Page 31 of More With You

Ben.

P.S. Turn over.

I do as he’s asked, breathless with the desire to run to this man and never let him go. Daughter and all. Sure, he says he’s not a poet, but the letter feels pretty damn poetic to me. I know because, if anyone else wrote me a letter like that, my insides would scrunch up in the deepest cringe, but his words are making those insides melt.

But there’s more.

I know you’ve got a lot to think about, but if you think there’s a chance for us, come to the dock out front of the yacht club at 7:30, on your next day off. Text me the day. You don’t have to text anything else, and I won’t take it as a sign that you’ll be there. But I will, and I’ll wait in hope.

Holding the letter and the painting flush to my stomach, I get up off the porch steps and head back inside. At the side-table where I leave the letters I don’t want to open, I prop up the picture frame and stare at it for a minute, before placing the envelope in front of it. All of a sudden, I’m tired, and I want nothing more than my bed, where I hope some clarity will come.

So, that’s where I go, and as I snuggle down under the covers, I open my phone and go to my messages. I don’t hesitate as I type “Sunday” to Ben and press send. As he says, it’s not confirmation of anything. Besides, my next day off is four days away. A lot can change in four days.

The trouble is, I know one thing won’t.

BEN

It’s there when I get home. A single word on my phone screen. Sunday. Sure, it’s not as soon as I’d like, but she’s a busy woman. I like that about her. She’s industrious, she’s sharp, she’s independent, she’s… Summer. I’ve only scratched the surface of her, and I know I said I wouldn’t take her reply as an indication of what’s going on in her mind, but I’ll say this… I’ve got a good feeling that I might not have royally screwed it all up, after all.

I guess I’ll find out on Sunday.

12

SUMMER

Good luck! Don’t you pull no punches now, honey. Be blunt and just know that Ms. T will be waiting for you, come hell or high water. I smile at the text, letting it bolster me for the evening to come. Frankly, I’m terrified. If this were a normal date, I’d be nervous enough, but this isn’t going to be an ordinary date. More of a “This is Your Life” kind of thing.

I check the clock. It’s nearly seven, so I’ve got time, but I’m too antsy to stick around inside the four walls of my cottage. Anyway, it won’t hurt to be early. I can grab a drink at the yacht club if I need to, to take the edge off my razor-sharp anxiety.

Smoothing down the front of my off-white maxi dress, dotted with sunflowers, with a row of tortoiseshell buttons that go from hem to neckline, I take a last look at myself in the mirror.

My blonde hair is half-up, half-down. I don’t know if I’m trying to give myself the appearance of innocence, but I do resemble the wholesome country girl I’m definitely not. The nervous flush of pink in my cheeks and the spray of freckles that’s been brought out by the sun adds to the effect, but I don’t mind it. I’m just glad I’m not looking more ghoulish after the equivalent of four whole days locked inside a casino where actual daylight is a thing of fantasy.

What would I do without you, Ms. T? I text back as I head out of the door and up the overgrown path to my car.

My phone buzzes. Lord knows, sweetheart. There’s a laughing face emoji after it, and it brings a much-needed smile to my face as I fire up the engine and set off for the yacht club.

* * *

It’s quarter-past seven by the time I make my way down the long dock that juts out from the yacht club, with a bottle of water in hand. I could’ve gone for something stronger but decided to keep my wits about me instead. Dutch courage is all well and good, but there’s a fine line between confident and drunk, and I want a clear head for when I see Ben again.

“How has it been over a week already?” I shake my head in disbelief. Our date in the bridge booth and at Lucky’s, sucking on crawfish heads, then what happened after, could’ve been a year ago. Time has distorted itself in Ben’s absence.

Still, with my grandma’s bills weighing heavy on my mind, and my bank balance, I’ve put the hiatus to good use. John agreed to double my shifts, so I’ve spent the last four days working splits—9am to 4pm, then 8pm to 2am. So far, it’s not so bad, though I’m definitely not getting my eight hours of beauty sleep. Anyway, I can deal with a bit more darkness under my eyes when the tips are good, and last night paid off big time. Not only did I get the early birds (who’d actually been there since Friday night and were still in high, generous spirits), but I got the fresh, Saturday night high rollers, too.

My footsteps echo on the wooden planks as I make my way toward the end of the dock, peering down at the water that swirls and froths through the narrow gaps. There aren’t any boats moored here, right now, and I don’t see any sign of Ben. After a week of me shunning him, maybe he’s had a change of heart.

Reaching the end, I sit down and dangle my legs off the edge, swinging them back and forth like I’m a kid again. It’s peaceful out here on a Sunday evening, especially knowing I don’t have to be at work until midday tomorrow. I’m not sure why I haven’t come here before.

Content to feel the warm breeze on my face, I close my eyes and hum to myself, letting the ocean whisk away my nerves and fears.

I’m so invested in my inner sense of peace that I mistake the shift in the water’s gentle lapping for ordinary, ocean noise. It’s only when I hear the definite chug of an engine that my eyes fly open, and I see the boat coming toward the dock. It’s a small motor boat of some kind, without a sail. An older model, by the looks of it, but working just fine. I’ve seen countless like it, out on the water, though I’ve never partaken. For that, I’d have to have friends with boats, and since I’ve only got Ms. T, the opportunity hasn’t come along. She can’t swim and hates the ocean as anything more than something pretty to look at.

Expertly, the boat swings around and reverses up to the side of the dock, where two foamy bumpers stop the sleek body from colliding. Water surges up from the motor, before calming again as the engine dies.

A familiar figure pulls himself up from the sheltered part of the boat—a wheelhouse of sorts—and strides over the narrow deck, before jumping clean over the side with a rope in hand. He ties it off on one of the mooring posts, using an elaborate knot that probably has a name, but I don’t know it.

Shit… Why does he have to look so damn good, all the time? Today, his uniform consists of a crisp white t-shirt and black board shorts: his feet bare. As the breeze catches the fabric of his t-shirt, I can see every contour of his hard, sculpted body, drawing my gaze across ridged abs, his broad chest, and up to his corded neck that I’d give anything to kiss.

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