Page 28 of Marriage is a Shore Thing (Wilks Beach #2)

twenty-seven

Van

At first, I think the thumping and cursing is part of the windstorm.

After all, I’ve been hearing my name on gusts of air since everyone left.

My heart jackrabbited in my chest, thrashing like a wild animal as I heard my sister’s voice for the second time since arriving at Wilks Beach.

It’s nonsensical, so I’m either hallucinating or it’s some weird magical trick, like the fireflies creating shapes in Geneva’s backyard.

Either way, the whispered Evander makes all the hairs on my arms stand on end.

Taylor only ever used my government name if I’d really ticked her off.

And I have no idea what she could be mad about.

My head shakes, tossing overgrown hair into my eyes and reminding me I haven’t had it cut since before I arrived.

“Taylor is gone, and none of this is real,” I tell the empty kitchen.

The thumping continues until a crash has me racing to the staircase. Geneva’s crutch tumbles down the last few stairs, clattering onto the hardwood floor.

“Hey.” She gives me a rueful smile from halfway up the staircase, clutching the railing. “Apparently, this is harder than it looks.”

I shake my head at Geneva but am beyond grateful for the distraction. Carrying her down the stairs, doing anything other than wondering why my sister’s voice keeps repeating my name, is exactly what I need right now.

“Did you need something?” I ask, gathering her to my chest and heading downstairs.

“Not really, but I heard you were up.”

A hum resonates in my throat. “Can’t sleep either?”

She shakes her head as I set her in her kitchen chair and prop her ankle up on mine.

The chairs are two different styles, and we’ve unspokenly chosen our favorites.

Mine is a pressback chair with swirling designs etched into the oak, and Geneva’s is a streamlined crossback chair stained glossy black.

“Cocoa?” I ask as the microwave beeps its completion.

Her head tilts to the side. “What number did you use this time?”

“214.” I dump the packet into the steaming water and stir up the mixture. “Do you want some?”

“No, thank you. I’ll have some pineapple, though.”

I bend to grab Geneva’s snack from the fridge, picking up her favorite seltzer water as well.

“No, thank you?” I ask, setting the two in front of her. “You feeling alright there, wifey? Normally you just bark orders.”

She grimaces at the endearment before realizing I used it on purpose to get this reaction. Then her chin lifts, a daring flash in her eyes. “Don’t pretend you don’t like it.”

My sip of cocoa goes down the wrong pipe.

I slam my chest with a closed fist, coughing like I was just rescued from a riptide.

Geneva hums, drumming her polished fingernails on the table before opening the container of pineapple.

The way she sets a single piece on her tongue with a flirty wink is nothing short of—

“Evander!”

My gaze flies from Geneva to the window, half expecting to see my sister standing beyond the pane of glass.

I don’t, but that doesn’t mean my heart isn’t thrashing against my ribs.

My hand shakes, making me slosh cocoa over the edge.

With a curse, I set the mug aside, grabbing a paper towel to clean up the mess.

After cleaning that, I wipe down the counters.

I refold the kitchen towel, decide it’s not good enough, and fold it again.

Taylor was particular about keeping the house clean.

It made it easier on Mama when she got home from whichever job she was working.

“Van, sit down.”

“That’s more like it,” I joke, though my words sound uneven as I tidy Geneva’s protein powders.

“Van,” Geneva tries again.

It’s the caring sweetness in her tone that makes me look over my shoulder.

She leans forward, patting the chair her foot is currently occupying.

Since my sister’s voice sounds like a howling banshee instead of my memory of her, I cross the room.

Geneva’s gaze makes an efficient swoop of my face as I lift her ankle into my lap.

“What is it?”

I tap her shin a few times before I’m able to look into her warm brown eyes. “Do you hear that?”

“The wind?”

A painful pressure corkscrews down my spine. “Yes, but does it…sound like anything?”

Anyone?

Her brows crease as she tilts her ear to listen.

“We get windstorms like this during hurricane season. It’s pretty typical for September, but this is nothing but a tropical storm.

We’re not even in the projected hurricane track.

Otherwise, people would be buying out Dotty’s Market.

You don’t have to worry. I didn’t even fill the tub for this one. ”

Rain pelts the window as Geneva finishes her sentence, drawing her attention. When she looks back at me, she bends at the waist again, settling her fingers over mine.

“It’ll be okay. Everyone’s first hurricane season feels worse than it is.”

I shake my head, unable to articulate what’s truly bothering me.

So much grief has stacked itself up like unopened boxes that my chest feels like it’s caving in.

Each breath feels tighter than the last, like my lungs have shrunk.

I’ve treated a few people for panic attacks in the ER, most of them thinking they’re having a heart attack.

I check my pulse at my throat, already knowing it’s severely elevated.

Its deafening beat is hammering in my ears.

“Van?”

“Evander!”

When the voices overlap, I squeeze my eyes shut.

“Please…please talk to me.”

I force a chuckle, the sound of it dry and cracked. “Another courtesy word. Lucky me.”

Geneva’s fingers squeeze mine with a fierce grip.

“It—” I stop, debating whether or not I should even voice this out loud. “The wind sounds like my sister saying my name.”

To her credit, Geneva doesn’t flinch, doesn’t call me crazy or wrinkle her brow. Instead, she nods. “Okay. The wind sounds like it’s saying Van?”

“Evander,” I correct. “Like I’m in trouble. Taylor never used my full name unless I’d done something I wasn’t supposed to.”

Geneva’s shoulders raise with a slow inhale.

“It’s just—” I tug at my ear. “It’s unsettling.”

“I can imagine.”

My fingers go back to tapping at Geneva’s shin, strumming a melody without strings as the exhausting battle wars within me.

The wind continues to thrash at the windows while Geneva pulls her leg from my grasp. Using the table as leverage, she balances on her good foot and moves her chair right beside mine. Her fingers slide into my hair as she leans her head on my tense shoulder.

“Will you tell me more about her?”

I inhale a shaky breath, knowing I need to. I’m drained from not grieving these last five months.

“She’s the one who gave me my name.”

When Geneva just waits, expression open, I continue.

“The story goes that Mama had been looking through a baby name book and read the meaning of Evander—a good man. She’d laughed bitterly, saying there was no such thing, but Taylor latched on to the idea.

Mama preferred Christopher, but Taylor wouldn’t let it go.

She’d been learning her letters in preschool and wrote Evander on every scrap of paper.

Eventually, Mama agreed, saying the name would help ensure I turned out better than the man who disappointed us all. ”

Geneva’s thumb rubs back and forth across the base of my skull. “She sounds like a fighter.”

A genuine laugh tumbles from my mouth. “You and Taylor would have gotten along.”

“Was she also a cranky dragon?”

I chuckle despite the crevasse opening in my chest. I’ve been trying not to focus on memories of Taylor for so long that speaking about her feels like relearning a language.

“No. Her disposition was more like mine, always trying to find the positive in any given situation. Or rather…I got my outlook from her.”

I stare off into the sluicing rain, a slight smile curving my lips.

“Her laugh was always a bit too loud—a touch too boisterous. She used to hoot every time she was excited. It drove Mama crazy, but Taylor took life by the horns and squeezed joy out of every moment. And then she grabbed my hand and dragged me along. We didn’t have much growing up, but she made everything fun.

It wasn’t until I did activities without Taylor that I realized that life wasn’t inherently joyous. She made it that way.”

Geneva intertwines our fingers when my voice cracks. I’m immediately grateful for the support. Otherwise, I’m pretty sure my sternum would break open.

“You can imagine my surprise when I found out that my friends didn’t have M&M-eating contests after getting shots, or got to sit on the top of their apartment building to count the stars when they got straight As because their sister had stolen a skeleton key, or that she turned taking out the trash into a covert spy mission with code names and broken walkie-talkies. ”

“That’s why you’re so obsessed with this ring heist.”

Another bark of laughter escapes me at the same time a single tear slides down my cheek.

I glance at Geneva as she wordlessly catches it with her fingertips, her eyes the softest I’ve ever seen them.

Her silent support catches me off guard.

I’ve seen Geneva end a conversation the moment it veers toward the emotional.

Her willingness to hold space for me gives me the courage to keep speaking.

“She also stood up for others, like you do. When I started showing signs of being advanced for my age and began getting bullied, Taylor defended me any way she could—words, fists, whatever was necessary. One time, she took kitchen scissors to a neighbor kid’s bangs.

” A watery chuckle bubbles in my throat.

“He looked ridiculous for weeks but never spoke to me again. Taylor took that natural protectiveness and used it in her job as a social worker, helping foster kids get the absolute best care they could. You two would have been unstoppable together.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet her,” Geneva says, her words thin.

“Me too.”

A peaceful quiet stretches between us as the storm pitters into errant drops and whispers of breeze.

It’s only now that I notice the wind has stopped murmuring my name.

With Geneva’s fingers playing with the hair at the nape of my neck, I rest my cheek to her crown.

Exhaustion sags at my muscles, but it’s like the kind you feel after a long workout, one you know you’ll recover from.

When Geneva yawns, I ask, “Can I help you to bed?”

“No. Not yet,” she says, stifling another yawn on the back of her hand. “Not if you’re not ready.”

“I think that’s all I want to say tonight,” I tell her, sitting up to catch her gaze. “But can we talk more if I need to later?”

Geneva’s fingertips trace my cheekbones, my temples, before one thumb wisps over my eyebrow. “Whenever you need to.”

I lean forward. I’m helpless not to, but the second our lips brush, I know this kiss is different than any we’ve shared before.

As her hands cradle my face, I feel nurtured and adored and wanted in a way that’s separate from our usual heated kisses.

Geneva’s fingers tremble as they slip down my neck and grip the back of my t-shirt to gently pull me closer.

I’m two seconds from saying something I shouldn’t, from murmuring what’s been radiating from my heart since Saturday, since I could so easily see our future—our forever—together.

It was then that I realized how much I’ve been lying to myself.

At the concert in Vegas, I rationalized the otherworldly shift I’d felt the first time I saw Geneva as a side effect of my overwrought emotional state.

Even when I saw her later at the bar, I ignored that incessant pull, telling myself I was imagining things.

When her surprised laughter felt like it was breathing life back into my weary soul, I shook my head at my foolishness.

But a month later, when I came to Wilks Beach to simultaneously keep my word to Taylor and hold grief at bay, it felt like coming home.

Now, as Geneva kisses me tenderly, all I can think is…yes, now, here, you.

Always you.

“Stay with me tonight?” Geneva says on a breathy exhale, her brown eyes darting between mine. “Just to sleep. I want… I need to know you’re okay.”

I should make a quip about being confident and capable—doing so would return us to our usual teasing repartee—but instead, I rest our foreheads together.

“Okay.”

After I carry her upstairs, I get comfortable on the opposite side of the bed and turn off the light, pleasantly surprised when Geneva rolls over and rests one hand on my chest.

“Good night, Van.”

I smile. “Sweet dreams.”

A soft snort fills the quiet bedroom. “You and sweet things.”

“You have no idea, darlin’,” I say, placing my palm over her hand. “You have no idea.”