Page 99 of Backslide
Big-ticket items like wetsuits and bathing suits; small-ticket items like playing cards and old-school bulk candy. There are neon woven beach blankets that need to be mine.
I am ready to pounce. But before I can step toward it all, a young woman—in a hoodie and board shorts—steps out from the back, sees us, and gasps.
“Oh, no!” she says. “You’re all wet.”
“Are we?” deadpans Noah. He winks at her and that’s all it takes.
She giggles. And it’s annoying to me that he is so adorable that even twenty-five-year-olds are still in his demo.
“One second,” she says, flustered. “Don’t move.”
“I don’t think I could if I wanted to.”
She reappears minutes later with plush towels, and it’s a bit like trying to staunch a gunshot wound with a miniature Band-Aid. But at least we can wander around now without creating puddles.
I let Noah handle the room situation with her at the counter while I examine all the adorable things, and I am smelling a candlescented like “moonbeams” when he appears beside me again. It’s like I can sense him there before I see him—like I have Noah radar.
“There’s space,” he says.
“Oh, good,” I breathe, though my pulse jumps. I regard him warily. “How much space?”
“It’s one suite, but it has two bedrooms.”
One suite. Two bedrooms. I can handle that! After all, that’s our thing.
I try not to think about how truly tiny the tiny houses appeared.
The restaurant is indeed closed, so Emmy, the woman who is working the shop, takes us over to a tucked-away fridge and freezer area stocked with all sorts of ingredients for all sorts of dinners.
“The houses have full kitchens,” she explains.
“Do they have full chefs?” I ask.
She looks confused. This zone is irony-free.
I turn to Noah: “I do not cook,” I say without apology.
“I don’t cook either,” he says. “Pasta?”
We buy penne and marinara sauce, some fresh veggies sourced from a nearby farmstand, and several Charleston Chews—which feature prominently in my summer camp memories. I grab two toothbrushes and toothpaste, and we’re good to go. Except we are drenched. Which feels like the perfect excuse to buy some replacement clothes and, within moments of stepping into our house for the night, I run into the bathroom and change into dry sweatpants, a cozy T-shirt, and socks that are fluffy like a Pomeranian. They are buttery soft, and I have never been happier.
The look inside the homes is mid-century with modern touches. The cottages themselves are gray and slatted, with giant picture windows and cream-colored Adirondack chairs parked out front, facing the sea. Inside, atop bleached wood floors that I am deeply hoping I didn’t ruin with my soggy sandals, there is a cushy couch in front of a gas fireplace, a granite kitchen island, and a vintage 1950s-stylemustard-yellow fridge and matching turquoise microwave. In the back I find a single bathroom (gulp) and two bedrooms, as promised—a primary and, just above up a short staircase, a lofted option with a low ceiling, probably designed with kids in mind.
It all feels thoughtful but unfussy. Like these are rooms that families are supposed to use but also love.
I immediately fall for this place, hard. I can’t believe how much they’ve fit into this tight space without it feeling cluttered. Which is why, instead of ruminating about which bedroom I should take, I flop on the couch, flip on the fireplace, and am already snuggled beneath a fleece throw when Noah emerges from the bathroom in his matching outfit.
He should look silly, right? Or at least basic in a random tee and sweats. After all, we are twinning. Instead, he looks top notch. Like he has just toweled off after a refreshing swim.
His hair is still damp and is just long enough to be ruffled. He is lean, not bulky. Not overly worked out. But the T-shirt is maybe the slightest bit snug across his chest, which only accentuates his cut arms. And when he reaches up to run the towel over his hair and the stubble on his jaw one last time, his shirt rises to reveal a sliver of firm abs and twin indentations leading down to… places I shouldn’t be thinking about.
I’m thrown back in time to our first real conversation in Ben’s parents’ kitchen again. When he reached for a cereal bowl, and I was distracted by a similar sight.
Only this time it’s way worse. Because they didn’t sell underwear at the store—or at least we didn’t think to look. So, I am painfully aware that there is nothing under his sweats.
I am also commando. And braless.
I pull the blanket up higher.
