Cal joins me a few minutes later, sliding onto a chair next to me, wearing shorts and a T-shirt now. We don’t say anything at first, he just slips his hand into mine.
“I forgot how quiet it is here,” I say.
He glances over at me. “Not quiet with the Bees.”
I laugh softly as someone inside laughs loudly, and another person breaks out into song to the music. “They missed us.”
“And how does that make you feel?” he asks.
I look over at him and think about New York and how someone recognized him and missed him there. No one misses me in New York. And I think about how this life in Coconut Beach is a place I’ve come to find home. A real home. With real people I love.
I squeeze Cal’s hand, and he strokes my knuckles.
We go inside, and I say goodbye to everyone, giving them hugs. A familiar flutter reminds me that this could be home. I can choose this. This place feels like it’s choosing me.
Birdie kisses my cheek and tells me that Wilby’s room is ready for when he comes back.
“I’ll tell him,” I promise.
Cal waits patiently beside me and when we head back to his house, I realize something.
New York showed me who I was trying to be. But Coconut Beach showed me who I truly am. And coming here was the best choice I’ve ever made.
26
Cal
The next morning,the sun hasn’t risen yet, and the soft sound of the ocean comes in the open windows. Silvie’s curled up against my chest, her leg draped over mine, her hair fanned across my shoulder, and I breathe her in. I just made her come twice, and then we had the best sex I’ve ever had with anyone. The connection I have with Silvie is palpable.
I stroke my thumb in circles along her shoulder, back and forth. Her fingers move lazily over my chest, tracing lines I know by heart. I’ve had my tattoos for so long that sometimes I forget that they’re there. She follows the ink down my arm, and my breath catches. Goosebumps ripple across my skin from her touch.
She smiles. “You sleep okay?”
“Yeah,” I say as I shudder when her fingertips slide lower. “I always sleep well with you next to me.”
Her mouth drops and kisses my ink, and she looks at me, curious. “Tell me about them.”
“My tattoos?”
She nods. “You’ve got a lot. And they look like they tell stories.”
I exhale slowly. “They weren’t supposed to be a story at first. I just liked them.”
Her fingers trace a familiar curve, slowly. “But now?”
“Now they are kind of personal,” I admit. “I think I started mapping out life experiences without realizing it.”
She studies my arm, following the lines. “This is New York.”
I still for a second as she realizes.
“I see it now,” she says quietly. “Skyline shapes.”
“Yeah,” I say. “That was a whole chapter.”
She leans in and presses a soft kiss there, right over the ink.
“And this?” she asks, moving to the waves across my ribs.
