“That’s called tension.”
“That’s called irritation.”
“Same thing,sometimes.”
Emma laughs. “Great. Now I’m going to be thinking about that all night.”
We walk out together into the warm evening air. The boardwalk is quiet, the ocean a soft murmur in the distance.
“For what it’s worth,” Emma says, “I hope your guy comes back. He’d be an idiot not to.”
“Thanks.”
“And if he doesn’t?” She shrugs. “Then you keep going. You find your people, you build your life, and eventually it hurts a little less.”
“Speaking from experience?”
“Speaking from survival.” She smiles, and there’s a fierceness underneath it. “We’re tougher than we think. Both of us.”
She heads toward the marina. I head toward Mom’s house.
And I think about what Jo said. About fear. About choices. About what happens when you decide to stay instead of run.
Levi leaves in two days.
But maybe, just maybe, I’ll still be here when he gets back.
EIGHTEEN
LEVI
The pier hasn’t changed.
Same weathered boards and salt-crusted railing. Same view of the water stretching out toward the horizon like it’s got somewhere better to be.
I used to come here as a kid when things got too loud at home. When Mom and Dad were fighting, or when the silence after they stopped fighting was somehow worse. I’d sit at the end with my feet dangling over the water and pretend I was somewhere else.
Now I’m here because I leave for LA soon and I can’t write or think or figure out what I’m supposed to do with my life.
So I’mfishing.
The line bobs in the water. Nothing’s biting. Story of my life lately.
My phone buzzes. Diane again. I silence it without looking. She’s sent approximately nine hundred texts about the meeting, about what to wear, about what to say, about how to “position myself for maximum leverage.”
I don’t want leverage. I want to sit on this pier and catch a fish and not think about contracts or tours or the fact that I’m in love with a woman who might not be here when I get back.
The boards creak behind me.
I turn, and there she is.
Delilah’s walking toward me with two cups of coffee from Michelle’s shop, her hair loose around her shoulders, wearing jeans and a light jacket. The April sun is warm today, warmer than it should be, and she’s squinting against the glare off the water.
“Jo told me you’d be here,” she says, handing me a cup. “She said you always fish when you’re stressed.”
“Jo talks too much.”
“Jo loves you.” She settles down next to me, close enough that I can smell her shampoo. Something floral. Of course. “Catchinganything?”
