This makes me laugh, something warm and tender and absolutely delighted. “So you’ve said.”
I can hear the smoke in his voice when he says, “It bears repeating. What are you up to?”
I clear my throat, letting my eyes drift out the window to watch the ocean passing by on my left. I was right about how untamed it looks. It crashes against the rocks, beautiful and maybe a little dangerous, mirroring the way my heart beats a wild rhythm against my ribs.
“Driving,” I finally say, the closest thing to the truth that I can manage. I want to see his face when he realizes I’m here. I want to watch every emotion play out and make sure he’s happy to see me. I don’t want to give him time to prepare a response he thinks I’ll like. I want him raw and unfiltered. Grey at his core, not an ounce of anyone or anything else.
It sounds loud on the other end, voices and ocean wind mixing to create a quiet cacophony of noise. “What are you doing? It sounds loud there.”
He must cup his hand over the speaker, because the noise on the other end becomes muted. “We’re at dinner on the wharf. Someplace called Fisherman’s that Charlie hasn’t stopped talking about since I got here. They apparently have the best lobster rolls in all of Maine.”
I make a humming noise in the back of my throat. “Sounds amazing.”
“You’d love it here, Fin,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. It plucks at something in my chest, because he soundshappy. I hope I’m not making a mistake, sitting in this cab, heading down the coast toward him.
“Next time I visit, you’re coming with me.” There are muffled voices in the background, and when he comes back on, he says, “Hey, dinner’s here. I gotta go. Love you, sweetheart.”
The other line clicks off before I can respond, but his words linger.Next time I visitandlove you, sweetheart. So simple, but they make everything inside me pull taut. A tether tugging me toward him, wrapped so tightly around my heart I think it might snap in half.
“Can you take me to Fisherman’s?” I ask the cab driver. “On the wharf.”
The chardonnay is still buzzing in my veins when we pull up to the wharf. It makes me feel loose and antsy at the same time. Maybe that’s just Grey. Maybe it’s just me. My liquid courage isn’t turning out to be very helpful at all.
My legs feel wobbly as I heft my backpack onto my shoulders. I packed light, not wanting to have to tote a duffel bag around, and I’m glad for it now. The summer air feels different here. It’s salty with a heavy breeze and almost cool compared to the endof August in North Carolina, but sweat still breaks out along my hairline and in the center of my back, in the palms of my hands.
I stand at the edge of the wharf, gathering my courage, as the taxi pulls away, leaving me here. So close to Grey and yet so far inside my own head that he feels miles away. For a moment, I don’t think I can do it. I don’t think I can walk across the sun-worn wooden planks covered in a thick layer of salt. I don’t think I can walk into the little yellow building wrapped in fishnets in the distance. I don’t think I can look at him and ask him to come home with me to stay. I don’t think I can hand him my heart on a silver platter and tell him it’s his to break. It’s his to regret holding on to.
But I don’t have to.
Because just as I’m thinking I’ll turn around, get back on a plane without facing him, the door to the restaurant opens, and he’s there.
Grey.
Laughing at something Charlie is saying, head tipped back and the dimple in his left cheek on full display. He looks so happy that I want to cry. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to make him look like that. Or at least not keep him looking like that. To cause him to wake up every morning beside me in Fontana Ridge and feel just like he does in this moment.
But then his eyes land on me, and he doesn’t even take a second to look confused. Somehow, his smile widens. His joy grows into something all-encompassing. Like a hurricane hitting the shore, his happiness engulfs me.
I hear his feet hitting the wooden planks of the wharf before he gets to me. I feel his hands on me, soft, gentle. I see his brow furrow ever so slightly, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.
“You’re here” is all he says. Notwhy are you here?Nothow did you get here?Justyou’re here, like that’s all that matters.
So I say, “I’m here. I wanted to see you.”
This makes his smile stretch into something so full it has to hurt. His hand brushes against my neck, thumb settling under my chin, tracing a line down to the hollow of my throat.
“Funny, I was just thinking the same thing.”
And then he kisses me. It’s slow, drugging, the kind of kiss that turns my insides into warm, dripping liquid.
“I’m glad you came,” he says against my lips, his forehead resting against mine, his thumb still pressed against the rapidly beating pulse in my throat.
“Me too.” And I am. Seeing him has dulled the nerves coursing through me, and I feel less like I’ve made a mistake. It’s hard to regret anything that has resulted with me in his arms.
“Why?” It’s all he asks. It could mean a million different things, but I know he’s asking why I’m here, why I decided I could leave the shop and fly a thousand miles up the coast one day before he returns home.
A lump settles in my throat, and my pulse flutters beneath his touch, faster, harder. I don’t think I can say it. I don’t think I can ask him to stay.
But then his eyes soften, that stunning shade of my favorite flower, and it bolsters my courage. He feels made for me in a way no one has before. He’s kind, and he makes everyone feel at ease, and he deserves to feel as lovely and special as he makes everyone else feel. He deserves love he hasn’t experienced before.
