Page 5 of Marriage is a Shore Thing (Wilks Beach #2)

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Van

“It’s real quaint, Mama. You’d love it.” I try to smile, though my stomach feels like it’s digesting itself.

This is why I don’t lie. This awful, nauseating sensation makes me want to heave up the gas station breakfast burrito I ate en route.

But as much as I needed to be here, keeping my promise to Taylor, I also didn’t want to break Mama’s heart when losing her daughter already smashed it to smithereens.

So I’m lying. Just this once.

Just this one lie to keep my mother from worrying about me when she’s still grieving. Taylor’s unexpected death four months ago has already pushed back Mama’s wedding to her long-time boyfriend, Mark. I don’t need her to be anxious about her son spontaneously marrying a stranger.

We’ve all been reeling, trying to make sense of life without my sister.

Mama had holed herself away, barely leaving the house, and I’d thrown myself into extra shifts at the hospital.

The idea of me taking personal leave in this coastal Virginian town after working myself to the bone is something Mama can digest.

“And who are you staying with again?” she asks.

I switch hands on my phone since my nervous palms are sweaty. Of course, the ninety-degree temperature doesn’t help. There’s no sign of the ever-present ocean breeze I’d noticed on the weather app when I looked up Wilks Beach.

“My friend, Gen. She’s got a cottage steps from the beach. And the neighbors are really nice.”

This isn’t another lie, because even Carol softened a bit after I told her about my background.

It’s not the first time that I’d mentioned being a doctor and someone’s behavior toward me completely changed.

Often, it’s positive, but sometimes people will whip out a festering wound or questionable mole in public places.

I once picked a woman up for a date, and her roommate unzipped his pants to ask if he had a hernia seconds after shaking my hand.

Carol didn’t ask for medical advice, just remarked that having an emergency physician in town could be helpful before giving me an unimpressed glare, efficiently undermining her words.

Wendy pinched her arm, reminding Carol that they were supposed to be more open-minded about ‘mainlanders.’ When I asked what that meant, Wendy explained that Wilks Beach locals have a long history of being leery of outsiders, but they’re trying to be more accepting after a newcomer ended up being the perfect match for the town sweetheart.

“That sounds wonderful, but…”

“I know, Mama. I miss you already.” I left yesterday morning, deciding to split the ten-hour drive into two days. Though I’ve vacationed with friends—camping mostly—I’ve never lived in a different city. “This is just something—”

“You have to do. I know. I can tell when my baby can’t set something down.

You’ve been like that ever since you were little.

” There’s a smile in my mother’s voice. “If you need this break by the sea, then you should take it. Nashville Medical Center will be happy to have you back once you’re rested. ”

Though the lie eats a hole through my intestines, I distract us both by describing Wilks Beach.

Since Gen had been nowhere to be found when I came back inside the house earlier, I set my bags beside the couch and decided to explore my new neighborhood.

A single two-lane road runs the length of the beach, short residential streets with single-family homes jutting off it.

When I walked south, I found a condo tower and a nice city park with a playground that dead-ended into an inlet.

Two younger men—Cliff and Leo—were fishing off the jetty in blatant disregard to the signs warning them not to.

They didn’t mind answering my questions about the area, explaining that the wide inlet next to us separated Wilks Beach from North Carolina’s Outer Banks, and that a large, inaccessible wildlife preserve borders the northern edge of town.

With the Atlantic Ocean stretching to the east and Back Bay to the west, most locals called Wilks Beach an island, though it’s technically a peninsula.

“Sounds kind of romantic, how remote it is,” my mom muses after I tell her the town is an hour from the next closest city, Virginia Beach. “Maybe Mark and I should honeymoon there instead. It’d probably be cheaper and a lot easier to get to.”

They’d initially had plans to honeymoon in Hawaii—a once-in-a-lifetime trip for the both of them. Fortunately, Mark had been able to recoup ninety percent of their money after Mama wanted to postpone everything.

“I can testify to the beach’s quality,” I say, walking along the wet, packed sand. “Golden sand for as far as the eye can see.”

After talking to Cliff and Leo, I wandered past the lifeguard towers and beach crowded with families, continuing northward. I only made it a hundred feet before the lack of breeze forced me to take off my shirt and tuck it into the back of my shorts.

“I’m happy you’re doing this,” Mama tells me. “Taylor—” My heart seizes when her voice cracks. “Taylor was always getting after you to take more time for yourself.”

My feet stop, the remnants of a wave almost touching my shoes. “She was.”

Was. I hate that word. For that matter, I hate the past tense. I hate that, a few months ago, my sister was alive and well, and now, she’s gone, and I’m wandering up an—albeit stunning—beach, questioning my sanity while lying to Mama.

A part of me knows I should have come with divorce papers, like Geneva expected.

Asking to stay with her is sheer lunacy, but something won’t let me simply walk away.

I know that three months of sleeping on Geneva’s couch doesn’t make a marriage, but I can’t bring myself to apathetically scrawl another signature to make this go away.

I don’t believe in fate, but even I can’t deny that bone-deep sensation that I’m supposed to be here.

At least for a little while.

“Well…I should be…”

“Okay, Mama,” I say, recognizing the well-worn pattern.

Taylor would always talk to me about anything, but Mama doesn’t like getting into tough, emotional conversations.

When our calls get to this point, she makes an excuse to hang up.

Mama often cautioned me about wearing my heart on my sleeve, but my sister always said it was her favorite attribute of mine.

“Being open-hearted isn’t a flaw, Van. It’s your biggest strength.”

That was why I chose to become a doctor and work in the ER.

I’ve always wanted to help others, and being in the emergency department allows me to be the first person they see when their life is going off the rails.

Sure, there’s the added bonus of each shift being unique, since you never know what’ll walk through the doors, but providing my patients with much-needed compassion during their scariest moments… that fulfills me.

Mama and I exchange I love yous before I tuck my phone into my pocket, staring out over the ocean.

I’d never seen it in person before. My upbringing, education, and professional life have always existed within Nashville city limits.

I should be awestruck, or at the very least enjoying a sense of tranquility, but it feels like someone took a cheese grater to my heart.

My head tilts back as I close my eyes against the bright-blue sky, dragging in a deep breath.

Sometimes, this is all I can manage—breathing.

Because I can’t deal with the hole in my chest. As much as my extroverted soul will talk to anyone about anything, I’ve only ever confided in one person when things got really tough, and now…she’s gone.

The sudden breeze caressing my face is so tender my eyes water as they spring open.

Air swirls around my arms, between my fingers, and around my ankles.

A staggered inhale slips between my lips as goosebumps dot my skin, but the breeze doesn’t cease.

If anything, it increases, gently ruffling the umbrellas of beachgoers, sending the flags of the oceanfront houses snapping.

“I miss you too.”

My head snaps around, looking for the source of my sister’s voice, but then my forehead wrinkles as I shake my head. Paracusia. That’s the medical term for auditory hallucination.

Nothing can bring my sister back.

Abruptly, the wind picks up, whipping towels from the sand and thudding louder than my jackknifing pulse.

I cover my ears with my palms, closing my eyes against the spray of sand pelting my legs, my chest, my cheeks.

As suddenly as it came, the gale abates, almost as if we were in a momentary dust storm.

Beachgoers scramble to right pop-up tents, spread towels, and shake sand out of beach bags.

In the remaining quiet, the lulling, rhythmic sound of the water washes over me.

Gleeful children giggle as they rush to play in the waves.

The briny tang of sea air mixes with the scent of sunscreen.

Sunlight sparkles over everything, turning the sea into thousands of liquid diamonds.

I wait for a buoyed sensation to ribbon through my ribs, to finally feel at peace, but…nothing. There’s nothing but the ever-present ache in my chest. The urge to do something—anything—to distract myself is oppressive.

I think of the last time I felt a reprieve from this agony, and a pair of narrowed brown eyes flash before my vision.

Being with Geneva in Vegas had been the only time I felt alive—like my old self—since losing Taylor.

Even as that thought fills my mind, I know it’s too much pressure to put on one person, especially someone I’m just getting to know.

But I don’t know another way to deal with the incessant emptiness.

Working until I could barely stand these last few months hasn’t helped.

“Alright.” I clap my hands together, distracting myself. “Time to find the missus.”

Geneva wasn’t the only one who did a little cyber-snooping after discovering our situation.

Once I had her full name, I did a simple search, finding years of beauty pageant photos and videos before reading a few articles about her converting an old auto repair store into a no-contact boxing gym.

But unlike Geneva, I don’t know anything about her personal relationships beyond the fact that she celebrated her thirtieth birthday shortly before we wed.

I continue northward, stopping to read the signs posted on the fence separating the beach from the sea turtle hatching ground beyond.

Then I weave past the library, the market Cliff said he was the assistant manager of, a tailor shop, a coffee shop, a water tower, and the fire station until I end in front of The Garage Gym.

It’s an older cinderblock building with two automotive garage doors.

There is a glass front door, and what used to be a waiting area now holds a water cooler and shelves of boxing equipment.

Several punching bags hang from the ceiling, and there’s a separate section for free weights, a squat rack, and medicine balls.

The exterior is painted white with a dark-gray awning that matches the color of the floors and the words written on the far wall.

Rule number one: Check your ego at the door.

Heavy-metal music pours out of the half-opened garage door as Geneva lays into a punching bag like it personally offended her mother.

Since she’s facing away, I take a moment to decide my next move.

One thing’s for sure: I don’t want to startle her like I did in Vegas.

I’d had a bruise for several days after taking an elbow to the solar plexus.

I stoop under the garage door, making a wide circle around the bag Geneva is punching with wrapped hands.

You’d think that would hurt, not using gloves, but she doesn’t even grimace.

She’s also discarded her oversized shirt, exercising in only a longline sports bra and snug athletic shorts.

It’s not until I’m closer that I notice Geneva has her eyes closed, placing targeted hits from memory.

I wait for her to sense that she’s not alone, but she continues, a little wrinkle between her dark brows as she shuffles her feet between punches.

A helpless sigh slips from my lips.

There’s nothing sexier than a strong woman.

I clear my throat, but the sound barely registers over Metallica’s screaming guitars.

My hands settle on my hips as I consider the least lethal way to let Geneva know I’m on the other side of her punching bag.

Then her eyes pop open, and she misses her next punch, grazing the bag.

Her mouth falls open with a startled sound as her momentum carries her straight into my bare chest.