Page 88 of The Spirit of Love
“I don’t know. I’m completely confused.”
“I think you’ll know,” Masha says. “I think by the end of this weekend, one way or another, you’ll know.”
“I’m terrified I won’t.”
Olivia puts an arm around me and gives my shoulder a squeeze. She points toward the island, now coming into view beneath a mist of fog.
There’s magic here, for sure.
“The answer’s inside you, Fenny,” Olivia says. “You’ll know it when it’s time.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
This time, the deer don’tfuck with me. I roam under high stratus clouds, along the northern rim of Catalina. Down winding, narrow paths hedged by tall pink-flowering bush mallows. To the cliff’s edge overlooking Parson’s Landing. And, finally, to the small, solitary wood cabin, and the man I hope to find inside.
It’s a little after noon on Friday when I finally see Sam’s cabin, still nestled at the edge of the island like something out of a fairy tale. I’ve lucked into my own transportation for this reunion visit—a periwinkle blue Blix electric folding bike, one of six available to borrow from the stowage cabin ofThe Midlife Crisis.
Captain Dan offered to drop anchor off Sam’s secret beach, which I pointed out to my friends on our approach into Two Harbors. Olivia and Masha wanted to bring me to shore by dinghy; escort me up the short, steep trail to the cabin; and then, as Olivia put it, hide in the bushes until they’d made sure I got in okay. Until they made sure I still wanted to be there, after seeing Sam again.
I was less worried about whether I’d want to hang out with Sam once we reunited. I haven’t forgotten how well we got along, how easy he is. Even if a relationship with him is unrealistic.What worried me more was the idea of knocking on Sam’s door, uninvited, unannounced—with an emotionally invested, spying entourage in tow. Including one very pregnant spy who would likely have to pee.
The bike saved me the social pressure of a door-to-doorThe Midlife Crisisdrop-off. If at any point my visit with Sam gets uncomfortable, I’ll be just a six-mile, moderately inclined ride back to Two Harbors. To the Del Rey Yacht Club, where my friends are docked for the night, with a mini-fridge full of snacks and very good wine and an extra cabin with twin bunkbeds and their favorite fifth wheel’s name on it.
Was it easier showing up to Sam’s cabin the first time, when a cataclysmic storm had handled the decision-making for me? Yes. But is it time for me to take matters into my own adult hands? To determine not only what I want from this weekend, and how to make it happen, but also what I want from life—and what to tell Jude on Monday? Also yes. Hell yes.
My calves are tingling with exertion and my chest is a hornet’s nest of nerves by the time I reach the edge of the path that leads to Sam’s front porch. I press the brakes on the bike and look up at the blue curtains covering the window of the bedroom where I once laid with Sam. Smoke again curls from the chimney. His boots are kicked off in the same place at the same angle to the left of the same sunrise-colored rattan welcome mat.
He’s home, I think with simultaneous glee and dread.
It’s been one month, and yet it feels like a lifetime ago. Since I was last in this place, I’ve experienced one career freefall, one partial career rebound, one galivant through a costume warehouse, one best friend’s wedding, one desert stargazing session,one tipped canoe, and one episode ofZombie Hospitalfilmed. What surprises me is not how much or little calendar time has passed since I was at Sam’s cabin. What surprises me is how, in measuring my post-Sam era, I think in terms of milestones I’ve experienced with Jude.
I’m annoyed that Jude gave me these marching orders to figure out what’s going on with Sam. I’m not here only because of Jude’s words last night. I should—and do—want to know what’s going on with Sam for myself. I want to know if what I experienced with Sam is worthy of the memory I’ve stored. Or if this weekend will show me that I painted those days and nights with shimmery, sentimental nostalgia—like music director James Horner did in the climax scene ofTitanic, using violins like drugs to induce tears from the audience.
At this point, I just want to know.
If it’s nothing, it’s nothing. I can truly let this whole fling go. This place, this man, the echo of our connection in my bones.
If it’s something…that’s harder to say. Being back on Catalina reinforces that Sam’s life is very much on this amazing island. My life is very much across forty miles of sea.
From the oceanfront eastern edge of the cabin’s wraparound porch, motion catches my eye. It’s an elbow.
Golden and gleaming with sweat, suggesting strength and flexibility beyond ordinary mortal capacities.
Lord, Sam’selbowis doing it for me.
I lean the bike against a manzanita bush hedging the cabin. I follow the path on my approach toward Sam, each body part revealing itself like the world’s sweatiest, sexiest cabaret show. Elbow, bulging biceps, straining shoulder, flexing neck, andgorgeous, handsome face. A man at once strange and familiar, doing one-armed pull-ups, facing the sea.
He wears thin black joggers. Nothing else. His feet are bare, his shoulders orgasmic, the nape of his neck damp with a sheen of sweat. His muscles flex like the hills of Catalina as he raises his body up and then lowers it down. Up then down. I want to put my hands on his skin. I want him to see me, to turn around right now, say my name, and run his hands through his hair. And smile.
And I’ll smile back.
But when Sam releases the bar and his feet drop to the porch, I panic and try to duck out of view, to race back to my bike before he sees—
“Hello?”
I bend my knees in busted agony, spinning slowly around to face Sam. I make a broad, awkward wave.
I dare to look Sam in his chocolate eyes. They widen now in something like stupefaction. I should have announced that I was here while his back was still to me. I should not have ogled him from behind for God knows how long, no matter how good his deltoids looked. I must now acknowledge the awkwardness of my attempt to flee when caught ogling, because with every passing second, I only look like more of a creeper.
