Page 13 of The Spirit of Love
“What?”
“Success, though, right?”
I scowl. “You were a virgin. Now it all makes sense.”
“What makes sense?” he asks, looking wounded.
“Youdidshow up looking for someone else,” I say, teasinghim. “And when it was time to go home, you forgot where you parked your car.”
When Sam laughs, his eyes crinkle and he looks down at his feet, nudging the wood stairs with the toe of his boot.
“Yeah, well, now I’m inviting you to stay the night,” he says. “So, we must have done something right.”
This comment silences me as we step onto the porch of the cabin. It feels like a lifetime since I wasn’t feeling rain. Sam still holds my hand. We seem to notice this fact simultaneously. His fingers slide loose. Something subtle and enormous shifts now that we’re not touching.
He points at where he’s standing on the porch. “This is where I was when I saw the flare.”
I look into the sky, imagining his perspective. Then down at the beach, the sliver of it that’s visible from here. It feels so far away, where we first met. Another world. Whatever it was that Sam mistook for a flare, I realize I’m grateful it happened. I’m alive because of him. And more than that, I’m intrigued to find myself here. But I’m unsure what happens next.
I hear a creak behind me and realize Sam has opened his front door. He stands at the threshold and gestures inside.
“You coming? Or you want to hang out with your storm some more?”
In the zombie TV drama, this is the part when the audience would be screaming, “Don’t go in there, you moron!”
But I’m no dewy ingenue. I’m a waterlogged queen of plot and motivation, and here’s the important thing:
I have nowhere else to go.
Here’s another thing:
If I were directing a scene in which a strapping young stranger needed to convey that his invitation of hospitality to a slightly less young woman was a sincere and simple offer of protection, then this man’s gentle-giant posture, the earnest set of his jaw, and the kind, alluring sparkle in his eyes is how I would direct the actor to play it.
When it aired, the fans at home would scream, “Go in there, girl! Go get it!”
And I’m not just saying this because I’m freezing and soaked to my core. I’m saying it with my director’s hat on, and I take that shit seriously.
But first, I really do need to bring up the elephant on the porch.
“Look,” I say, pulling back the hood on my raincoat. “I work with hot people every day.”
“Congratulations?” He smiles. Damn those dimples.
“You destroyed my tent on a desert island with no other shelter within walking distance. Therefore, I have to stay with you. In this trope of a cabin. Where there’d better not be only one bed.”
“I’m waiting for you to get to the part about me saving your life.”
“Maybe you did and maybe you didn’t.”
“Maybe I definitely did.” He takes a step toward me and laughs under his breath.
I find that I’m holding mine. “It’s nothing I haven’t lost before.”
“What does that mean?” Sam asks, tilting his head. “You’ve been…dead?”
“Never mind.” I look away. I can’t believe I just said that. I never talk about my near-death experience with anyone but Edie.
“Fenny, are you trying to tell me you’re not going to sleep with me tonight?”
