Page 112 of Thirst For Me
Especially when I have so little to go back to.
Kyle calls while I’m walking back to the Cozy Cottage from the beach, where I just took a few minutes to sit and listen to music and think. I’m in one of those random, rare spots where I get cell service, right on Honeymoon Lane, between the Grants’ property and the Spencers’.
I stop in the road to talk to him. I don’t even know why.
What more is there to say?
“You said you’d call me back,” he says, “but you never did.”
“Yeah. Sorry. It’s been so busy here.”
I don’t know why I’m apologizing to him for anything. I owe him nothing. And yet in some way, I feel like I still do.
“How has it been there? It always looks like you’re having fun.”
“It’s social media, Kyle. For the business. It’s supposed to look that way.”
“I really wish you’d called me back,” he says, putting pressure on me in that way he does. Passive-aggressive. Implying that I should’ve done better.
Pressuring me for communication, when he didn’t put enough effort into communicating when we were together. As if we still have something to work out.
Do we?
“Let’s talk when you get back. Okay? When are you coming?”
I gaze along Honeymoon Lane toward the sea, where the water ripples, darkening in the fading dusk light. How many more times will I get to look out at that view I’ve come to love? To crave, even.
“I don’t know, Kyle. The end of the month. Tuesday. I haven’t booked the ferry yet.”
“Let me know which one you’ll be on? I’ll meet you. I think we should talk, face-to-face.”
“Yeah,” I say, but mostly just to get off the phone. “I’m about to lose the signal.”
I go back to the cottage and finish packing up my bags, for the most part. I leave out a few clothes and toiletries. Then I sit on the bed in Sophie’s room, wondering if it would be best if I just left tonight. I might be able to catch the last ferry, if I left right now.
What’s the point in dragging this out for two more days? Cutie Fruitie is closed. June made it clear I’m welcome to stay until the thirtieth. And I thought I might.
But why?
Goodbyes are hard enough.
Maybe I should just leave.
But I find myself stepping out onto the back porch of the cottage. Wandering beneath the twisted tree, and pushing through the secret gate.
I follow the path through the Grant family’s orchard. Then I make my way up the lawn to the house, tap on Mason’s back door.
When he doesn’t answer, I go around to the front and ring the bell.
Finally, Mason comes to the door. Skin damp, hair wet, towel slung around his waist.
I think he looks happy to see me. But I don’t really know. The little pinch between his eyebrows, the weariness in the slight circles beneath his eyes, like he’s become chronically under-slept lately.
“Sierra. I was just getting cleaned up. Then I was gonna come see you.”
“Oh. I was ...” I glance away, then say it right to his face. That’s why I came, right? “Thinking about leaving.”
He stares at me.
