Page 13 of Marriage is a Shore Thing (Wilks Beach #2)

twelve

Geneva

“So, you’re married—but not really?” Brynn asks me a week later, barely winded, though we’re keeping a breakneck pace as we race past the cornfields lining the road beyond Wilks Beach.

“It’s a legal technicality that should be swept under the rug, but Van’s going through some things,” I hedge, not wanting to disclose the delicacies of his emotional state—even to Brynn.

That feels…disloyal. Like it’d be violating the tremulous trust forming between us.

The only reason I’m telling Brynn the truth is because Van has Noah to confide in. They’ve been hanging out when they’re both free. I know I could—in theory—talk to my brother as well, but we never have.

Of course, I’ve never really talked to Brynn either. But of the women I went to Vegas with, Brynn is most like me. Logical. Practical. I’m assuming she’ll understand my viewpoint more than romance-obsessed Vivian or boyfriend-committed Summer and Cade.

Brynn is single, like me.

I know I’m not technically single, but close enough.

Normally, I’d have no issue working through my problems by myself, but I never accounted for how having Van in my space would rattle me.

He’s always doing something. The only time he takes a break is when his mother calls to catch up.

At first, I thought he’d spend the rest of the week relaxing at the beach, and we’d keep to our separate schedules, but he’s taken on his half of the housing bargain like I’ll evict him at the slightest infraction.

On Monday, he borrowed someone’s power washer and cleaned the siding, the front walkway, and the backyard deck. Tuesday, while I’d been volunteering, he set up an outdoor area rug, table, and chairs on the deck, and strung globe lights around the perimeter of the yard.

Wednesday, he tackled the front door before I kicked him out of the house.

He came back a few hours later after learning to surf with Nick, Summer’s boyfriend, jubilant and a little sunburnt.

I should have escaped to my room but ended up hovering in the kitchen as he recounted his many failed attempts to get on his board, trying not to laugh.

Early Thursday morning, I thought I heard him rummaging around the kitchen, probably trying to fix my slightly uneven cabinet doors, but he’d been in the middle of a bodyweight workout.

His bare feet had been on the stair overhang while he did inverted pushups in only his scrub pants.

I might have monitored his form for a few reps—in a purely professional way—before I crept back to my bedroom.

Later that day, when I returned from volunteering, there was a hand-me-down table for two with mismatched wooden chairs in the kitchen.

This morning, I woke up exhausted, probably from the emotional stress of having someone else in my space or from the extra workouts I’ve been doing to avoid said handsome person.

I’d planned on lying around, but Van asked if we could take another trip to the mainland to pick out curtains.

Even though he keeps his belongings tucked behind the couch, Carol Cook had been lurking around the front windows.

We somehow ended up getting a trio of baby boxwoods for the empty landscape bed that lines the front of the house and, after a twenty-minute standoff, a welcome mat.

I fought Van until he found one in the back of the pile, extending it to me with a dimpled smile.

It says Go Away in pretty, swirly script, and I love it more than I ever expected.

“Feels like a lot of trouble for a stranger.” Brynn’s voice brings me back to the present.

“There’s also Joanna. I’m mostly doing this for her.

” What used to be the truth feels ashen on my tongue, but it also could be because I’ve been heavily mouth breathing for the past half hour.

I’ve probably gotten half of my protein goal by accidentally ingesting bugs. “Where’s the turnaround point?”

“Just ahead,” Brynn tells me, impossibly picking up speed. “What does this have to do with Joanna?”

In as few words as possible, I explain the situation—mostly because I’m winded.

I’m also hotter than I could’ve imagined.

Exercising in the direct late-afternoon sunlight isn’t something I’ve done in years, and if the sweat pouring into my shoes is any indication, I’m woefully unprepared for the elements.

I don’t have AC in my gym, but three industrial fans and an iced watercooler keep my patrons from passing out.

That, and all my classes are in the evenings, except the two I offer on Saturday mornings.

“I get it,” Brynn says, her voice softening. “I’d do anything for my family too.”

Silence stretches between us for a few heartbeats before Brynn continues.

“I only wish I’d paid more attention to Vivian’s happiness.

I thought she was content with it being just the two of us.

I thought she liked our life. I hadn’t meant to hold her back.

It’s just…bad things happen when I deviate from my routines.

Or at least they have in the past, so I thought—” She shudders, her confident footfalls stumbling for the first time since we started.

“But that doesn’t matter. My mental blocks shouldn’t have made her feel like I wasn’t on her side when she’s the most important person in my life. ”

I don’t know what to say.

I don’t have a person like that in my life.

Joanna, I suppose. And Noah. But I don’t have the relationship with them like the one that Brynn has with her twin.

The two of them love each other unconditionally, know and accept each other’s best qualities and seedy underbellies.

Meanwhile, I’ve been hiding behind a tough exterior, terrified that if I let Joanna or Noah see the real me, they’ll reject me like everyone else did.

“Halfway.”

Brynn slaps a split rail fence before leading me across the road so we’re facing non-existent traffic on the way back.

Not many islanders leave on Friday evenings, opting to either compete at the library’s weekly bingo game or enjoy a peaceful meal at Bayside Table.

Of course, I’m supposed to have dinner at Joanna’s in two hours, which is why I texted Brynn in the first place.

That, and to get out of the house while Van played guitar.

It’s no surprise that he’s incredibly talented—genius brain and all that—but his repertoire keeps grating on my nerves.

Van sings ninety-eight percent country music, which wouldn’t be a problem, except they’re all love songs.

I’m inundated daily with lyrics about how much the songwriter loves the woman in his life, how dedicated he is to their family.

Yeah right. What a bunch of lies.

None of that is real. I know because my favorite pastime before Van occupied my living room was to watch the entertainment news show Celebrity Circuit.

On that show, I’ve seen singer after singer get divorced because they’ve had an affair, DM’ed some underage fan, or were caught on hotel security footage with a leggy concierge.

“If it helps,” Brynn adds, “I did some research as soon as Carol came running into the shop, telling me you two were married. As far as mainlanders go, Van seems like a really good guy.”

I already know this from my own report, but Brynn doesn’t need to know about the depths of my distrust.

“I’m not worried about him dismembering me in my sleep. My concern is how hard this will be on Joanna when it all falls apart.” And it will fall apart. “She…she wants to give me her grandmother’s wedding ring at dinner tonight.”

Brynn is silent for a beat. The only sound is the layered chirping of crickets, the pounding of our feet on the pavement, and the exhausted thudding of blood in my ears.

“That sounds very permanent for a temporary situation.”

“Yeah.”

I glance at the black silicone ring on my sweaty hand, a mirror image of Van’s—though I’m sure he would’ve preferred white, or yellow, or cerulean.

Little gray spots swim over my fingers like unfamiliar freckles.

I snap my gaze up, blinking hard. I’ve already drained the water I brought with me, and Brynn isn’t carrying any.

“Could we slow down just a little?” I hate myself for asking, for showing weakness, but I also don’t want to pass out miles outside town.

“Sure.” Brynn looks me over, a furrow knitting between her brows. “Do you want to walk?”

“No. I’m good.”

My brain is on fire, and my life is falling apart, but I learned early not to let anything show.

“Smile, honey. Even if you’re breaking inside. They only want to see you smile.”

I’m not quite sure how I manage the rest of the run, but Brynn allows me to do so in silence.

By the time I stumble through my back gate, everything hurts.

I whisper words of affection to my sweet hens as I quickly tuck them in for the night.

Maybe after I drink my weight in water from the kitchen sink, I’ll take the ice bin out of the refrigerator and dump it into a cold bath.

Van is punching numbers into the microwave when I open the back door—two, eight, then start.

“What are you doing?” My tone suggests that I caught him mutilating kittens for funsies.

“Reheating some hot chocolate. Did you have a good run?” Van turns, his smile fading as his gaze rakes me from head to toe.

I must look as disheveled as I feel. Fine. That’s great, even. The sooner Van figures out he doesn’t actually like my prickly personality, the sooner we can shut this whole thing down, and things can return to normal.

Because I know to keep that cataclysmic emotion at bay—hope. Every time Van shows interest in what I’m saying, or fixes something, or smiles at me for doing absolutely nothing, it surges in my chest. Then I’m forced to shove it down like overcooked meatloaf at a church potluck.

Push him away, I remind myself.

“Why didn’t you use the thirty-second auto-start button like a normal person?” I ask, making sure my words are extra spiky as I fill a cup at the sink.

“I feel bad for the other numbers. They almost never get used, so I try to come up with different combinations. Next time, I’ll use thirty-four.” I feel his presence behind me, like he’d crossed the room while speaking, but I ignore it.

Half of the water sloshes over my shaky hand as I bring it to my lips, but that’s fine because it’s nice and cool. I don’t know why I feel more flushed than when I was running outside. After I drain this cup, I might just put my head beneath the tap.

“You don’t have to be so considerate all the time. Just use the one-push button,” I say, making two attempts to turn the water back on.

Stupid hand. Why won’t you work?

“Make me.”

Though Van’s words are an undeniable challenge, there’s none of his usual teasing mirth infused in them. Some other emotion mixes with his consonants and vowels, but my brain doesn’t have the capacity to determine what. Motor control is taking way too much effort.

As if on cue, the plastic cup slips from my hand, dropping into the sink at the same time my knees buckle.

“Gen.”

My name is breathed into my ear at the same second Van’s arm latches around my waist, pulling me flush against him to hold me upright.

Worry, my unhelpful brain finally supplies. That’s the word to describe what’s infused into Van’s deep, melodic voice.

But why should Van be worried?

I’m fine.

I’m always fine. I have to be.

“You’re burning up.” His other hand moves from my neck to my cheek to my forehead. I unwillingly lean into it because it’s soooo cool.

“I just went on a summer run. Of course I’m hot.”

Or at least that’s what I mean to say, but it comes out in a nearly incoherent slur.

“We need to cool you down.”

Then I’m weightless. I’m in Van’s arms again, but unlike at the beach, I don’t fight him. I don’t have the energy to do anything other than lean my head on his shoulder as he carries me upstairs.

“What’s that?” I ask, seeing a beachscape painting in a wooden frame on the upstairs landing—three seagulls float on an imaginary breeze above frothy waves.

It’s another question that isn’t fully articulated, sounding like garbled nonsense.

“Don’t worry.” Van’s hands grip me tighter. “I’ve got you.”

And that’s the last thing I remember before my vision goes from gray to black.