Page 31

Ted forges ahead. “You were on that big screen in Times Square—instant New York Times bestseller. That’s huge, right?” It’s even worse.

“I’m very grateful,” I say. Even though I am, this line is rehearsed.

Talking about my books isn’t exciting or easy, it’s awkward and nerve-racking.

Jim had told me about GMA the day before it happened, sent along another bottle of champagne that I wouldn’t drink.

It would be too easy to let the book and the press send me into a spiral…

because I knew it was only a matter of time until they’d realize that my work was terrible.

I was terrible, untalented, nothing on my own, and then I’d be a failure again just like Dad said I would.

In those moments where I worry, I’m back in that room with him, ducking the remote he’d fired like a missile in my direction.

The details are sharp: his crimson cheeks, broken bits of plastic remote, batteries rolling across the Moroccan rug, the boom of his voice rattling the glasses on the bar cart.

“You must be doing pretty well in the royalty department. Maybe I should let you buy dinner. It’s a business write-off, right?” Ted laughs. “I’m going to hit the bathroom.”

Stella’s quiet, peeling the label from her bottle.

“You didn’t like it,” I say.

Her brow furrows. “The food was great. Might be the best I’ve had here.”

“I meant the book.”

“Haven’t read it.” She gives a small wince. “Sorry.”

“I forgot, you don’t do hate-reads, right?” It’s a joke. A poor one. My own insecurity rearing up and showing itself like a clam in the sand as a wave washes out.

The corner of her mouth quirks. She shakes her head. “It’s not that.”

“That’s a relief.” My face flushes. I hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

“I couldn’t really bring myself to read it.”

“Oh.” Thinking about the implications of this admission brings on a fresh round of guilt, and the rotation of the room picks up speed. “Well, I hope you do, at some point. I always appreciate your thoughts on my work.”

“Maybe.” She downs the rest of her beer. “I’m going to take a walk on the pier.”

“What about Ted?”

“He’s making the rounds. Anyway, he’s really not going to let you pay, and he knows where to find me.”

I don’t correct her as I follow her out a back door to a small boardwalk that runs along the edge of the property. The wooden walk stretches out a long way. In the distance, the moon is rising against the darkening sky; its reflection on the surface of the high tide is silver and massive.

“I love the salt marsh even more than the beach,” Stella says, stopping to stare out. “It’s always changing, showing you something new. The tide rolls in and out and the birds go away and come back. It’s like a beautiful cycle, departing and then returning.”

I stand beside her.

“It’s reliable.”

She nods.

“Beautiful.” I don’t mean to say this either.

It just comes out of my fucking traitor mouth, honest and raw, which was and is still an effect that Stella has on me.

Even so, I don’t want to take it back, not until she rotates her head to look at me in a way that vaguely resembles a character from the movie The Exorcist .

Luckily, a crane swoops by us at the perfect moment, and I lift my arm.

“The bird,” I clarify awkwardly. “I like birds. That one’s beautiful.

What is it? Pelican?” I cling to each idea, rambling, desperate to cover my slipup.

I sound possessed myself.

“How are you feeling?” Stella asks. For a second, I think she’s riffing after my chaotic scrambling bird explanation, but then I realize she means the land-sickness.

I’m not sure if she’s being kind or cruel or just moving on to safer topics.

I make the mistake of looking down at the wooden slats beneath my feet where a handful of tiny fiddler crabs scurry and almost lose my balance.

“That good, huh?” Any lingering anger is absent from her voice now.

I ball my hands into fists, fully annoyed with myself—of course Stella wouldn’t be cruel.

That was my department. “At the risk of being incredibly vulnerable, I was prepared for a lot of things on this trip. Not this, though.” She looks right through me, and I quickly add, “The feeling like I’m moving when I’m on dry land was not on my bingo card. ”

“It takes some people longer to get their land legs back,” she says. She reaches down and picks up a white oyster shell, turning it over in her hands before she tosses it into the water. “I think I know exactly how to fix it, though.”

“Yeah?”

She nods. “Are you okay to walk down a bit farther?”

“I think so, just as long as I don’t look down again. My balance is way off.”

“We can take care of that.”

“That’s great news.”

“This should work…as long as you trust me,” she says.

We reach the end of the walkway. I had trusted her from the moment we’d met, and I still did. “Of course. I do. I trust you. Just please, make this—”

It happens in an instant. She’s reaching for me.

My mind races. Maybe there’s a chance that she still feels something between us like what we had in Iceland, maybe I want that too.

I could tell her the truth and we could move past this.

Start again. It’s probably a huge mistake, but isn’t that what living is?

And I don’t know what to do or how to feel, but if she wants me, she can have me.

She never stopped having me. And then, there’s a surprising impact on my torso; I’m sailing through the air, my arms flailing, and I hit the water.

I sputter to the surface just in time to see an entire flock of egrets take to the sky, startled by my splash or the rich sound of Stella’s hysterical laughter. “What the fuck—”

“If you still have your sea legs, the only way to feel better is to go back to the water,” she calls from the boardwalk.

“You could’ve warned me,” I call. “What if I were a bad swimmer?”

“You seem to be doing fine.”

There’s not one iota of my body that can be mad at her.

She’s unabashed, delighted with herself.

That triumphant smile, and the way she’s casually reaching for the hem of her dress, has me in a total freaking choke hold.

I feel light-headed and lighter, like maybe I’ve overestimated the damage I caused her.

Because she’s laughing, shimmying that sundress over her head, stepping out of her boots, standing above me in her underwear.

I only have an instant to admire her figure, the gently curving silhouette I still long to run my hands over in languid strokes and that lacy lingerie that forces me to sink deep into my memory.

She doesn’t give me a chance to go further.

In two steps, she’s airborne, knees tucked, arcing over me in a perfect cannonball that sends a jet of water into my face when she lands.

She swims back to me in smooth strokes until we’re only inches away from each other.

Beneath the surface, our hands accidentally graze as we tread water. This could be the Blue Lagoon.

“Feel better?” she asks. She slicks her wet hair back with her hands.

“Not quite,” I say. I put my hands on her head and give her one massive dunk.

When she comes up for air, she flashes a dramatic angry face and sends a wall of water into my laughing mouth and eyes with a single graceful swoop of her arm.

She’s laughing too, squealing as we splash each other.

I bob gently, warring with her, and forget that the world was moving earlier when it was supposed to stand still.

I forget that I’m not happy. I forget that we didn’t work out because I did what I always do and ruined everything.

In this moment, with Stella, I forget everything.

I even fail to recall that the salt water down here this time of year can be teeming with jellyfish.