“Was I?”
“You were in a four-year on-again, off-again relationship with your high school sweetheart.”
“If you want to think of it like that.”
I roll my eyes playfully. As if it wasn’texactly like that. “And when I saw you at Amber’s wedding, you were dating someone.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“You said you’d moved on.”
“I was lying.” He outstretches his hands in a what-can-ya-do gesture.
“And now?”
“Recently single,” he confirms.
It’s impossible to deny the vibe shift after that, and for the rest of the week, West claims the spot next to me on the porch swing. It is both motivating and distracting to have him soclose. When he drums his fingers against his thighs, my thoughts scatter.
As the week goes on, matchsticks collect behind my belly button. One for the time his knee rests against mine. Another for the minutes we pretend not to notice our arms brushing against each other while we work. A third for when he silently passes me an AirPod and we take turns adding songs to the world’s most chaotic playlist. It’s terrible for my focus, but listening to the songs West selects for me is another struck match, each one held dangerously close to a pile of kindling.
As twilight descends on our last evening in the house, Daphne stretches and announces that she’s done. As indonedone. Wrote-an-entire-novel-in-a-week done.
“I’m headed to town for celebratory sugar,” she says. There is no group dinner tonight because everyone else is out on a chartered yacht.
“I hate you.”
“Will I see you before you go?” she asks.
I’m leaving in a couple of hours to catch a red-eye for the London premiere ofTorched. “No, but go celebrate. You deserve it. I’ll see you back in New York.”
She waves goodbye and bounds down the stairs, brimming with the kind of joy that can only come from knowing you never have to write that first draft again.
I lean my head back on the porch swing with a contented sigh. The sky slowly turns from purple to navy, stars winking into sight. The push and pull of ocean waves drones in the distance, covered only by the clacking of West’s fingers against his keyboard. I wouldn’t mind if this were the soundtrack of my life. My head is quieter than it’s been in years. “Should I move to Martha’s Vineyard?”
“Hmm?” He’s focused but trying to pretend he’s listening to me.
“No wonder rich people are so happy.” I’m talking more to myself than to him. I want to carve this moment on stone tablets. I want it to survive a nuclear fallout and outlast the cockroaches.
“Rich people aren’t that happy,” he muses before adding, “Aren’tyoukinda rich?”
I glance sideways to find him with a chewed pen between his lips, and I’m pretty sure I want to kiss him. It’s a feeling so familiar it’s almost hard to identify. Wanting to kiss West is like the sound of the ocean’s tides on this island: a constant hum in the back of my mind. I’m so used to it that I’ve allowed myself to pretend it isn’t there.
The pen falls to his lap, blue ink staining his bottom lip.
“You’re still doing that, huh?”
“What?” he asks, his eyes still scanning the document on his screen.
I reach across him and run my thumb over his bottom lip.
His fingers pause over the keys.
I withdraw my thumb and hold it up so he can see the ink, and time stops. I have the worst sense of déjà vu:I’ve written a book, and he knows that I’m in love with him. I’m begging him to go to New York with me, and he’s saying no. We’re dancing at a wedding, and he’s moved on.
I jump to my feet. “I have to go.”
“Mars, wait.” West follows me to the front door. His hand grasps the crook of my arm, and in one fluid motion, he pulls me back toward him and presses his mouth to mine. I barely have time to register my surprise before he pulls away. “I hopethat was okay.” His eyes are dark, and there is a hint of pink on his cheekbones, but he doesn’t look half as shocked as I feel.
