Page 52 of What Remains of Grace

Practical. Polished. Unapologetically flattering.

“This is UPF fifty, full coverage, and stupid expensive,” Emmie announced proudly. “Also? You’ll look like a Bond girl who actually files her taxes on time.”

Jenna took it. The fabric was smooth, substantial, the kind that shaped without squeezing. It would show her waist and legs without bartering away her dignity. It looked . . . like her.

“It’s perfect,” she said before she could second-guess it.

“Boring,” Emmie said, but her eyes were warm. “But, you’ll look hot in it. In a grown-up way. A scary ‘I run the meeting’ way.”

“I do run the meeting.”

“Exactly,” Emmie said, “terrifying.”

They laid out the rashguard with an old, faded baseball cap that had belonged to Brooks. Emmie plucked the cap up, turned it in her hands, then set it down with a careful kind of reverence.

“Take sunscreen,” she said. “And water. And—” She paused, the mischief sliding into something softer. “Hey. I’m glad you’re going.”

“Me too,” Jenna said, and for once, she knew it was true.

Emmie flicked the edge of the rashguard zipper with her nail. “And if Contractor Guy, sorry, Mr. Bennett, doesn’t pass out on arrival, he’s not paying attention.”

“Stop,” Jenna said, laughing off the compliment.

“Fine.” Emmie started for the door, then paused, her bravado slipping just enough to show the girl beneath it. “You’re allowed to have fun, you know.”

The words hit Jenna exactly where Emmie meant them to. She nodded, throat tight. But Emmie wasn’t done.

“Mom would be pissed if she thought you were handling her dying anything like you did Uncle Brooks,” she said, arms crossing, voice harsher than Jenna expected. “She wouldn’t want you burying your head in the sand. Or red clay. Or whatever the hell Georgia’s made of.” She huffed. “I could do that too, you know. I’m officially an orphan. I could be sad all the time and run away. But . . . I could also die at nineteen like Uncle Brooks. Or twenty-two like my dad. Or thirty-six like my mom.”

Jenna’s breath faltered.

Emmie shook her head stubbornly. “We have to keep moving. We have to live. And if living means looking hot on paddleboards for contractor guys, then—” she gestured vaguely at the swimsuit pile—“you should absolutely do that.”

Jenna let out a helpless laugh, one hand dragging across her cheek. “God, Emmie . . . you shouldn’t have to be this wise. And you shouldn’t use that language.”

Emmie shrugged, unbothered. “They’re just words. And I’m not wise.” Her voice thinned, the bravado slipping again. “I’m just tired of losing people.”

That cracked something open in Jenna. Something cleaner, softer than grief. “I’m trying,” she whispered, “really trying.”

Emmie nodded, blinking once, hard. “Good. Because I can’t do all the emotional growth around here by myself.”

A laugh broke out of Jenna, wet, surprised. “Well, if I do look hot on a paddleboard tomorrow . . . it will be completely accidental.”

“Uh-huh,” Emmie said, already smirking. “Accidental. Just don’t fall off in front of him.”

“Please,” Jenna sighed. “At this point, that feels inevitable. But it can’t be more embarrassing than yesterday.”

Emmie perked up instantly. “What happened yesterday? Did you get caught staring again?”

“Very funny,” Jenna said, trying and failing not to blush. “And no. Not exactly.”

Emmie’s grin turned downright evil. “Wow. That’s a yes.”

“It is not a yes,” Jenna protested, crossing her arms as if that could hide her face. “It was just nothing. A moment. A stupid, awkward moment.”

“So . . . a yes,” Emmie repeated, delighted.

Jenna groaned into her hands. “Why am I even talking to you?”