As an unemployed teenager on Cape Cod, there’s not much to do outside of food service. Some friends donned park service uniforms reminiscent of the Mounties and sold beach passes. A few joined landscaping crews, careening down Route 6A in trucks rusted by the salty air. One babysat Howard Zinn’s grandchildren.
This was not how it was supposed to work. I never set out to be half of that couple you hear about. The ones that because of high rents or long leases or the great dysfunction are forced to live with each other long after their relationship has expired. Yet here I am. Freshly twenty-seven and living with my ex-boyfriend.