Page 53 of Kissing the Beach Town Fire Chief
“Did you…?” I begin, and then she sees the new doormat.Welcome back, stitched in navy. A small vase of daisies on the rail, stubborn and cheerful. I can hear the little gasp which is adorable. She’s definitely still my Ami!
She pulls keys from her pocket and presses one into my palm. “Front and back. In case I lock myself out. Or in. Or you want to beat me to the coffee.”
I stare at the key like it might burn through my skin. “You sure?”
“I’m sure,” she says. “This is my house. And I want you in it.”
We step inside, and it’s like walking into a memory that decided to open the windows. The floors glow. The windows are washed. There’s a jar of seashells on the entry table and a list by the phone in Ami’s careful script:plumber Tuesday, porch swing bolts, paint samples—sea glass, heron gray, sand dune.
“You’ve been busy,” I say, grinning.
“Aunt Maggie’s fault,” she says. “She recruited half the street. Don’t open the freezer—I think she stocked it for a hurricane.”
My chest loosens and loosens until I don’t know how it ever felt tight. “Ami?”
“Hm?”
“I missed you.”
She laughs quietly. “I missed you too.”
We wander from room to room, making the kind of plans you only make when you can finally see next month without flinching. Front parlor to be her writing studio—north light, quiet in the afternoons, a door that shuts so the whole world knows when words are happening. Back bedroom for guests—Aunt Maggie’s inspection face appears like a ghost in both our imaginations, and we decide on an actual bed frame instead of the terrible futon. The kitchen—paint the cabinets or leave them? She votes sea glass. I vote her laugh.
We find the porch swing in the shed with its chains neatly coiled, and decide that will be our first project. We measure. We argue. We call a truce and pencil inSaturday—Swingon her list.
On the coffee table, her notebook lies open. A scribble from Aunt Maggie:A town doesn’t change because one person wins an election. It changes because a hundred small hands keep choosing it.My throat tightens.
“Book two?” I ask.
She nods. “And book one is finally real. Contracts signed. They want more. And I want… this.” Her eyes sweep the room. “Words here. Life here.”
“Good,” I say again, because it’s the only word that fits.
We take the long way to the beach, because some things deserve a proper approach. The sky is turning copper, water catching fire in layers, wind off the water like a benediction.
“Can I ask you something?” I say as we crest the dune.
“You can ask me anything.”
“Were you scared? Leaving the job. The city. All of it.”
Ami laughs softly, and the sound is braver than any answer. “Terrified,” she says. “I made a list of everything I could lose and then another list of everything I’d lose if I didn’t come back. The second list won.”
“What was on it?” I ask.
She looks at me like I already know. “You,” she says simply. “And the version of me that only shows up here. The one who isn’t always racing the clock. The one who doesn’t apologize for wanting small-town life and big feelings.”
We stop at the waterline. She slips her sandals off and digs her toes into the cold sand like she’s grounding a circuit. “I need to say something out loud, Ethan,” she adds, turning to me. “I didn’t come home to trap you or to speed anything up. I came home because I finally know what I want, and it’s not louder or shinier—it’s steadier. If forever with you is slow and paint-splattered and full of porch projects and town drama and helping Aunt Maggie save an old mural, then that’s my kind of epic.”
Something in me loosens that I didn’t realize I’d been holding since the day she left. I take both her hands and pull her close until the only horizon is her eyes.
“I love you,” I say, because waiting for the perfect moment is a kind of hiding. “I love you in the morning when the bay is slateand the gulls sound like rusty hinges. I love you when you argue with paint swatches and when you write until your hand aches. I love you when you make the whole town go quiet because you found the exact right words for something none of us could name.” I swallow. “I want a future with you. Not just summers. All of it.”
She exhales, shaky and certain. “I love you too,” she whispers. “And I want all of it. I want the swing and the studio and your coffee and the station’s siren at 3 a.m. I want Aunt Maggie’s lemon bars and Mrs. O’Hara’s gossip and whatever we decide to do with that ridiculous patch of lawn that only grows weeds.”
“Native grasses,” I say, mock offended.
“Please,” she says, grinning, tears glittering. “We both know you’re planting tomatoes in a week.”
