Page 35 of The Jilted Lovers Club
We eat in silence for a while, the sound of crunching crackers competing with lapping water and the call of a nearby osprey. Cars drive overhead on the bridge, the sound of their tires echoing along the banks. I do my best to let go of my shame just so I can take in this moment. When was the last time I enjoyed the sounds of nature like this? When have I enjoyed nature, period? I’ve always loved the fast pace of New York, the constant sound of car horns, the shush of garbage trucks, and the echoes of people calling out on the street. It’s like this incredible symphony, a cacophony of sound that is never the same from one moment to the next.
But here, I can think. It’s both relieving and terrifying. For the first time, I feel myself take a breath in, and then feel myself exhale. And it’s just that. Breathe in. Breathe out. Feel.
“I fucking love this,” I murmur, almost involuntarily.
“Me too,” Ashton whispers. I turn to him, and he looks back at me. He takes my hand, and my breath catches in my chest. “Lay back,” he says.
I lie back on my board, watching the clouds drift across the sky. For the first time in a long time, I let myself just exist. No expectations. No pressure. No deadlines. Just me, a sky full of moving clouds, and Ashton’s hand in mine.
His thumb brushes the back of my palm, slow and deliberate. I stay perfectly still, afraid that if I move, I’ll give myself away.
“Look at the sky,” he murmurs, “and just listen.”
I do.
I hear the water. The wind. A far-off radio playing music somewhere down the way. I hear my own breath, and I hear his.
I feel more alive in this moment than I ever have in my life.
Paddling upstream is a lot harder than drifting with the current. I start out on my feet, but exhaustion quickly wins out. Sitting cross-legged, I treat the paddle board like a canoe, dipping my paddle from side to side in slow, steady strokes.
We pass fishermen casting from the banks, each offering a lazy wave as we paddle by. Rowing teams glide past us, their oars slicing clean through the water while the vocal guy in the back—the coxswain, as Ashton calls him—barks encouragement. Riverfront houses come into view, their porches dotted with couples sipping coffee, watching us drift along like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
And maybe it is.
Is this what small towns feel like? A rhythm you fall into without even realizing it?
Lahoma Springs is starting to feel like more than just a detour. It’s starting to feel like a place I don’t want to leave.
And after all I’ve worked for to get to where I am, this is not a feeling I want to entertain.
Lahoma’s Resident Artist
Ashton
It’s both a brilliant plan to get Jordy out on the water—and a near disaster.
Why?
That fucking bikini.
I’ve never seen a woman look that good in so little clothing. The way my swim trunks do absolutely nothing to hide my reaction is almost comical, and by the way she glances down toward my cock, she definitely notices.
But come on, a woman like Jordyhasto know how hot she is. And a guy would have to be dead not to look.
Still, if I have any chance of keeping my dignity, I need to get her out of the water and into a few more layers.
Unfortunately, I’m not ready to be done with her yet.
“Where are we going?” she asks as we climb the ramp back up from the dock.
“You wanted to see Lahoma,” I say, “so I’m showing you Lahoma.”
“But what does that mean, exactly?”
She grins at me—those long lashes, those brown eyes, that smirk—and I feel like I’ve just stepped into a puddle of mush.
“You’ll have to wait and see.”
