Page 92 of The Beach Trap

•••

There’s no signof Blake by the time I pull up in front of the beach house. I grab my phone to text back, to ask her if we can talk, when a part of her message catches my attention. She mentioned the area beneath the upstairs bathroom.

My stomach feels queasy as I remember how the toilet was running before I left, and I hope that had nothing to do with whatever issue Blake didn’t have time to fix. I tuck my phone back in my purse and head inside.

Outside the front door, I pause, my hand resting on the handle. I think about how important this house has always been to me, but how its meaning and significance have started to change.

At the beginning of the summer the beach house was a link to my past, a way for me to hold on to all the things that felt like they were slipping away. But now it’s also full of potential for new memories, and most important, a connection to Blake. I really hope I didn’t screw it up.

I hold my breath as I push the door open, exhaling as I survey the room. It’s not as bad as I feared, but it doesn’t look good. The furniture has all been pushed to the edges of the room, covered with old sheets, and the floor looks warped. My eyes driftup to the dark circle on the ceiling where I imagine the toilet leaked. All the hard work Blake put into these beautiful floors over the past few months, flushed down the toilet. Literally.

My stomach sinks as I realize that even if I wanted to help make this right—and I do—I wouldn’t know where to begin. Blake’s the one who knows how to work with her hands, how to do hard things. I grew up learning how to throw money at problems—which I can’t afford to do.

I reach for my phone and stare at Blake’s message. Now there’s one more thing on the growing list of things I owe her an apology for. And this one needs more than words. It needs a big gesture. A gesture I won’t be able to pull off on my own.

Henry answers on the first ring. “Hey,” he says, a smile in his voice. “Did you change your mind about coming over?”

I wish I could stay in this moment where I’m just a girl excited to see a guy who’s excited to see her—but hopefully there will be time for that later. For now, I need his help.

“I kind of screwed up,” I tell him.

“Kind of?” Henry asks.

“Kind of majorly,” I admit.

I tell him everything: the running toilet, the flood, the text from Blake, and that I need to try to make it right.

“Can you come over?” I ask, trying not to sound desperate as I finish the story.

“Sunny and I are on our way to Fort Walton,” he says. “I didn’t think you’d be free until later, so—”

“Don’t worry about it,” I say, interrupting him. He doesn’t owe me an explanation.

“I’m not worried aboutit,” he says. “I’m worried aboutyou. But we’ve got a week to make it right. Send me some pictures of the floor and the ceiling before the sun goes down, and I’ll be there tomorrow morning with everything we’ll need.”

I exhale, and it’s like my whole body relaxes with the realization that for the first time in a long time, I’m not alone.

•••

The next morning,I spend a good five minutes staring into my closet, waiting for the perfect outfit to miraculously appear. I want to look hot, but I also want Henry to know I’m taking this seriously, that I’ll be ready to help however I can. Even if that means getting lunch, holding a flashlight, or whatever task is at my nonexistent skill level.

I settle on a pair of distressed Lucky jean shorts and a white tank from Topshop that brings out my tan and has a cute flutter detail around the arms. I throw my hair in a messy bun that hopefully doesn’t look like I meticulously picked which strands to untuck so they fell perfectly framing my face. Which, of course, I did.

The doorbell rings right at ten, and I apply another layer of my go-to Charlotte Tilbury lipstick before running down the stairs.

“Hi,” I say, before the door is all the way open. So much for playing it cool.

“Hi,” Henry says back. He looks effortlessly handsome in a version of the same outfit he wears every day—worn jeans and a short-sleeve plaid shirt. This one is green, and it brings out the warm tones in his eyes.

The corner of his lip twitches into an adorable half smile, and I smile back. We’re just standing there, smiling, until I realize his hands are full, and he probably wants to come inside.

“Oh,” I say, stepping back and holding the door open. “Come in.”

Henry walks through the door, setting down his toolbox and a carry tray with two iced coffees from Dunkin’ Donuts. The man clearly knows my love language.

“Hi,” I say again, taking a timid step toward him. He’s still the Henry I’ve known for years, I remind myself. The Henry who has been my touchstone, my friend, and my support the last few months. Just because we shared a few kisses doesn’t mean things have to be uncomfortable.

“Hi,” he says back, taking a step toward me. There are now mere inches between us. I inhale the familiar scent of his cologne and wonder if he thought of me this morning when he was putting it on.

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