Page 7 of Crash Over Us
“Did he hurt you, Ethan?” My tone was patronizing.
He huffed. “For fuck’s sake, Margot. This isn’t about me. It’s about how I’m worried you’ve hooked up with a guy that isn’t right for you.”
“Oh, and you think you are right for me?” I accused him of a wild assumption.
I didn’t believe for a second that Caleb had threatened to hurt Ethan. What I did believe was that Ethan didn’t like being told he didn’t belong here. Ethan didn’t recognize what a protective man looked like. There was a perfect line that Caleb walked. I felt safe with him, and that included knowing I could depend on him not to do something unpredictable and rash. It was how we met at that beach party. He had observed how Dean treated me and intervened without smashing Dean’s face in. That kind of presence and confidence showed me he had more strength than any man I’d ever met.
Ethan groaned. “I’m saying that you should reconsider some things in your life. Your choices.”
“Fuck you.”
I pushed off from the recliner and walked to the door. “I think you need to go.”
“Margot, I didn’t mean it like that.” He didn’t budge.
“It doesn’t matter how you meant it. You said it. That’s enough for me to hear. I’m happy here. I’m happy with Caleb. He’s not some muscle head you think he is.”
Ethan patted the cushion next to him. “Okay then. Come sit and tell me about it. About why you want to stay here and not go back to your life in New York. You’ve left all your writer friends. Everyone we know. They ask about you.”
I inhaled. “They’re your friends, not mine.”
“That’s not true. They care about you. Penelope knew I was coming down here, and she really wants to start wine nights again.”
I let the door squeak closed as I trailed back to the recliner. “Penelope hasn’t called or texted since I left New York. No one has, Ethan. Those aren’t real friends. The people here are different. They show up. They care. They bring over pies.”
“Pies?” His eyebrows rose. “There are no bakeries in the world like New York’s. You can have the world’s best pies there.”
“I don’t want New York pies anymore. Aren’t you listening? It’s the thoughtfulness. It’s checking on people. Saying hi at the diner or at the grocery store. It’s knowing who to call for bait or boat fuel. It’s knowing that Nan always has the best gossip and that the Clean Queen will call you herself when she gets a stain out of a precious tablecloth.”
He put his hands up. “I don’t even know what language you’re speaking.”
“That’s the point. We don’t speak the same language. I don’t know that we ever did.”
I sat across from him in Uncle Walt’s worn recliner. I had thrown a quilt over it when I first moved in that was patched together with squares of flowers and watering cans. It was nothing like the ten-thousand-dollar couch Ethan had purchased for our apartment.
“You’re trying to make this about Caleb for some reason, but it’s about you. You’re holding on to something that doesn’t exist. Something that was never real between us.”
There was a long beat of silence. I needed him to hear me. To finally register what I was saying.
“I don’t want to go back to New York without you. My dad isn’t going to make it.”
My heart broke for him. “I can’t. My life is here with Caleb.” I moved from the recliner to sit next to Ethan on the couch. I wound my arm around his shoulder. “You can’t stay here and hide out windsurfing. Your dad needs you to get back there. It’s shitty. It’s hard. It’s not fair. But it’s what you have to do.”
He nodded. His lashes glistened with tears. “What if I fuck it up?”
“As long as you’re there with him, you’re not going to. I know you won’t.”
He leaned his head on my shoulder, and I felt his body shudder. I pressed my hand against his arm. We were never meant to be a couple, definitely not the couple, but I did know Ethan. And he had been holding in this fear and grief. I doubted he had let himself cry once since his father’s diagnosis.
I let him cry for as long as he needed. When he was done, he sucked in a giant breath.
“I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what that was.”
“Don’t apologize.”
He wiped his cheeks with his palms. They were wet with tears. His nose was snotty. He was a mess.
“If you go through that tiny hallway under the stairs, there’s a bathroom with tissues,” I instructed.
