Page 87 of Bewitched By the Sea Monster
I can patch things up in the morning. But should I?
These thoughts had bounced around in my head all night. They’d first invaded when Jackson, dressed in black jeans and a mint green polo shirt, left for dinner, muttering that I should “not bother waiting up.”They’d staged an assault as I sat on our bed, crying until my eyes hurt, and they’d chased me into my sleep and haunted my dreams. And they continued to drill into my brain when I woke up and blearily looked at the clock on the wall.
The midnight hour had come and gone.
And Jackson was nowhere.
His side of the bed was undisturbed, and his clothes were strewn where he’d left them. In the bathroom his cologne, shaving cream, toothbrush, lint roller, and comb remained scattered over the sink. He never tidied after himself. Didn’tneed to, really. I usually hit the bathroom after him and put everything away.
I hadn’t done that tonight, though.
And he hadn’t come back to set anything straight.
Anything.His stuff. Or our fight.
Near seven hours now, since he’d gone.
Did he even wantto set things straight?
Did I?
We’ll be okay.
It was around that time, sniffling in our empty cottage, that I got myself together, shimmied into a red swirl blouse and jean capris, and left. To go meet Alistair.
And when Jackson came back tonight—ifhe came back…
Let him worry.
It was a nice night. Warm, with a breeze that was still a little too sticky, and a lot too salty, for my taste. But it felt less like the sweltering sauna that it had been the last few days. Or maybe my internal body temperature had cooled. The epic crying session had wiped out the negative emotions I’d been frothing over.
Either way, it was almost pleasant, climbing down the cliff path, and sitting, once I’d gone as low as I dared, to wait for Alistair.
It would’ve beenmorepleasant if those barbarous thoughts had stopped ravaging my brain.
What have I done?
Why did I do it?
I’ve been saying how much I want to go home. If I keep this up, I might nothavea home by the time we leave here.
And that brought on the waterworks again.
I felt him several seconds before he called my name. His hope was soft and delicate as it reached for me, like a ribbon of fine silk.
“Pippi?” Alistair murmured.
“I’m”—a watery hitch fractured my words—“here.”
A pause. Then, “You’re c-c-crying?” he said in the tenderest voice.
“Y-y-yes.” And I cried harder.
Because the sound of my tears had left him in turmoil.
And his turmoil fanned mine.
It was a vicious cycle.
