I love you,I want to say.I love you so much I can barely stand it.
“You’re beautiful,” I manage.
She bites her bottom lip, sucking in a breath like she wants to say something.
I glance around to make sure no one’s looking before I slip my hand into hers. Her eyes lift to mine in surprise.
“We shouldn’t,” she whispers over the wind.
“I know.” I keep my voice low. “But I want to.”
CHAPTER 86
JORDAN
As night starts to fall,we drive off the ferry at the small port and make our way up the paved road, and nostalgia washes over me in waves.
“This used to be a gravel road.”
Tate looks over from the driver’s seat with a curious smile.
“I used to get carsick all the time,” I say with a laugh.
We follow the road through the thick forest, the sky fading darker and glimpses of the sun setting on the water sparkling through the trees. My heart tugs with a sweet feeling. Am I ready for this? I don’t know. Sometimes it’s easier to turn the feelings off and not care.
Tate gives my hand a squeeze. “Remember your safeword?”
A couple knots in my stomach come loose.
“I’m nervous,” I admit. “But you being here makes it better.”
There it is, my heart, bared for him to see. The way he studies me without judgment dampens that old fear at being so honest.
“I love that I can do that for you. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
My heart is a hot air balloon that’s going to float up into the sky, and the nerves fade away.
The summer house comes into view, glowing through the trees, strung with twinkle lights, just like she had it, and I stop breathing.My dad said the caretaker lives nearby and would prepare the house for our arrival.
“Wow,” Tate says in a low, admiring voice.
“Yeah,” I whisper, heart in my throat. “Wow.”
It’s a small one-bedroom house with a loft where I’d sleep because I was a night owl, even as a kid. A kitchen, and a living room with a wood-burning fireplace and floor-to-ceiling shelves stacked with records.
With the sound of our footsteps on the deck, the nostalgia hits me like a truck, tightening in my throat and stinging my eyes. Tate opens the door for me, and the summer house’s familiar smell washes over me. Cedar, sage, and the musty scent of old records. There’s her old record player, the one from her teens that she insisted wasn’t as good, so it could stay here instead of at home with us. The Persian rug. The fox painting she bought at a thrift store. The coffee table.
“She painted this thing blue,” I tell him, pointing at the table. “And then she immediately hated it. She was like,Jordan, what have I done?But she just laughed it off. She didn’t take things too seriously.”
She had an incredible laugh. Tate watches me with a warm look, like he likes hearing me talk about my mom.
“She was going to paint it a different color, something to match the room.” And then everything happened. I study it. “Maybe I will.”
“This weekend?”
“I didn’t bring any supplies with me.” Our eyes meet. “Another time.”
He makes a pleased noise, and I picture him and Bea here with me. Or Georgia and Hazel and Pippa and Darcy, for a girls’ weekend. My heart does a weird tug at the idea of inviting them out here.
