Page 20 of More With You

I’m about to reply, but the line is already dead. Drawing it away from my ear, I stare at the screen, trying to figure out what on Earth could’ve happened. If it was bad enough to pull him from our date, I’m sure he’ll tell me later. I’m just not looking forward to waiting and clock-watching, wondering when he’s going to be here.

He’s not like them, I remind myself as I get to my feet, picking up the crawfish and beer. There’s no use sitting out on the little bay. It’s not romantic alone, and my porch is calling to me once more.

With a lesser spring in my step, I head over to the cottage, leaping over a trickling rivulet to get to the garden. Swinging the bag as I walk up the lawn to the house, something comes back to me, hitting me like a wrecking ball to the skull. Since it came from Levi, my brain must’ve buried it, but with my mind working overtime, I guess the dirt got kicked off.

“Speaking of fun, I can’t wait until your parents get back from Italy with Grace. Cybil’s going to love meeting Summer.” Those were his exact words, and the smug, “I know something you don’t know” expression on his face after he said it is still stamped into my brain. I don’t know why I missed it earlier. Maybe, I was too busy admiring Ben’s art or kissing him like I’d never kiss him again.

Stopping dead in my tracks, I stare ahead at the porch, and a tremulous whisper slips from my mouth, “Who the hell is Grace?”

BEN

Like black paint spilled on a canvas, I can make this right. It will be painstaking, it will take time, and it won’t be easy, but I can fix this. I have to. I’ve only just found her, and I’m not letting them get in the way of this. I haven’t been this happy in a long time, and I won’t lose her. I can’t, when the magic is only just beginning. Let me fix it, Summer. Please.

8

SUMMER

He arrives like a summer storm. Exactly when he’s ready, not when he’s expected. I’m half-asleep when the change in the atmosphere drifts over my body, stirring me back to a full awakening. The air thickens, my skin tingles, my senses shift to a higher plane of focus. My eyelids snap open, and I hear the babble of the TV—some trashy movie I don’t remember starting.

“Ben?” I whisper into the dim glow of the hurricane lanterns I repurposed into lamps.

No one answers, but I can feel him. He’s a thunderhead rushing along the Gulf. He’s the metallic scent before a storm.

I scrabble around for my phone and find it on the floor, where it must’ve dropped out of my longing hand as I napped. There aren’t any messages. He didn’t say when he’d be over, just that he would. I suppose I gave up at some point, relinquishing myself to deep rest and dreams where he didn’t up and leave. Although, as it turned out, he did leave a note on the gate. He just didn’t fasten it on very well. It tore and fluttered a short distance along the road, where I found it, caught like a downed butterfly.

I have to bail. Something big came up at my parents’ house. I’m so sorry. Will make it up to you when I come back. I’m already thinking about it. Ben x

He’d given as much away in his penmanship as he had with his voice, so I’ve been waiting patiently for him to come here and explain in a way I’ll understand. Not just about the incident that took him away, but about Grace.

Grace… I realize I’d almost forgotten, despite the name sticking in my head like a barb since I thought about Levi’s parting words. There’s nothing subtle about that asshole, so he wouldn’t throw a random name into the conversation without wanting to gain something out of it. But what?

I check the clock and my eyebrows shoot up in surprise. It’s nearly half-past-three in the morning. I’ve been asleep longer than I thought, but I guess I can’t blame my brain for wanting to switch off. Since trudging back in with a half-empty bag of crawfish (they’re now in my fridge, though I’ve got no idea what to do with them), I might’ve guzzled down the rest of the beers, in an attempt to slow down my racing thoughts.

Though, they’re back with a vengeance now.

Who is Grace? Is she his sister? He didn’t mention having a sister, but families are funny like that. Maybe she’s, like, the prodigal daughter or something. Maybe his parents aren’t in Italy, and they went to pick his sister up from rehab or something. He doesn’t know me well enough to get into something like that, if that’s the case. It’s not like I’ve told him about my mom or my grandma in any detail. Plus, it might explain why he had to run off so urgently. They might’ve come home early, or his sister was struggling outside of a facility.

Or, maybe she’s… an ex-wife? He’s thirty-six. It’s not out of the question. Again, he didn’t mention being married before, but we’ve only just met each other. Sure, it’s probably the kind of thing you should start with, but it’s not a deal-breaker. Is it? No, I don’t think it is. Unless… well, why would his ex-wife be in Italy with his parents? Yeah, I’m going to drive myself crazy until I know for sure.

I close my eyes and inhale deeply. Meditative breaths in, shaky breaths out.

My eyes fly open again. It’s not that I smell him. How could I? But it’s like the sense of him being near transforms into scent, bringing the aroma of his salty, soapy skin to my nose.

“Ben?” I repeat for a second time, my gaze trained on the back door. There’s a rectangle of flowery fabric over the window in the door, and the drapes are pulled across the windows facing the porch, so I can’t see anyone out there. I can’t hear anyone, either. The boards are so old that even the lightest footstep sounds like a drum section, which usually puts me at ease for security reasons. Now, however, I’m on edge. My forearms prickle into goosebumps; the soft hairs on the back of my neck sticking up.

I jump out of my skin as a knock echoes through the cottage. Only, it’s not coming from the back door. Sometimes, I forget I even have a front door. I never use it, and no one ever stops by, so it’s not like I expect guests.

Pulling my gray, woolen cardigan tighter around myself, and sliding my feet into the fluffy slippers on the floor, I pad toward the front door. I’m anxiously aware that it’s 3AM and I probably shouldn’t be answering the door, but my gut tells me I’m going to want to open it.

If it’s you, Ben, you’re getting the raw, everyday version of me. I changed out of the date clothes a long time ago, feeling awkward and a bit sad with them on. So, he’s going to have to deal with leggings, t-shirt, hair in a bun, sleepy faced me. The realest me he’s likely to find, and though I hoped he’d see me this way after joining me in my bed all night, I guess this’ll have to do.

I reach the door. “Who is it?”

I’m not so eager to see him that I’d risk opening the door to someone else.

I hear a relieved sigh. “Summer, it’s me.”

“Who’s “me”? I’m a woman alone. You could be anyone,” I tease, though I’d be able to pick out his voice in the midst of a lively cocktail party. Hearing him, I forget all about “Grace” and Levi.

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