Page 119 of When We Had Forever
“What?” My brows snap together. “Why not?”
“Because you’re clearly not a fan of manual transmissions.”
When I say nothing, he catches my eye. The silence stretches. “That was a joke,” he says.
“Oh.” I know he’s trying to downplay the significance of what’s happening, or maybe trying to let me off easy, but I can’t muster up a chuckle.
“Great.” He sighs. “Well, on that note, I’m not leaving until you do.”
“What? Why not?”
“Because,” he says, “I really don’t feel like abandoning you out here. With the bears.”
My fingers twine in my lap. I realize I need to get out of the car, but this feels so horrifically final. “I still have to clean the cabin, though. The movers are coming today.”
“Okay. Why don’t you pack up and put all your luggage on the porch? I can load Michael’s car for you while you finish up.”
“It’s not Michael’s car anymore. It’s mine.”
He gives me a quizzical look. Fair enough, since I have no idea why I said that. It’s like I’m just trying to keep him here longer.
“Don’t mind me,” I say. “That sounds good. Thanks for the help.”
He leaps out as if he can’t get away from me fast enough. I get out, too. Once in the cabin, I tidy the evidence of my brief tenancy, stacking my suitcase and other belongings outside for Grayson to deal with. His footsteps thump against the porch. I give the furniture a cursory wipe-down, lock up, and stash the key beneath the grizzly.
Before I know it, Grayson is helping me into the Porsche. I start the engine and look up at him through the open window, struck by the mirror image of that day in Seagrove, when I stood beside his car and caught my very first glimpse of him.
He took my breath away that day. And somehow, for all that my heart is splintering into shards right now, I feel like he’s finally giving it back to me, all these years later.
“Bye, Mina.” Grayson leans in through the window and kisses me, softly, with tenderness instead of heat. It only lasts a second. “I love you. Always.”
I don’t have the chance to respond. In another moment, he climbs into his car.
I shift into Drive and ease my foot onto the gas. Tears burst out before I even clear the driveway. In the rearview mirror, the sun crests over the trees.
Only when my sobs finally quiet do I look over at the passenger seat and realize what Grayson has sent with me. I accidentally left it beside his car, but there sits the red lantern, tucked between bags of groceries. As Seagrove looms closer, I glance at it a dozen times or more.
Every time, it feels as though Grayson’s gentle lips are pressed to mine all over again.
I wonder how long it will take me to forget what they feel like.
BEFORE
It’s just another afternoon. Just another grocery run, sandwiched between clothing donation drop-offs and pickup of this week’s dry cleaning.
The grocery store’s fluorescent lights fizz overhead. I inch forward in the checkout line as my mind plods along, calculating the time it will take to get the groceries and dry cleaning home. I still need to get my car to the auto shop before it closes.
Not that my Genesis has issues, but Michael trailed me out to the garage this morning, asking whether Sven had checked over the car recently. My husband insists on regular visits to the most overpriced garage in Seagrove, apparently because Sven does a twenty-four-point “vehicle safety inspection” the other places don’t offer.
Which I don’t exactly love. The visits always leave me carless for an entire day. But there are worse things Michael could obsess about besides my safety, so I humor him, though I do wish he hadn’t chosen today to ask. I have an article due this week about a new eye irrigation lens that will provide an alternative to the standard Morgan. I can always push it until tomorrow, though, provided I can hold my enthusiasm at bay for that long.
The woman in front of me pays, and I push my cart forward. As always, I strike a deal with myself: if I don’t glance at the magazine rack, I can have a bowl of kettle corn after dinner.
I make the same bargain every time. I’ve never confessed to Michael, but it takes concerted effort to keep myself from devouring the color-soaked covers with headlines like “Best Caribbean Islands to Get Lost On” or “Where to Go, Month by Month.”
Today proves more difficult than usual. I wedge my cart into the lane and stack groceries onto the conveyor belt while the magazines stare a heated hole in my back.
I set down a gallon of milk and try to decide on tonight’s dinner. Instead, I end up wondering who exactly pens those headlines. My mind conjures an image of a woman in a French hotel room, emerging onto her balcony with a coffee in hand while birds twitter all around.
