“That’s not an answer.”
“Have a little patience, Wells.”
He was grinning—that real grin, unguarded and warm, the one I’d only seen a handful of times. His hand was on my thigh, his thumb tracing absent patterns through my jeans, and I covered it with mine and watched the ocean instead of questioning him further.
He parked at a pull-off I’d never noticed before—no signs, no tourists, just a gravel patch and a narrow path cutting down through wild grass toward a strip of beach that looked untouched by civilization.
“How do you know about this place?” I asked, climbing out into salt air so clean it stung my lungs.
“Used to come here when I needed to think.” He came around to my side and took my hand. “After you left. I’d drive here and try to figure out what went wrong.”
The admission was quiet. Matter-of-fact. Like he was telling me about a restaurant he’d liked, not a place where he’d nursed a wound I’d given him.
My fingers tightened around his. “And did you? Figure it out?”
“No. I just got really good at sitting on rocks and feeling sorry for myself.”
“That’s depressing.”
“It was extremely depressing.” He led me down the path, steadying me when my foot slipped on loose gravel. “But the view was nice.”
The beach was small and sheltered, hemmed in by dark rocks on either side. The sand was grey-gold and cool beneath my bare feet—I’d kicked my shoes off at the top of the path, carrying them by the straps. Waves rolled in and out in that ancient, unhurried rhythm, and the sound of it—that endless patient roar—settled something in my chest I hadn’t known was still tangled.
Jack spread a blanket he’d produced from the trunk—because of course he’d thought ahead, and packed supplies like we were going on an actual picnic.
He pulled out a bag from a bakery I didn’t recognize, and when I opened it, the croissants inside were so flaky they practically dissolved on my tongue.
“Did you plan this?” I asked around a mouthful of butter and pastry.
“I might have called ahead.”
“Taste’s great.”
He sat beside me and stretched his legs out, and we ate croissants and watched the ocean do its thing—exist, endlessly, without caring about the small dramas of the people staring at it.
“This is the most peaceful place I’ve ever been,” I said.
“It’s better now.”
I glanced at him. He was looking at me, not the water.
“Jack.”
“It is. I sat here alone for years thinking about you, and now you’re actually here,” He brushed a flake of pastry from my knee. “It’s objectively better.”
“You’re sappy.”
“I’m honest.”
“Sappy and honest.”
“I’ll accept that.”
I leaned into him, and his arm came around my shoulders automatically, pulling me close. I rested my head against his chest and listened to his heart beat beneath the sound of the waves.
The light was changing—golden hour, that time when the sun hung low and everything it touched turned warm and impossibly beautiful. The water caught the light and scattered it into a thousand pieces.
Jack stood up suddenly, pulling away from me.
