Shitty, because everyone knows you and your business, and you’re potentially in an echo chamber? Stifling, maybe, for anyone who’s creative and entrepreneurial? Ordifferentin any way? And especially isolating when you’re a teenager, trying to spread your wings and figure out who you are?
Too familiar.
But for someone like Mason who chooses to stay, maybe there’s a good reason?
I can’t imagine why anyone would stay in a small town. I couldn’t leave the one I grew up in fast enough.
I follow the driveway to where it meets the road. There, a carved wood sign readsSea Haven Orchard, Est. 1905. And beneath that,Estate Cidery & Distillery.
Has this property belonged to Mason’s family all that time?
This level of commitment seriously boggles my mind. It’s fascinating and completely mystifying to me, like thatSamanthatattoo on Mason’s arm.
The road here hits a dead end above the beach, and a street sign readsHoneymoon Lane. The rural road with its thick trees and overgrown ditches, lush and green everywhere, is impossibly picturesque. It’s almost trying too hard to be perfect.
But perfect is bullshit, or an illusion. This town must be hiding several serial killers or something.
I feel like a fucking disaster standing here in my sweats and T-shirt, sweating out last night’s alcohol and wondering if I’m going to puke. Yesterday morning, I couldn’t wait to get Orchard Cove over with and get back to the city. Now, I’m dreading the responsibilities that await me in the outside world, everything I’ve broken and now need to fix.
I feel overwhelmed, with too much to do, all at once, and severely lacking the faculties to do it all. My day has barely started and I’m already behind.
I wish I could put on some music. I need to find my phone.
I need to find June Spencer.
I also need to find Sophie and get to work.
But what to deal withfirst?
When I picture my best friend stranded like I was last night, locked out of the building on the pier and trying to get a hold of me, her phone maybe not working, and worrying aboutme, about where the hell I ended up last night ... the decision is easy.Sophie.
I cross the road to the path Layne mentioned—the beach walk. It runs just above the beach, at the base of a sloping cliff; above, backyards slope down from patios and decks, and impressive houses overlook the sea.
I follow the well-worn gravel path with the sea-salt-battered railing in the direction Layne indicated. Below the path, beyond some wind-matted shrubs, the pebbled beach stretches to the water. A couple of women walk a dog along the shore, but it’s otherwise empty.
The beach stretches from one end of the sprawling cove to the other. Out in the water, the tree-spined ridge of Salt Spring Island seems to enclose the cove. The tide is out, leaving clots of seaweed and a scattering of seashells, and the faint stink of fish turns my tempestuous stomach.
I can already see the pier ahead. It’s a simple boardwalk of wood, stretching out into the water. A few people dot the pier, walking along it or gazing over the edge into the lapping waves below.
As I make my way there, I prioritize my day. First order of business, apologize to Sophie for being so late. And hopefully get inside the building at the pier so we can start setting up. Then I can pop over to the bar to hopefully get my phone (and see if Masonis around). Later, I’ll go pick up my suitcase from his house (and see if he’s around).
Basically, I’m just hoping I get to see Mason today, to thank him for taking care of me last night.
And then ... who knows? Maybe we hang out?
I seem to remember telling him about my “no boys for the rest of the year” thing, but I think it was clear to us both that that idea went out the window.
How about a man?
I remember his words in my ear, his lips brushing my skin, his body hot against mine.
Who am I kidding? I would love to spend time with him. Preferably sober and after I have a shower.
When I reach the end of the walk, I follow the wooden steps that lead from the path up to the pier as seagulls swoop lazily overhead. Where the pier meets the land, it widens into a large, unused patio area that surrounds the cedar-shingled building.
As I round the building, I find the town center not quite as empty as yesterday.
Kitty-corner from the pier, across the short main street that runs parallel to the water, creatively called Water Street, a few cars are parked in the lot in front of Sea Haven Bar & Grill, though I don’t see any sign of Mason.
