I reach forward and grab her hand.
She gives me a sad smile. “If this is the end, it was good while it lasted.”
“Do not talk like that.” I sigh. “I’ll let everyone know tonight.”
“Thanks, honey. I’m going to bed. This old back is sore.”
She stands, and I pull her into a tight hug. I watch her leave through the front door. The lobby is too quiet after she’s gone.
I press both palms flat on the desk and stare at the reservation book until the names blur. Three new bookings. Three families are expecting a place to stay, and I might have to call every one of them and tell them not to come. The back of my throat burns, and I squeeze my eyes shut because if I start crying in this lobby, I won’t stop.
Carter comes down the stairs. “Hey.” He has a deck of cards in his hands that he’s shuffling. “How’s your poker game?”
“I suck at it,” I tell him.
That evening, Carter cooks dinner. He makes penne pasta with garlic butter shrimp and whatever herbs Rose left in the fridge.
“You’re domestic,” I say. “Not on my bingo card for you.”
“I can cook a few meals,” he says. “Don’t be impressed until you taste it.”
The kitchen is filled with the scent of garlic browning in olive oil. It makes my mouth water. I sit on the counter with my feet dangling, a glass of red wine in my hand, and watch him work. He pulls the deck of cards from his back pocket and deals a hand of poker on the cutting board while the sauce simmers. I lose three rounds before the pasta is done.
“I told you I suck at this,” I say.
“You’re terrible,” he agrees. “But you’re fun to beat.”
I pour more wine into our glasses.
“We should talk,” I say.
“About?” He stirs the sauce without looking up.
“Oursummer crushagreement.”
“No decisions until August 3.” He glances at me. “I’m aware.”
“But …”
“But nothing. I’m still on board.” He exhales. “I have some bad news though.”
My fingers tighten around the wineglass. “About?”
“Our date. I got a text from the restaurant that it was canceled.”
“Oh, that’s okay. You can make it up to me.”
“I’d love to.” He fills a bowl with food, then hands it to me.
We sit on the deck together with our forks in hand. The first bite is lemony with a kick from the red pepper flakes he added. The sky turns from orange to deep red over the water. The weather report plays low on Carter’s phone.
“The tropical storm could become a Category 1 hurricane,” the weather guy says.
“It’s going to be fine,” I say.
Carter takes a sip of wine. “We’ll figure it out.”
I want to believe him. I want to believe the bookings will keep coming, that the storm will miss us, and that Carter will choose this island over New York. But I’ve been the woman who got drunk on hope before, and it cost me years.
