Maybe adulthood isn’t innately unhappy. Maybe I just chose the wrong version of it.
As we walk to the Airstreams, my gaze goes to every storefront. The bookstore is still open, and even a passing glance reveals that it’s the sort that’s overstuffed with books, one of those places where you’d inevitably walk out with more than your suitcase can hold.
“I approve of this town,” I decree.
“You’re judging an entire city based on its bookstore?”
I shrug. “Is there a better metric?”
He neither agrees nor disagrees, but instead places his hand on my back to move me along. We’ve barely made it two stores down before I’m stopping again, my gaze lingering on this loose dress with spaghetti straps in one of the windows.
“You should get it,” he says.
I hitch a shoulder. “Where am I ever going to wear a dress like that?”
“You could’ve worn it tonight. You could wear it to the rehearsal dinner.”
“Boho isn’t my style anymore,” I tell him, moving past it. “No one will respect me at work if I start dressing all girly.”
I’ve fought so hard to be deemed professional and adult, to put my Walsh-ish-ness firmly in the past, but I lost a little of myself in the process. My degrees make me feel successful. But that spark, that wildness inside me, is what actually makes me feelgood.
Was it necessary to choose between them? Is there not some middle path where I can get a little of both?
We get beer, and find a table on the opposite side of the pavilion, away from his grandmother.
I take a long pull from my bottle. I’d forgotten how good that first sip of beer tastes.
The next time a line dance starts up, I join everyone on the floor, while Elijah watches. I meet his eye as I flounder and the way he is smiling makes my stomach flutter. I’m in running shorts and flip-flops, not wearing a stitch of makeup, my hair twisted atop my head in a messy bun, and I’ve never felt more adored. No wonder I fell for him. No wonder I can’t seem to stop it from happening again now.
We finish our first beers and then get second ones. Paul, Betty, and Mrs. Cabot leave, but neither of us suggests leaving with them.
A slow song begins. My gaze darts to his, and after a moment he rises and extends a hand.
I accept and he pulls me to the floor. I start to dance with him the way you would with a colleague—one hand politely on his shoulder, the other clasped with his to the side—but he snatches me against him, so that my face is pressed to his sternum. He smells like soap and fabric softener. He feels like home. Thomas is never going to feel this way.
I don’t want my head pressed to Thomas’s chest. I don’t want it anywhere but precisely where it is at this moment.
When the song ends, I start to back away and the lines of his throat tighten. He holds me in place for a moment before he finally lets me go.
“I guess we ought to get home,” he says.
I nod, though I don’t really want to.
We’re quiet on the way back. The streets are mostly clear, now that it’s past all the kids’ bedtimes. This would be a good place to bring a family, and Thomas will never want to, but Elijah would. He’d walk down to that pavilion on a summer night with a kid on his shoulders, holding his wife’s hand, and there would be no one alive happier than she is.
Fuck. It’s true, but what good are these thoughts I’m having? All I’m doing is shitting on the future available to me while pining for the one that is not.
I blame Elijah. I blame him for flirting, for looking at me as if I’m special to him, for holding me close while we dance.
He’s toying with me, just like he did before, even if he doesn’t realize it.
“Hawk’s friend texted today,” I announce as we pull into the carport. “I guess it’s a good thing I told Thomas not to come.”
His hands tighten on the steering wheel. “You’ve never even met this guy.”
I shrug. “I looked him up. He’s hot and Kelsey likes him. That’s good enough for me.” I climb out of the car and move toward the door.
He reaches me faster than I dreamed he could. “So you’re planning to marry someone else but ready to fuck a total stranger,” he hisses.
