Page 23 of Say When
Jake
Fall deepens in Silver Ridge until the air carries the sharp bite of woodsmoke and wet leaves. The ocean still rolls in steadily and gray, but the tourists have gone, leaving the streets quiet and the beaches empty except for locals.
Grace’s rental cottage lease ended two weeks ago. She never renewed it. Instead, she packed the last of her boxes, stacked them beside mine in the truck bed, and we drove them across town to the small bungalow on Maple Street we bought together a month ago.
The house sits at the end of a short lane lined with maple trees that blaze red and gold this time of year. It’s a classic coastal cottage— a single story, white clapboard siding weathered soft by salt wind, wraparound porch with a swing that creaks when the breeze moves it, small yard fenced with white pickets and climbing roses that still bloom in stubborn bursts of pink even now. Three bedrooms, one bath, wide-plank pine floors that groan underfoot like they’re telling stories. Thekitchen has a big farmhouse sink and windows that look straight out to the dunes and the sea beyond.
Grace cried the first time we walked through it. They were happy tears, she said, though I saw the fear flickering behind them. She still worries sometimes that good things come with expiration dates.
We moved in on Saturday when the sky was the color of old denim, and the wind smelled like rain that never quite arrived. I carried the heavy boxes while she directed traffic with a clipboard and a determined expression that made me want to kiss her senseless. Liv showed up with pizza and beer, helped us unload the truck, then disappeared when the sun dipped low so we could have the house to ourselves.
Now it’s Sunday evening. The porch swing creaks under us as we sit wrapped in a warm blanket. Grace leans against my chest, legs tucked under her, left hand resting on my thigh. The new ring on her finger catches the last of the daylight. It’s a simple platinum band with tiny waves etched inside. She twists it absently, a habit she’s developed since I slid it on her finger.
The bungalow glows behind us. Lamps burn in the living room, warm yellow light spilling through the windows onto the porch boards. Inside, books line the shelves we built. Her scarves hang on hooks by the door. My surfboards lean against the wall in the spare room that we’re slowly turning into an office.
I press my mouth to her temple. “You’re quiet.”
She tilts her head back to look at me. “Just thinking.”
“About?”
“How fast everything changed.” Her voice is soft, almost wondering. “Three months ago, I was driving into town with no plan except surviving the summer. Now I live here, with you, in our house, while wearing your ring. It feels like a dream I’m afraid to wake up from.”
I tighten my arm around her shoulders. “It’s not a dream.”
“I know.” She turns the ring again. “But sometimes I still wait for the other shoe to drop. For someone to tell me I don’t belong here?—"
I cut her off with a kiss. When I pull back, I rest my forehead against hers.
“You belong here,” I say quietly. “In this house with me, in our bed every night, and my arms every morning. You belong in the kitchen, burning toast and laughing when I try to save it. You belong on the porch swing watching the sunset and on the beach walking barefoot at dawn. You belong in every room we’ve already filled with our things and every room we’ll fill together. You belong to me, Grace. Full stop.”
Her eyes shimmer. She blinks the tears away and smiles instead. “You always make things sound so simple.”
“It is simple.” I brush my thumb across her cheek. “I love you. You love me. We chose each other. The rest is just living.”
She exhales shakily, then turns in my arms until she’s straddling my lap on the swing. The blanket slips to our waists. Her hands frame my face, thumbs stroking my beard.
“I love you,” she whispers.
I slide my hands under her sweater, palms flat against the warm skin of her back. “Good, because I’m not letting you go.”
She kisses me then, full of everything we’ve fought through to reach this moment. I kiss her back with the same hunger, same tenderness, tasting the salt of her tears and the sweetness of her smile. My hands roam up her spine, down to her hips, pulling her closer until she rocks against me with a soft gasp.
“Inside,” she breathes against my mouth. “Bed. Now.”
I stand with her wrapped around me, legs locked at my waist, arms around my neck. She laughs low in her throat when I carry her through the front door, kicking it shut behind us. The houseis warm, lamps glowing in the living room, the faint scent of apple pie still lingering in the air.
We don’t make it to the bedroom.
I set her on the kitchen island, the same one where I took her slow and deep that first afternoon we christened the house. She reaches for my belt, fingers quick and sure. I tug her sweater over her head and toss it aside.
Her breasts spill free, nipples tight in the cool air. I lower my head, take one into my mouth, tongue swirling while my hand cups the other, thumb brushing back and forth.
She moans, fingers threading into my hair, tugging me closer. “Jake.”
I switch sides, lavishing the same attention until she arches, thighs squeezing my hips. My free hand pops the button on her jeans, works the zipper down. She lifts her hips. I tug denim and panties off in one motion, leaving her bare on the granite, legs spread, skin flushed.
I drop to my knees between her thighs, hook her legs over my shoulders, and bury my face in her.
