where they found that Viking crap. Maybe they’d been forced to stop work.
She had to hand it to Provincetown. It was a beautiful place. Like a lot of Brits, she’d grown up watching American films, and Provincetown was the epitome of what she thought a small New England town in America should look like. It was perfect. Most of the clapboard houses were freshly painted with bright coloured trim. Front gardens overflowed with flowers, and shop signs were hand painted and swung from chains above the doors.
Ella warned her the Wired Puppy did great coffee but was a fair old walk from the Beacon. Lane decided to see how far she got. From the looks of things, there were tons of places to have breakfast. Plus, she needed to wake herself up, and a walk would do her good even if the weather was miserable.
If she was honest with herself, Lane was also hoping to run into Meg. The town was small, so it wasn’t totally out of the realm of possibility. And a chance meeting would be better than asking around about Meg like some kind of stalker.
When Meg dumped her, Lane deleted her number and all the messages between them. In hindsight, that had been a mistake because now she’d have to try and find her instead of just texting.
Lane only hoped that if she did run into her in the centre of town, Meg would be alone. Lane hadn’t really thought about what she’d do if Meg had met someone new. Every time that particular little nugget popped into her brain, she booted it right back out again.
Lane tried not to think about the last time she saw Meg. She knew things weren’t going great—Meg was distant and making more and more excuses not to see her. A small part of her had known that when Meg told her they needed to talk, it wouldn’t be about anything good. Still, Meg actually saying the words had hit her in the gut and taken her breath away.
* * *
“Can I get you a drink?” Lane asked. Meg had asked to meet her in a pub by the river near Meg’s flat.
“No, I’ll get them,” Meg said.
They stood awkwardly at the bar together, not speaking. Lane knew something was up for sure now. On the way over, she’d half convinced herself it was nothing, that she was imagining it. But seeing Meg’s unsmiling face and guarded eyes told Lane all she needed to know. She was about to get dumped.
Lane followed Meg to a table. “Is everything okay, Meg?” Lane knew it wasn’t.
“We need to talk.” Meg took a deep breath. She wouldn’t meet Lane’s eyes.
“Uh-oh. Nothing good ever followed those words.” Lane tried to joke but her stomach was in knots.
“No, I guess not. Look, Lane—”
“Are you dumping me?”
Lane saw Meg wince, and she knew. Her heart beat hard in her chest, and her eyes prickled. Shit, this hurt.
“It’s not about dumping you. I just don’t think we’re right for each other. We knew it was going to be a short-term thing—I’m heading back to the US next year. I just think it’s better to end it now.”
“Why?” Lane struggled to keep her voice from wobbling.
“We’re so different.” Meg reached for her hand, and Lane couldn’t bring herself to pull it away. She wanted to. She wanted to make Meg hurt like she was hurting. To lash out and share out some of the pain. She didn’t, though. She hadn’t been raised that way.
Lane kept her hand where it was. She let Meg take it and hold it and tried not to think this was the last time she’d touch her. She furiously blinked away tears that formed in the corners of her eyes and tried to speak around the knot in her throat.
“You never meant this to last?”
“I was only ever going to be here two years. But that’s not the point. The point is that we’re so different, Lane.”
“We aren’t so different,” Lane replied.
“Maybe it doesn’t seem like it now, but those little differences will get bigger. They’ll destroy us,” Meg said.
“Is this to do with your father? Him walking out? You’re worried we’ll end up like your parents.”
When Meg recoiled, Lane realized her mistake. Meg never wanted to talk about anything even verging on her vulnerabilities. She couldn’t handle the idea she wasn’t invincible.
“It has nothing to do with that. I want to buy my own bar and build a career for myself. You want to party and spend your family’s money.” Meg let go of Lane’s hand, and Lane left it there for a moment, hanging between them in an awkward disembodied way, before she picked up her drink.
“I see. Well, thanks for letting me know. You could have just ghosted me, but you didn’t. I appreciate it.” Lane channelled her mother. She was the coldest person Lane knew. Lane forced that same coldness into her voice and into her eyes.
“You’re welcome.” Meg looked confused.
“Is that all?” Lane stood.
“Yes, but—”
“Good luck, Meg. I hope you get your bar.”
Lane refused to look back as she left the pub. The knot in her throat was growing, and the tears were coming too fast to blink away. All she had to do was get to the car. Just get to the car.
* * *
Lane took a deep breath and shook off the memory. She saw a nice looking restaurant set back slightly from the road and decided to go in. Admittedly she’d only gotten about a hundred feet down Provincetown’s main street, Commercial Street, but she was hungry. And she needed tea—or coffee—and she could look for Meg later. Her stomach growled in agreement.
Inside, the place had vinyl checked floors and bright red and chrome booths. There were windows all the way round and, at the back, views of the ocean.
A waitress showed Lane to her table and handed her a menu. “Coffee?” she asked.
“Yes, please,” Lane said. And then, because she couldn’t help herself, “Do you know a Meg Daltry?”
“Meg? Sure. She works over at the Squealing Pig.”
“The Squealing what?” Lane put down her menu.
The waitress laughed. “The Squealing Pig. It’s a bar about ten minutes’ walk from here. Right down Commercial. You a friend of hers?”
“No, not really,” Lane said.
The waitress frowned. “Not really? Guess I should have asked before I told you where she worked.”
“No, no. I mean, I am a friend. I knew her in London. I’m here to surprise her.” Lane fiddled with the salt shaker.
“You flew all the way from London to surprise her? You her girlfriend?”
“Yes—I mean, no. I used to be. We split up.”
“Split up?”
“Broke up. Well, she dumped me.”
The waitress’s frown rearranged itself into something that looked like pity. “Oh, I get it. I’m sorry, that sucks. I got dumped too last week. But flying all the way over here…isn’t that a little desperate?”
Lane died inside. This was not how she wanted things to go. Did she seem desperate? “I was hoping it would look more like, you know, a grand gesture. Like I’m serious about her.”
“Sweetheart, if she dumped you, I’m not sure she wants you to be serious about her. I know Meg a little bit. She’s all about work. About that bar in Boston she’s going to open. I’ve never seen her with anyone since she got here. She doesn’t strike me as the type for big romantic gestures. I’m going to get you that coffee now.” The waitress patted Lane’s hand before walking off.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck. Lane covered her face with her hands. It hadn’t occurred to her that Meg dumped her because she wasn’t interested in a relationship—or rather she’d chosen not to think about that. Lane had decided it was because Meg didn’t see a future with her. She hadn’t allowed herself to consider the possibility it might be because Meg just really wasn’t that into her. And now she’d flown thousands of miles across the ocean and made a fool out of herself in front of the waitress.
“Excuse me,” she called to the waitress who was making her way back over with coffee. “Is there anywhere around here that sells art supplies?”
The waitress frowned again. “You’re going to paint her a picture?”
“What? No. No, not at all.”
“Further up there’s a store on the left. About five minutes’ walk. They don’t open until ten, though.”
Ten would be fine. Lane decided she’d have her coffee, but she wasn’t hungry at all any more. Painting helped her think. Helped her sort out her feelings. Meg once told her she should try to sell them, that she was really good, but Lane knew Meg was just being kind. She painted as a hobby and nothing more. There was a time she thought she might like to be an artist, but as her parents said, how likely was it that she would ever make a career out of that?
Lane drank her coffee and tried not to think about how coming here might have been a huge mistake.