Page 77 of Summer Romance

My dad takesmy kids to the reception at the inn. I don’t need to tell him where I’m going. He knows.

I’m going to tell Ethan that I’m sorry, that it’s not over. I’m going to tell him that I know who he is, and that I know he can be that person anywhere, that we’ll figure it out. I don’t know why I never told him I loved him. In the agony of the past two weeks, the one thing I’ve been sure of is thatI will never feel this way about another person again. He was it. When I’m Phyllis’s age I will remember this summer and the way it changed my heart. And if he doesn’t want to believe me, it’s fine. I just need to tell him.

I pull up in front of Ethan’s house and his car is not in the driveway. There are two other cars, and a guy is standing on a ladder looking at the gutters. A woman in a sensible suit is checking things off a list. TheFor Salesign is gone. I catch my breath and rest my head on my steering wheel.It’s just a house,I tell myself. But it’s an ending. It’s the end of the summer I’ve just spent there and the end of Ethan coming back here. Even when he visits his parents for the holidays, he’ll be going to Florida. Frannie’s the last Hogan in Beechwood.

I wipe the tears off my cheeks with the back of my hand and make my way toward the inn. I slow down as I pass the skate park, delusional that I’ll find him there on the half-pipe in his divorce-day suit. The inn is the last possible place he could be, unless he’s left town already. The thought gives me an empty, sick feeling in my stomach. I picture Ethan driving home to Devon to get back to his actual life. In a different life, I would be getting on the highway with him.

I park at the dog park rather than at the inn because I don’t want to get blocked in, and I could use a little fresh air. I walk across the park in my sandals and feel the dry grass of summer’s end brush against my feet. I pass the spot where Ferris picked Ethan for me, and I tell myself it was worth it. I wouldn’t go back and unlove Ethan in order to not be feeling the broken way I’m feeling right now. I’d do it again.

I get to the end of the dog park and walk through the gate to the inn. It’s hot, and I could really use a breeze. Even the flag that usually flaps over the inn droops in the thick, still air. To its right I see something hanging over the railing of the widow’s walk. I think it’s a blanket, but when my eyes focus, I see it’s a suit jacket. Next to it are two forearms resting on the rail, clutching a beer. I would know those golden forearms anywhere. I race behind the inn and around to the side where the narrow stairwell has been bolted shut forever, and the door is open. I climb the steps more slowly than I want to because of my shoes and take them off halfway and run. When I throw open the door to the landing, he’s there looking out at the water.

We are very high up. Of course I knew this, but I’ve never been up here to get a real sense of it. There’s no breeze at all, and everything seems perfectly still. In front of me, I can see all the way to Long Island. Behind me, I can see all the way to the end of town. In this stillness, I am feeling clear on everything.

He turns and sees me holding my shoes. “Hey,” he says.

I walk over to him, but I don’t touch him. We both turn back to the railing and watch the tide roll out as I catch my breath.

“It was a nice funeral,” he says.

“Yes.”

“It’s going to be hard for you without her. She was a big part of your life.”

“Yes,” I say again. But it was worth it. I’d make eggs for Phyllis and sneak vanilla pudding into her refrigerator all over again, knowing I’d miss her like this today. Becausethat’s what life is—joy peppered by loss. It’s why you get a dog. And then you get another dog. Madness repeating itself just to get another taste of joy. I turn to him and don’t say any of this. “It’s weird there’s no breeze up here.”

“Yeah. Everything feels kind of stuck.”

“Yeah.” Someone goes by on a kayak. There are sailboats out in the distance. I want to ask him if I can touch his hand. Or if we could take a walk. I want to know if I could spend one more day with him before he goes because there’s value in a single good day.

“You’re really great at talking about the weather,” he says finally.

“It’s a gift,” I say.

He looks out at the water.

“I’m sorry. I was wrong,” I say.

“No kidding.” He takes a sip of his beer. I want him to turn to me, to invite me in.

“This has been really hard,” I say.

We watch the water. A pair of paddleboarders are passing Pelican Island. “Did you really think I was just going to let this go?” he asks.

“You didn’t really have a choice.”

“You always have a choice, Ali. You broke your promise.”

“I know,” I say. “I broke my own heart too.”

I’m looking for some way back in. Like some sign that he’ll give me today, or this week, or the rest of the summer. But he’s not reaching out to me. His body language is closed. He stares at the water, and I feel shut out.

Desperate, I ask, “How long will you be here?”

“How long do you want me to be here?”

“As long as possible.”

He doesn’t say anything.

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