“Fine, but you better tell me all about it tomorrow.” She hangs up, leaving me to smile at the dial tone.
The drive to Manteo is longer than I remember, the road winding inland and then back out over the low causeways thatstitch the islands together. The sky is all indigo, the salt marshes on either side reflecting a sullen moon. In the quiet, Nathan plays the radio, low and oldies-heavy, and we both sing along to a fragment of “Be My Baby.” I haven’t sung in front of another adult in years. My voice isn’t pretty, but it’s loud and unafraid, and Nathan beams at me like I’ve pulled off some impressive trick.
The theater is a relic, its neon sign flickering at intervals, the carpet worn and matted. We’re the only people in the lobby, save for a teenager in a “Chill Out” hoodie manning the popcorn machine. Nathan orders two tickets, and I let him, and then he orders popcorn, and I let him do that too. The air smells like salt and synthetic butter, the kind of scent that imprints on your hair for a week.
The movie is already starting. The projector flickers, the subtitles a little out of sync, and the auditorium is cavernous and empty except for one pair of kids making out in the back row. Nathan steers us to seats near the middle, not too close, not too far. We settle in. The screen fills with images of rain-lashed cities and rubber-suited monsters, but I barely register any of it. My awareness narrows to Nathan beside me, the way his thigh presses against mine.
I sneak glances at him between scenes, noting the way he reacts to the movie—the small smiles, the furrow of concentration, the occasional soundless chuckle. When he offers me the popcorn, his hand lingers just a fraction longer than necessary, the back of his fingers grazing my wrist. I don’t move away.
About halfway through, during a lull in the on-screen carnage, Nathan’s hand finds mine, palm up on the armrest, hesitant and slightly clammy. He’s not slick about it. He’s vulnerable, almost sheepish, as if he’s unsure if I’ll reciprocate.I curl my fingers into his, and the relief in his whole body is immediate.
We hold hands for the rest of the movie, sometimes tightening, sometimes slackening, but never letting go.
Afterward, Nathan drives me home., but he doesn’t pull into my driveway right away. Instead, he circles the block once, then pulls over by the dunes where the glow of the porch lights can’t reach us. The sound of the surf is a distant hiss, and the only light comes from the dash and the half-moon overhead.
He lets go of my hand, but only so he can turn to face me. “I had a great time tonight,” he says, and it’s the kind of simple truth that makes me want to cry a little.
“Me too.”
He reaches for me, slow enough that I could refuse if I wanted, but I don’t. His lips are soft, hesitant, and for a moment it’s just the brush of skin on skin, a tentative question. I answer, and the kiss deepens, still gentle but surer now. I tangle my fingers in his hair, his hands at my waist, and we stay like that for a minute or a year. When we break, we’re both breathless and a little dazed, like we’ve surfaced from a deep dive.
Neither of us speaks on the walk to the porch. The porch light is on, and the little cottage glows warm and inviting. Nathan stops at the steps, his hand slipping from mine, and I think he might say goodnight and leave it at that.
Instead, he reaches up, tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, and looks at me with a tenderness I can barely stand.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he says.
“I’ll answer,” I say, and then he’s gone, walking backward down the steps, smiling like he’s afraid to turn away in case I vanish.
I watch until his taillights disappear, then step inside, pulse racing.
Cassie isn’t in bed. I find her in the kitchen, sitting on the counter with her knees up, an apple in one hand and a comic book in the other.
She looks at me, then at the clock, then at me again.
“So,” she says, biting into the apple, “was it the best date ever?”
I lean on the opposite counter, wondering how to translate what just happened into language a thirteen-year-old will accept. “It was…really good. We saw a monster movie. We had pie. I think we’re going to see each other again.”
She shrugs, too-cool. “You seem happy.”
“I am,” I say, and I mean it.
Cassie hops down, abandoning the apple core in the sink. “Okay, but next time you have to bring me pie. It’s the rule.”
“It’s a deal,” I say, and we bump fists.
After she’s in bed, I step out onto the porch, stare at the moonlit ocean, and let the new feeling in my chest expand until it’s as big as the sky. For the first time in a long time, the future doesn’t scare me. It feels like something I want to run toward.
On the hill, I spot a flicker of movement in Sara’s window. I can just make out her silhouette, watching, maybe waiting for me to wave. I do, and she waves back, her arm a slow arc against the lamp-lit room.
I go inside, lock the door, and sit at the desk, fingers hovering over the keys.
I write:
It’s possible to be broken and still believe in mornings.
I let the words stand, then close the laptop and climb into bed, the sound of the sea and Cassie’s soft snoring my lullaby.
