Page 30 of We Can Forever

Again.

“Tonight is fibro-friendly,” Michael announces.

“Oh. Okay. Thank you.” What could we possibly be doing outside of town that won’t drain my energy?

I bite my bottom lip, an unexpected swell of emotion crashing through me. Maybe it’s delusional to think I can even date. Someone like Michael—fit, active—would probably be happier with a woman who can keep up with him. I can’t handle more than a walk around the block or a yin yoga session, and there are more soft bits on me than muscle.

“I did my research.” Pride buoys his words. “This will be a calm, no-stress night.”

That makes me relax—until we park in front of what looks like a small fishing shack. Trees crowd around it on two sides, with the beach on another. There’s electricity, at least, and the porch light is on.

But what the heck are we doing here? Are we going out on the water? Exploring the beach at night?

My heart hits my rib cage with the force of a sledgehammer, over and over. It’s too cold on the beach and the water.

Michael turns to me, grinning—until he sees my face. “Shit. What is it?”

I lick my lips and consider just burying my fears and not making a big deal out of anything, but I’ve learned enough to know that will get me nowhere but into a flare. “I’m worried about a repeat of last time.”

“Ah. I see.” He turns to face me more directly, and his scent envelops me in a spicy embrace. “Tell you what. I’ll open the shack’s door, and if you don’t like what you see, we’ll turn right back around and I’ll drop you off at home.”

I nod slowly. He did say that tonight was fibro-friendly, and it would be unfair of me not to give him the benefit of the doubt. Not living with this condition doesn’t mean he can’t understand it.

We leave the truck, and he leads me to the little shack. After Michael unlocks it, the door creaks open, and the sight inside literally takes my breath away.

A big, cozy couch with blankets and throw pillows is pushed against the wall, a small projector on a shelf above it. Serving-size snacks fill a bowl on a coffee table, and twinkle lights give the whole place a soft glow. The space heater is going full blast, and the curtains are closed to keep the rest of the world out.

“Wow,” I breathe, stepping into the room.

“You like it?” His voice comes from so close behind me, I feel a delicious tickle on the back of my neck.

“It’s wonderful.” I nod at the white sheet hanging across from the couch. “Are we watching something?”

“That was my thought. Or we can just hang out. There are snacks, and here’s a cooler with different drinks.” He walks around the room, pointing everything out. “If you’d like something hot, there’s an electric kettle. I can make you tea or hot chocolate.”

I bite into my smile. “Michael…”

“And here’s a footrest.” He pulls it out. “Or you can lie on the couch. I can sit on the floor. Are these enough blankets?” He picks up a stack of at least five.

My grin turns into a laugh. “It’s more than enough. Thank you. So much.”

The gratitude filling my heart is enough to make me cry. Tonight clearly took some time and effort to put together, and being a single dad and a fire chief, he’s probably chronically short on that.

“I wanted to make sure you’re comfortable.” He hangs his coat on a rack and gestures for mine. “And to have an evening where we don’t feel like the whole town is watching.”

“That’s certainly a bonus.” I hand him my coat and settle on one end of the couch.

“I preselected a few shows I thought you might like, but we don’t need to stick with them.” His leg brushes mine as he passes by on the way to the other end of the couch, and electricity crackles under my skin. “There’s a Scandinavian knitting competition that’s dubbed in English, the latest season of The Great British Sewing Bee, or Gravity Falls.”

“Gravity Falls?” I cock my head at him. “Isn’t that a kids show?”

He looks sheepish. “Well, yeah, but one of the characters is constantly knitting. And it’s more like a show for everyone. Katie and I both like it.”

“Sounds good.” Once more, I take in the room—this little oasis that Michael wove together just for us. I want to say thank you again, but I don’t want to cheapen the expression, so I settle with putting it another way. “This is really special.”

He visibly relaxes another degree. “I was so nervous about getting this right. Although…I’m only now realizing that I should have picked at least one show that wasn’t knitting-themed. I know that’s not your whole identity.” He cringes.

“Actually, sometimes it feels like it is. It got me through a really hard time—my symptoms starting and not knowing what I had, my breakup…” The diagnosis, which came after a few years, was welcome, but not the saving grace I’d hoped for.

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