I got out of the truck and loped toward the waterfront boardwalk. The restaurant abutted it, offering views of the Pacific, the boats, and, on a clear day, the mountains off in the distance. Even in the rain, Freya and her friend would be drawn to the outlook, their eyes darting from their salads to the spectacular scenery. If I brazenly walked by the window, they would see me. A six-foot-tall woman in a royal-blue cap and gown wouldn’t exactly blend in. Would Freya feel like she had been caught cheating? Would she drop her fork? Spill her wine? Run after me and beg my forgiveness?

But I wasn’t ready to make a scene, not yet anyway. I stopped several yards away, a vantage point that allowed me to see into the dining area without being spotted. The mortarboard still tenuously affixed to my head acted as a mini-umbrella, keeping the rain out of my eyes. If Freya wasn’t in a window seat, I would have to rethink my strategy. But I knew she would be. Only the best seat in the house would do for Freya. As predicted, I spotted her light blond hair at a table for two.

Freya’s back was to me, allowing me to examine her companion unobserved. The woman had a dark bob, tawny skin, a pretty face. She wasn’t stunning like Freya was, but she was undeniably attractive. She looked to be about Freya’s age, give or take a couple of years. Their body language was casual and familiar, like they had been friends for months. They were chatting and laughing, drinking white wine and noshing on bowls filled with healthy grains and roasted vegetables. They looked so right together, like a pair of matching salt and pepper shakers. It hurt me. Even when I wasn’t drenched, wearing a drooping cap and massive gown, I would never look like I fit with Freya.

The summer storm did nothing to cool my roiling emotions. As I watched this woman spear a piece of avocado and put it in her mouth, her eyes suddenly met mine. Her brow furrowed, ever so slightly, at the sight of the sopping graduate lurking on the boardwalk. But her gaze quickly returned to Freya. She was enamored with the beautiful blond, just like I was. And then, I realized I had seen her before. I knew who she was. And I knew how to get to her.

I turned and hurried away, my gown billowing out behind me like a Dickensian villain.

summer 2019

10

jamie vincent

On a Wednesday afternoon at the end of June, Low Morrison came into my gift shop with her résumé. She’d been there before, browsing through the items, paying particular attention to the pottery section. She was hard not to notice—over six feet tall with a bushel of dark red hair and pale, almost translucent skin. There was something familiar about her, but I couldn’t place her. I observed her with my nerves on edge, afraid she’d break something. She just seemed so gangly and awkward. But then I saw her pick up one of Freya’s cerulean-blue dishes. She handled the piece delicately, almost lovingly.