Page 96 of The Beach Trap

•••

When I reachmy car—where the dog is waiting, windows rolled down—my phone dings. It’s a voice text from Noah. My heart does a strange gallop in my chest, painful and sharp; it’s the first I’ve heard from him since he left Destin. I take a deep, steadying breath before pressing play.

“Hi, Blake,”he says.“I just wanted to send you a quick message and I figured this was easier than typing it out. I— Well...”

He clears his throat. There’s a pause long enough that my heartstarts climbing in my chest, hoping he’s going to say something about me, about us, and I swear to myself that if he does, I’ll call him back and tell him I miss him, that I made a gigantic, stupid mistake and I want to figure out a way to be with him.

“I’m in Boston with my family,”he says, and my heart plummets.“I was nervous to reach out to my parents, but... it’s been okay. Not perfect, but okay. I’m not sure what that means for the future, but we’re talking about possible job options with the company. Anyway, I—I wanted to tell you thanks for giving me the nudge to do this.”

There’s another long pause.“I hope you’re doing well. Take care of yourself, Blake.”

The message ends and I stare at my phone.

Carefully, I type a reply:I’m happy for you. I’m in Minnesota helping my granddad move into his new place. Good luck, Noah.

Then I pocket my phone, exhale slowly, and get in the car.

•••

The next afternoon,I’m driving into Destin, like I did all those weeks ago. Just like then, I can’t help appreciating the beauty of this place. But unlike the last time I drove across this bridge, now I know what’s awaiting me at the beach house.

As I head down Old 98, a heavy weight descends on my shoulders. I’ll have to finish the repairs on the house as soon as possible so I can sell it; I won’t have the money to pay the second month of Granddad’s facility until I do. The dog starts racing back and forth across the back seat in excitement when I pull up to the beach house.

“Hate to break it to you, bud,” I say, “but this isn’t going to be super fun.”

I still haven’t heard anything from Kat, so at this point I’m assuming she either didn’t come back to the house last week, andtherefore has no idea about the flood, or she took one look at it and turned around and drove back to Atlanta. Away from all the mess.

To be honest, that’s exactly what I’d do if I could. Still, my stomach aches with the realization that she abandoned me, without a word.

Shaking that off, I mentally run through a list of the tasks I need to accomplish this week—refinish the floor, reinstall the baseboards, touch up the paint. Redoing it all for the second time will feel like torture.

But when I walk into the house, I gasp.

It’sgorgeous.

The floors are gleaming, golden honey. The kitchen is staged and shining, with fresh flowers on the counter and a delicate citrus scent in the air. The living room looks like something out of a magazine—throw pillows on the couches, a soft blanket draped across the accent chair, an assortment of vintage books about Destin on the coffee table. The original dining room table has been salvaged and polished, set with woven place mats that bring it a beachy vibe, white and blue stoneware that I recognize from the kitchen cabinets, with polished silver candlesticks and more fresh flowers as a centerpiece. It’s the perfect blend of classic and modern, cozy and inviting.

All the weight drops from my shoulders. Kat has done an amazing job. I can hardly believe she got all this done in a week—she must have worked nonstop.

There’s a noise behind me and I jump, startled. It’s Kat, walking down the stairs.

“You’re here?” I say, stupidly.

Kat stumbles forward as words pour from her mouth: “I am so, so sorry for leaving the toilet running—I promise I didn’t mean to do it.”

It’s hard to be upset about that, because looking around now, you’d never know it even happened.

“I’m sorry for what happened with Noah,” I say. “It’s over, by the way. It was over that night at Boshamps.”

Kat’s eyes flash with shame. “You didn’t have to—”

“It wouldn’t have worked out with us,” I say.

Silence descends again, and Kat glances at the ground. We’re both dancing around each other, dancing around the history between us, a legacy of lies and miscommunication.

“Well,” Kat says, clearing her throat. “I’ll clear out and let you have some space.”

“We should probably talk about next steps for the house, right?”

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