Page 35 of Kiss Me Like You Mean It

We’re sitting on a park bench, eating warm donuts from a paper bag while Phoebe points out local landmarks. So far, between the library, the honky-tonk bar, the coffee shop and the tiny independent bookstore, I’m utterly sold on Roseport. In the light of day the hodgepodge of buildings that lean up against one another are painted in sunny pastels.

Emotion washes over me. It’s something like nostalgia, even though I’ve never been anywhere like this before. But it feels like I have. It feels like freshly sharpened pencils, the hushed scratch of a needle coming down on a vinyl record, like heavy, drugging golden light and a Natalie Cole soundtrack.

It’s good. It’s really good.

There are quite a few people around, and every single person we’ve passed has called out a greeting to Nico and his daughter, sometimes stopping them to chat while eyeing me with obvious interest. I can’t work out if it’s nice or creepy. Whatever it is, it’s not ideal for someone who finds it difficult to make small talk. Hopefully, my giant sunglasses have hidden all my wincing.

‘Is that another dentist’s office?’ I ask, looking over the top of my sunglasses at a sign that hangs out the front of the building across from us. It’s shaped like a giant tooth.

Nico sighs. ‘Yes, there are four.’

‘Four seems like a lot for a town this size.’

‘It’s a whole thing.’ Nico runs a hand through his dark curls and I’m temporarily distracted from what he’s saying by the wiry muscles flexing in his forearms. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up enough to show them off to their best advantage. He has a new tattoo there, I’ve noticed, on the inside of his right arm: a small bee drawn in curling black lines. I want to run my fingers over it. ‘They were all married to each other and then they split up,’ he continues, unaware of my horny mental wanderings. ‘Now there are four dentists’ offices and it’s like the bloody Wars of the Roses but with more root canals.’

‘Four dentists were married to each other?’ I frown, confused.

‘Dr Salt was married to Dr Knox,’ Phoebe explains. ‘And Dr Parr was married to Dr Felton, but then they got divorced and Dr Knox married Dr Felton instead, and so Dr Salt married Dr Parr, but then Dr Knox and Dr Felton got divorced and then Dr Salt and Dr Parr got divorced, too, and now we have four separate dentists.’

‘Goodness,’ I murmur, trying to follow this.

‘Reality TV producers are missing a trick,’ Nico grins, getting to his feet. ‘Which dentist you use is a bigger deal here than which football team you support. Feuds broke out, alliances have been forged and broken, friendships ended, it’s very Game of Thrones. If the Lannisters were obsessed with dental hygiene.’

When we reach the end of Main Street there’s another surprise in store: the sea.

I suppose on some level I understood that as we had been driving north up the Maine coast when we left Portland, we had to be somewhere near the sea, but I still feel like Roseport has pulled another sneak attack on me.

Lapping turquoise water shifts into navy, melting seamlessly into the horizon and a clear, cerulean sky arcing overhead, making you feel like you’re suspended, floating in the middle of all that blue. The sun strikes the sea, leaving silver streaks behind. It’s dazzling – literally. Spots of light dance, scattered and fragmented like a spinning disco ball.

‘Pretty good, right?’ Nico asks, clearly enjoying my stunned expression. ‘It’s quiet now because the season’s ended, but you should see this place in the summer, it’s crazy… nature cruises, fishing trips and lighthouse tours. It’s a big tourist spot.’

He gestures towards the harbour in front of us where a handful of large boats are docked. There’s a thin strip of pebble beach and a long wooden jetty stretching out into the water. Seagulls wheel over our heads, and in the distance several small islands are covered in trees.

‘Wow,’ I manage. ‘Maybe I can see you living here after all. Even I want to take pictures of all this.’

I turn to look at Nico, but he’s standing too still, a pinched line appearing between his eyebrows. I can’t see his eyes behind the sunglasses he wears, but it’s clear something is wrong.

‘What did I say?’ I ask.

‘Nothing.’ He shakes his head, and frustration leaps inside of me. More secrets.

Bored with admiring the scenery, Phoebe tugs at Nico’s arm.

‘Me and Taco think we should go and get ice cream.’

‘I didn’t know Taco could talk,’ Nico says dryly.

‘He told me with his eyes,’ Phoebe insists. ‘We have a very special bond. Anyway,’ she pulls out a notebook, the same she had in her pocket yesterday, and smiles, ‘you owe us.’

Nico eyes the notebook with obvious animosity. ‘Fine.’

The old-fashioned ice cream parlour is a short walk away. It’s a wide, low building on the corner of Main Street, the front painted a pale blush pink, its windows framed by yellow awnings. The sign over the door is written in powder blue cursive.

SCOOPS!

‘Miss Rita makes the best ice cream in the whole world,’ Phoebe says reverently.

‘And also,’ Nico adds cryptically, ‘the worst.’