Page 32 of The Spirit of Love
“So you have seen a movie.”
He kisses me one more time, and then, at last, with the universe’s most powerful orgasm still ringing in all of our bones, Sam and I fall asleep.
Chapter Eight
Shocking absolutely no one, Samlooks fine as hell in a canoe. And yet, I hate the sight of it because we’re pulling away from our secret beach and he’s taking me to Two Harbors, where I’ll catch the ferry home.
It’s after noon on Sunday, and my ferry leaves at four. Sam’s canoe is loaded with my backpack and the lunch I helped him pack. He didn’t have anything in his fridge beyond turkey, bread, and mayonnaise, but why mess with yesterday’s perfection? We’ve also thrown in his last bottle of sparkling wine. We’ll both need a little liquid courage, because somewhere along this coastline, we’re going to have to figure out how to say goodbye.
I don’t know how the morning passed so quickly. Deep in the night—somewhere between my second high-decibel orgasm and sunrise—we hiked back up to his cabin. I protested this move at first but was promised a series of full-body kisses once my head hit the pillow in Sam’s bed, and the man did not disappoint. The man has yet to disappoint.
I’m glad I woke up in his bed, to the sight of him watching me. To the sound of his voice asking, “How do I get inside your dreams?”
I’m taking that memory with me when I go. Along with thehoodie Sam insisted I keep and the adder stone I’m wearing around my neck. It’s warm in the center of my heart. These are my favorite souvenirs I’ve ever picked up. And like all souvenirs, they pale in comparison to the trip and companion they’re supposed to help me remember.
Like the smell of his burnt toast again this morning.
Like the whooping ovation he gave me when I achieved exactly one pull-up on the metal bar on his ocean-facing porch before I collapsed, red-faced and aching.
Like him explaining over jasmine tea how he’d carved the fireplace, which evolved into a fireside make-out session.
I like the way my viewfinder looks around his neck as he rows. I’ve never met anyone who makes me want to mess with the space-time continuum, who makes me want to go back and do two days all over again. Just as they were. No notes. We wouldn’t have to change a thing.
How can it be only two days since Sam unzipped my tent, since Sam unzipped me? I feel like we’ve known each other all our lives. I think this is because I let him see more of me this weekend than I’ve let other boyfriends see in years of dating.
“You look worried,” Sam says as he rows. Our beach recedes behind him, the zip line barely visible. My eyes travel up to his cabin, already too far away.
“I don’t want to leave,” I say.
Sam stops rowing. “I’ll turn this thing around right now. You can stay forever.”
I laugh and put my hand on his. “I don’t want to leave, but I have to. Tomorrow—”
“I hate that word,” Sam says.
“It’s a big moment for my career,” I say.
Sam looks at the sky. “How can our timing be so perfect in bed, and on the beach—”
“And in this canoe, if you’re up for it—”
“Yet so out of sync that you have to leave here when we should just be getting started?”
“I’m trying to be grateful that we got this weekend, instead of angry we didn’t get more.”
“Is it working?”
“Not yet.”
Sam rows on. I reach into the bag for our provisions. I unwrap both sandwiches and offer him one, which he declines.
“You’re not hungry?”
“I’m always hungry, but I’ve got to row if we’re going to make it on time.”
I lean forward to feed him one bite, then take a bite myself. I used to watch my mom feed my dad on long road trips. They always seemed to find an outsized pleasure in the act. I understand it now. The intimacy of watching him chew, the tenderness of timing the next bite.
I pop the cork on the cava and pour it into two aluminum flutes. We eat and drink like this as the coastline curves and juts. I’m looking at Catalina, but Sam is looking through my viewfinder at the mainland.
