“So? We’d make it work. Get a divider thing. Or I’ll sleep on the couch.”
I reach over and squeeze her hand, grateful for her beyond words. “I appreciate that. Really. But that’s not fair to you. You need your space.”
“Fuck fair. You’re my best friend.” She squeezes back hard. “Just think about it, okay? You’re not going to be homeless or move out of town. We won’t let that happen.”
“Tell that to Dominic. Tell that to the buyers who want ‘vacant possession.’” I make air quotes around the words. “Like I’m just clutter to be cleared out.”
Lark is quiet for a moment. “What else did Calvin say?”
“He wants to fix it. But what can he do? Fight his brother? Stop the sale? He doesn’t have that kind of power, and even if he did...” I trail off.
I dig my toes deeper into the sand, feeling the coolness underneath. “I know it’s not my property. I know I don’t own the cabin. But god, Lark, that place feels like home. The herb garden I planted, listening to the waves every morning, all those evenings with Susan on the porch. It’s not just walls and a roof. It’s ten years of my life.”
“Oh honey.” She squeezes my leg and I take her hand, grateful for her presence.
“Besides, even if Calvin did have the power to stop it, what then?” I continue, “He’s still leaving. So maybe he delays things a few weeks, helps me find some crappy apartment. Then what? He goes back to Seattle feeling like he helped, and I’m still here, displaced, starting over.”
Laila returns with the ball, drops it at our feet, and flops dramatically in the sand. She rolls onto her back, legs in the air, wiggling with pure contentment, and I envy her simplicity.
“You’re falling in love with him,” Lark says suddenly, her voice soft but certain. Not a question.
The words hang there between us for a moment. I’ve beenavoiding saying it out loud, thinking it, like that would make it less real, less dangerous, less inevitable.
“Yeah,” I finally admit, my voice barely above the sound of the waves. “I am. Completely. Stupidly. Despite every reason not to be.”
“Does he know?” She shifts on the log to face me better, studying my face.
“I don’t know. We’ve had these moments, but we’ve never talked about it. I can barely admit it to myself, Lark. And what would be the point?” I can hear the exasperation in my own voice. “This is so stupid! We haven’t even kissed.”
“What do you mean, what’s the point?” Lark picks up a handful of sand, lets it run through her fingers. “The point is you’re in love with him. That’s not nothing.”
“He has a whole life in Seattle. A career, a reputation, everything.” I pick up a piece of sea glass, smooth and green, turn it over in my fingers. “This was always temporary for him. A summer to deal with the estate and then back to reality.”
“Maybe. Or maybe he’s as scared as you are.” She brushes the sand off her hands, looks at me intently. “Mare, the man found you a first edition of your favorite poetry book. He left you writing supplies with an encouraging note. He’s fighting his brother about your housing situation. These aren’t the actions of someone who’s already got one foot out the door.”
“He feels guilty,” I offer weakly. “Responsible. Susan asked him to look after me.”
“Bullshit.” The word comes out decisive. “Complete bullshit and you know it.”
I throw the sea glass toward the water, watch it disappear into the waves. “Plus there’s the whole tattoo thing.”
“The tattoo thing,” Lark repeats, shaking her head like I’m being ridiculous. “Mare, you got that years ago, before you even really knew him as a person.”
“But now I do know him. And I have his words literally etched on my skin. Permanently.”
“So?” She stretches her legs out, toes digging into the sand. “It’s not like you got his face tattooed on your ass.”
Despite everything, I laugh. “That’s your bar for creepy?”
“I’m just saying, scale matters here.” She grins, then grows serious again. “You could just tell him.”
“Right,” I say. “‘Hey, funny story, I permanently marked my body with your words back when you were just Susan’s son who visited twice a year and I was a grieving kid who found comfort in your book’?”
“Or you could frame it as his words saved you when you needed saving.” She watches me carefully, her expression serious. “Which is the truth, right?”
“It doesn’t matter how I frame it. Either way, I look like some obsessed fan. Like those people who show up at his readings with their books already signed, wanting more.”
“No, you look like someone whose life was touched by his art. There’s a difference,” she says firmly. “Besides, from everything you’ve told me about him, he doesn’t seem like the type to judge you for finding meaning in his work.”
