"I went grocery shopping," my mother declared  as I followed her through a screen door leading us directly into a galley kitchen. 

Not that she struck me as the kind to regularly crack jokes, but she wasn't kidding. The counters were overfull with bags brimming to the top with groceries, and I wondered if she'd also invited a small army to stay with us for the summer too. 

Next to the door, she removed her flip-flops, so I followed suit. Poking through one of the bags, she extracted a head of leafy lettuce. Or kale. My GPA was nearly perfect, but I'm still not confident in my knowledge of food groups I typically go out of my way to avoid. "Want to put your bags upstairs and then help me put away the rest of the groceries?"

What I wanted was a nap. A long, uninterrupted nap fit for a fat cat. Or a working, functional car. Or simply one of those time-turners that Professor McGonagall gave Hermione to use in the Prisoners of Azkaban, but I can't say that I'd use it as honorably because I'd probably just rewind the past four years of my life. Or eat my breakfast over and over again. 

"It's upstairs, three doors to the left." Mom enunciated very articulately, as if she suspected I might be a little slower than average on the uptake. I realized I'd been too caught up in my own thought bubble to acknowledge her with a response. "It's the one with the four poster bed and window-seat. The door should be open. Why don't you get yourself settled, and meet me back here in five. I'll cook brunch."

I only had two bags in total: A duffel bag that I stuffed all of my music listening accessories into, and a laundry bag filled aimlessly with clothes. It wouldn't take me very long to settle in, but I wasn't about to pass up a spare moment of time to myself, so I gratefully obliged.

Barefoot, I walked through the kitchen and easily found the staircase. It almost seemed as if there was the thinnest veneer of sand on the floor. Taking the stairs two at a time, I was three-doors down the hall faster than the alleged amount of time it took to process a chip credit card. Lugging my belongings through the threshold, I stepped into my new, provisional home.

Well for starters, the walls weren't navy-black. That was a positive. The huge bay window (complete with a cozy looking window seat) that overlooked the never-ending ocean was also nothing to complain about. As a matter of fact, with a few strategically placed curtains, I could have this room dimly lit and ready for Netflix marathons in no time.

I plopped down onto the four poster bed in one graceless movement, as if I was about to make a half-assed snow angel on the goose-down mattress top. My bed back in Townshill was certainly comfortable: As a creature of comfort, I made sure of that (Relationship status: I owned body pillows. More than one.) None-withstanding, this bed was snug enough to rival the one in my bedroom, and a small hopeful part of me that hasn't been scared away by the more realistic part of me yet, almost felt as if I were to close my eyes right now, I'd get lost in dreamland. As tempting as that seemed, Mom was waiting for me downstairs, and though slinging empty words around with her over brunch sounded as appealing as a root canal, my stomach grumbled at me begrudgingly.

I closed the door behind me and stepped back into the hallway, tiptoeing around as if I was guest in a Bed & Breakfast trying not to wake anyone up. Across from my room was a bathroom—the door was  propped open and I could see more of the beach through the storm windows next to the sink. On either side of me I spotted more closed doors, but only imagined what lay behind them as I rinsed off my face with some cool water before heading back downstairs.

Now, observing the family beach house for the first time, it was obvious that Evelyn Roth had come from some money. A lot of money. Sitting on top of a hill about a half a mile from the shore, the two-story summer home stood out like a statue, a sun-warmed plank porch wrapping around the entire house like a blanket. I couldn't help but compare this place to the most concrete image I had left of our old apartment in Dorchester —a place where we were always struggling for money—and it didn't make sense paired next to the clearly affluent vacation home my mom and her family summered at. And yes, The Roths seemed like the type of family that would make the word "summer" a verb.

The colors of the house reflected the beach: The walls were sandy browns, and the airy whites of the curtains evoked the sailboats dotting the horizon. The living room had a double sided fireplace—one side in the living room area with the adjoining side revealing itself in the spacious kitchen. Also to be noted: There was a loveseat and armchair set up around the fireplace in the kitchen, complete with a guest-book  placed on a low-slung table adorned with an old lobster trap. 

Pops of dark navy in the forms of linens and throw pillows added color to the mostly white wicker furniture, and bright red hurricane lamps sporadically decorated the halls I passed through. I'd never in my life seen a couch in a kitchen, and the inner fat kid inside me rejoiced at the close proximity between it and the refrigerator as I re-entered the kitchen. There was an outdoor shower neighboring the porch, and a laundry line with a single beach towel drying in the sun. Pretty much, it looked like someone had paid a decent amount of money to make it look like Coastal Living vomited all over the place. And that wasn't something to complain about either: This place was a manifestation of Pinterest dreams, and a year ago I would have already been Boomeranging these vacation views on Instagram.

With no sign of a coffee maker on any kitchen surface visible to the naked eye,  I assumed I was shit out of luck on the coffee front. And let me be clear, if it were possible to mainline coffee, I would. I can also say with a fair amount of certainty that whoever came up with the ploy to get us to drink eight glasses of water a day, clearly left out the part about making sure to brew them with roasted coffee beans first.

I watched Mom draw cream, peanut-butter, and a carton of strawberries from one of recyclable bags. Even in a mid-morning heat wave, she looked well put together—my hair wasn't doing nearly as well in the humidity. With no real directive, I joined her in emptying the bags, pulling out a dark green zucchini, whole mushrooms (ugh), clementines and peppers. For a horrible moment there, I worried she might be putting us on some kind of gluten-free or health food diet, but then I saw a lone box of pastries next to the saddest watermelon I'd ever seen and let out a small breath of relief.

Together we sifted through the bags, placing all of the contents on the island counter-top. We worked silently until the last bag was emptied and recycled, only the murmur of the ocean and the sounds of summer filling the silence.

"So maybe I overcompensated." Mom said, glancing over at the surplus of food she'd bought. And when did she become a health nut? I was having a hard time fathoming how the two of us would be able to eat it all of  this fresh produce before it started rotting, because seriously there was So. Much. Food. 

Turning her back to me, Mom opened several cabinet doors wide open. "There really is no method to my madness. Just put anything where you can find a spot. I haven't really come up with a system yet."

I watched as she put a box of pasta that looked suspiciously absent of gluten and canned peaches on one shelf, so I followed her approach, no matter how disorganized it seemed, grabbing a small handful of non-perishable groceries and stuffing them on a shelf. Within minutes, everything besides the watermelon had found a temporary home.

"I'm starving." Mom stated as my stomach griped in agreement. "Care to join me?"

My mouth watered at just the mention of a meal, so I nodded and was rewarded with a grin.

"Great." I watched as she bent down, opening a cabinet under the sink. When she straightened her posture, she was holding a French Press and a bag of pre-ground coffee beans I'd apparently missed in my preliminary search. She must've mistaken my pleasant surprise for ignorance, because she asked next: "Do you know how to work one of these?"

"I do." I replied, searching my surroundings until my eyes found the lobster-red kettle sitting idly on top of a gas stove.

"Great," she repeated, arbitrarily opening cabinets, our lack of organization backfiring as she searched for something to cook. "You brew the coffee, and I'll whip up some English muffins." She shut one cabinet, and opened another. "If I can ever find them."

We worked around each other once again, in a somewhat strange silence. I boiled some water and filled the filter with coarsely ground beans, as Mom finally located and rinsed off some dusty plates. After the kettle whistled and I poured the steaming water into the press, I stirred the grounds and created a foam. A griddle pan sizzled as Mom opened the bag of multi-grain English muffins, grilling each one respectively with generous amounts of butter until they were a crispy, golden brown.

I stirred the coffee again before compressing the plunger, and waited for the grounds to settle. Mom washed and cut up a bowl of fresh fruit. Additionally, she put the peanut butter out next to a mason jar filled with what looked like homemade blackberry jam. And with some cream, sugar, and cinnamon also set out before us on the island, my cup of coffee would not only be complete, but perfect. I poured the  nutty brew into two mugs that I miraculously procured from the first cabinet I opened, and my Mom sat on the stool across from me, depositing an English muffin onto each of our plates.

I reached for the cream, while my Mom skipped it altogether, adding just sugar. We both put our hands out for the cinnamon at the exact same time. She drew away first, and smiled at me in a way that made my eyes want to stop, drop, and roll.

Taking a sip from her mug , she said: "I thought I was the only one who couldn't stand those instant coffee makers." She took another sip, and continued. "Sure, you get the instant gratification of a cup of coffee, I guess, but it's never hot enough, and it always tastes watered down." The spoon clanked as she stirred in some more sugar. "I'd rather take the extra ten minutes to make a good cup of coffee."

One thing for sure hadn't changed: It was so damn cumbersome trying to hold a conversation with her, even when we were discussing a topic I was not only well-versed on, but absolutely passionate about. Coffee is life.

More silence ensued, and then she awkwardly continued. "Nothing beats a good cup of coffee."

Much like this dead horse of a conversation.

Crickets.

My plate was empty in less than five minutes, and my stomach sighed satisfactorily as I cleared it off in the sink. I tried to remember the last time I'd eaten anything more sustainable than a McGriddle, but could only recall fragments of the day—my Dad disappearing in the rear-view, the sight of Jaws on the back of a tow-truck. That damn boy's green eyes. Turning off the faucet, I squeezed some more soap onto the sponge.

With my back to my Mom, I asked. "Are you done?"

"Yes," she said, bringing me her plate but keeping her mug. "Thanks."

"No problem."

Crickets. 

See? Music should always be on in the background, if only to muffle the songless croaks of silence.

I washed the plates, drying them with a hand towel before placing them in a drying rack, which seemed pretty redundant to me. Mom was still hovering over me like some kind of maternal helicopter, perhaps worried about my ability to wash a dish. I mean, now that I wasn't going to college, I'm sure she thought that  was the extent of my future career options, anyways.

When I was finished washing the dishes (Women's Rights: -1, Thea: 0), and after we stood around one another for more tongue-tied beats with neither of us saying much of consequence, I decided to make like Columbus and explore Samoset. 

"I think I'm going walk the beach." I said, heading to the door where my flip flops sat where I abandoned them last.

"There are bikes next to the bulkhead," Mom informed me animatedly. "The tires may need a little air. If you want company, I can show you where the gas station is." She launched towards me eagerly, stopping to fish through her purse. "There's this lovely bike path right outside of town—" She made eye contact with me,  keys dangling in her hand, but the enthusiasm instantly drained from her hazel eyes I recognized everyday in my own reflection. "Unless, of course, you wanted to go alone."

"It'd probably be best," I replied, opening the screen door. "I'm not sure how long I'm going to be." As I walked outside, the humidity hit my skin all at once, and the screen door shut behind me with a thud.

"Thea," I heard my mom say, almost quietly—not yet a whisper, but the closest octave to it—as if she was stretching my name over her tongue like a question she didn't want to know the answer to. "I'm really glad you're here."

The film of the screen door was separating us, so I could only make out fragments of her expression—solemn and expectant. That makes one of us. I just gave her a weak watered-down Keurig smile, and turned my heel in the opposite direction. If there was one thing I had learned from my mother, it was the luxury of simply walking away.