“I love these trees,” she said.
He turned his head to look at her. “Yeah?”
She nodded. “I feel like all the trees out here get cut down, especially when they block the view of the water. As if they’re not a part of the landscape, too.”
A moment, then he shifted to look at the swaying branches. “I was obsessed with them growing up.”
“Really?”
His throat bobbed, as if he were preparing what he was going to say. As if he was out of practice. “In high school, I found my dad’s old 35mm Canon at our house in the city. I brought it out east that summer and spent hours trying to capture Montauk, hundreds of photos of the seagulls and waves and the lighthouse. But I always came back to these trees. They were somehow both integral and invisible. These permanent things that most people don’t notice anymore.” He paused. “Birdie wants me to cut them down, though.”
“Why?”
“People want manicured lawns, neat property lines.”
His voice was suddenly disconnected, cold. And something in her chest hurt so much she couldn’t stop herself from whispering, “Why in the world are you selling this place?”
He didn’t move for a moment. “Because sometimes what I want has to take a back seat to what’s best.”
“Best for who, though?”
He took a deep sip of his beer. “Birdie deserves this. It would set her business apart, and when my dad died, she was expecting this place.”
“But he left it to you. Maybe he wanted you to keep it.”
Will nodded. “Maybe. But I barely have time to come out here anymore.”
“Really?” she said, rolling her eyes. “Because I distinctly remember you spending a lot of time at Charlie’s this summer.”
“Is that right?” He stared at her, his gaze so direct that she blushed and looked away.
“I’m just saying,” she said. “It’s your life. You’re allowed to make your own choices.”
He hummed. “So are you.”
She scrunched up her nose. “What?”
“You should tell your dad about Columbia.”
“That’s complicated,” she said. “It’s not just about school. It would mean discussing the future of the bakery, his health…” She shook her head. “He doesn’t even know I applied.”
“But he knows you wanted to go.”
“We talked about it, but that was months ago.” She hesitated. “It doesn’t matter now, anyway. The deadline to enroll next semester is October first.”
“That’s in a couple of weeks.”
She sighed. “Exactly.”
He was quiet for a beat. “What happens if you don’t get back to them?”
“I’m no longer accepted,” she said with a shrug. “Even if I send the letter in time, I’m not guaranteed a spot.”
“Then you can reapply.”
She threw him a wry look. “Are they really going to accept someone who already blew them off once?”
“Then you go somewhere else. The school doesn’t make you a journalist, Lizzy. You do that.”
