THE DAY had left me ragged, aching for a drink, and after my mother went to bed I walked four blocks to the local dive, Maynard’s, that I used to sneak into when I was a teenager. Inside, it smelled like stale beer and the sea, the whole place scummed with mildew and salt. When I sat on a stool near the door, the cracked upholstery scratched my thighs. It wasn’t until my first drink arrived that I dared to look around. Right away a familiar pair of eyes snagged on mine: Brett Griffin. We had graduated in the same class in high school. He’d been that stoner-sage kid who slept through geometry yet aced every exam. He rose from his stool and slid his beer glass along the bar top.

“Lily Louten! Well, well, well. Long time no see! How’s my sophomore year history buddy?”

“Hey, Brett. I’m fine.” It hadn’t even occurred to me when I left the house, but of course I couldn’t have lasted one night at Maynard’s without seeing someone I had gone to school with.

Brett settled onto the stool next to mine. I concentrated on the scrim of bumper stickers that had accumulated on the mirror behind the bar. This Car Climbed Mount Washington. Welcome to Sea Isle City!

“What are you doing here? In town for a visit?”

“For the summer.”

“Wait, don’t tell me you’re a teacher, too? I’m doing eighth grade math at Bellevue. Thirteen and fourteen-year-olds are sort of insane, but I love it. Well, most days, you know. I could do without all the state testing bullshit.”

“No, not teaching. I’m taking some time off right now. Figuring out what’s next.” I couldn’t help but cringe at the way I was crutching along on platitudes. But it was easier than the truth: That I had crept home with nothing. That I didn’t know who I was anymore.

“Last I heard you were doing some art stuff. Museums? Wait, no. You wanted to run one of those galleries or something! That was your thing, right? I always envied that about you. You were one of those people who just knew what you were going to do.”

I finished the bourbon and signaled the bartender for another pour. “Well, you can rest easy. I’m not sure I have anything to envy anymore.”

“No, man, it was cool. You were ambitious. I used to see the stuff you were doing on, like, Facebook, and it made me happy, you know? I know we weren’t super-close or anything, but it was fun to see it. At all those fancy openings, all those paintings you’d post about. So you’re not into art anymore?”