The wind stirs the bedroom curtain. And he exhales. “We exist at the edge of the world.”
I shake my head. “We are part of no world. We are caught somewhere between, in a place where no one can reach us.”
He kisses my shoulder, and I lean into him, needing his comfort.
He doesn’t know that I left a note inside the hotel lobby—a secret thing I will never reveal to him. A message in a bottle. A letter home.
I could cry, but I don’t let a single tear fall. The beach is not worth crying over. The beach is not what I have lost.
It was the last piece of something—an idea. A notion that we could live a normal life. Tethered to land.
We drift back out into the ocean, and time no longer has meaning, no beginning or end. We are guided only by the tides and the wind and the constellations above. We can’t know what lies ahead, what future waits for us. I let go of it all.
Including the past, left under a shell inside an abandoned resort.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I regret what I said about the Arctic.
Days fade behind us, and so does the warm sea. Our summer days are gone, replaced by sharp, rain-drenched winds and waves that lash at the rocks.
We pull on our rain boots and coats, doing our chores in the growing bitterness of autumn air. No more nights sleeping under the stars, our skin damp with sweat, hoping for a breeze. We sleep in our bed, windows latched shut, blankets piled high. My feet curled around his, my body edged against the warmth of his chest.
I crouch in the garden, harvesting a few small potatoes and radishes with gloved hands—trying not to think of the sweet, watery taste of mangoes and pineapple. Or the feeling of the sun on my face. I remind myself of what we’ve gained as we’ve drifted into wetter seasons. The rain has urged along the seedlings, and the fear I once felt—that the garden might not return—has vanished, seeing it take shape now.
Clay falls back into a practiced rhythm, waking early each morning, rebuilding the path from the garden to the house so we don’t have to walk through the mud. I tend to the chickens that we were able to save. But our sheep are gone—there will be no wool to refill the thinning quilton our bed, or for spinning into thread and knitting socks and sweaters and thick hats. No honey or wax from the bees for sweetened tea and beeswax candles.
The days feel strange, a metallic quiet in the air, a soberness to each passing hour since we left the beach. I’m not sure if it’s only me—am I simply longing for the tranquil ease of the warm bay, the palms swaying outside our window, the soft feel of the sand—or does Clay long for it too, in his own way? Does it feel like we’ve left something behind we’ll never get back?
I don’t mention it to Clay. I tell myself that the feeling will fade, the memory of that beach will be replaced by new places, new lands. And although we’re both quiet during dinner, I think it’s mostly exhaustion more than anything else. Because when we climb the stairs, Clay carrying a single candle nub to light the way, and we slip beneath the blankets, our hands still find each other—like gravity, like the tide returning to shore, a thing that always brings us back together. Settling our anxious heartbeats, warming the cold from our flesh.
He makes a path of kisses around my earlobe, traces each rib bone with his fingertip down to my stomach, and I tremble beneath his touch as if it’s the first time. In the silence, we fold ourselves back together without words. And all my doubts skitter away back into the shadows. His hand presses between my thighs, steady and assured, a route he’s memorized, and I forget about the icy air whipping against the walls of the old farmhouse, the frigid sea surrounding us on all sides. I forget.
I forget…
Everything.
Clay lights candles along the windowsill, the bedside tables, even across the wood floor.
He leads me through the bedroom door, rain pattering softly againstthe roof, the sky a smear of deep blues through the window, the sunset lost behind them.
“Why did you do all of this?” I ask.
“Anniversary.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“Ye’ve been here a year.”
I knew the timing was getting close, but I wasn’t certain. Clearly, he’s kept track.
“A year?” I look to the window, to the island’s shoreline—the place where I scrambled up onto the rocks, soaked and shivering. Clay carried me up to the house and when I opened my eyes in his bed, it had all felt like a dream.
He takes my hand and guides me to the end of the bed, and I notice the bottle resting on the dresser—similar to the bottle of whiskey we finished months ago. “A second bottle?” I ask.
“Aye, found it in the cellar after the storm, didnae tell ye. Been saving it.”
I smile, sinking onto the bed. I expect him to reach for the bottle, but instead, he lowers himself to his knees, his hands on my thighs. I smile at him, recognizing the familiar ache in his eyes. He touches my hand, lifting it to his lips so he can kiss my palm. I think his mouth is going to travel up my arm until he finds my mouth, but he stalls, reaches into his pocket, then holds out his palm.
