Page 2 of Sea La Vie (The Outer Banks #1)

I stop her, holding a hand out. “You’ve been seeing someone else behind my back for six months, Liv. Six ! You do realize that’s when you moved in with me, right?” Liv’s bottom lip catches between her teeth and her eyes dart around nervously.

“I really don’t know what to say,” she says again, as tears start streaming down her cheeks.

I’ve seen Liv cry plenty of times before—when her cat died, when she stained her favorite Lululemon leggings, and when she backed her BMW into a billboard—and every time I’ve always felt the need to tuck her in close, wipe away her tears, and tell her everything would be okay.

But this time, the urge doesn’t hit me. I stand up from my trusty potted plant and turn toward the doors at the far end of the room.

“Where are you going?” She asks. “Please let me go with you. Let me explain!”

“I think I’m good,” I say and begin to walk out the doors Mikey just exited.

“Wait!” She cries. I turn around, thinking maybe she’s going to give me some good sob story to try to change my mind. Instead, she wiggles her nose uncomfortably. “You have something green between your two front teeth.”

I run my hands through my hair and sigh. Without another word, I continue on my way .

As I slide back behind the wheel of my Audi, I sigh again and let my head sink back into the headrest. My hands grip the steering wheel so tight that my knuckles turn white. Holy crap.

Deep breaths, Tate. Deep breaths. My cell phone rings through the speakers in the car, and Jordan’s name pops up on the dash’s display.

“What?” I answer, devoid of an emotion. In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four.

“Tate, my man! How’d it go?”

“She’s been cheating on me with her yoga instructor,” I say through yet another sigh. It feels like that’s all I’m capable of right now.

Jordan lets out a low whistle. “Dang.”

“Dang,” I echo. “Are you up for a free Italian dinner where you’ll be serenaded by a string quartet?”

“Seriously?” Jordan asks.

“I already paid for it.” My stomach rumbles, and I absentmindedly rub it. “I’m hungry, too.”

“I’ll be there in twenty.” He hangs up the phone, and I sit in the silence a few seconds longer before finally pulling back into traffic.

Two hours later I’m sitting with Jordan at the Italian restaurant, mesmerized by the sunset that I should’ve been enjoying with my fiancée.

This restaurant is known, not only for their amazing food, but their view of the lake it sits on.

The lake that Liv and I had planned to move to once we were married and starting a family.

Jordan drags a garlic knot through some marinara before he shoves it into his mouth and chews. “I really am sorry,” he says through a mouthful of dough. “But you know you didn’t love her.”

“Yes I did,” I mutter. But even as I say it, my stomach twists in protest.

“You two had nothing in common except accounting. Nothing.” He enunciates each syllable of the last word with the slap of his hand against the table.

“So?” I ask, taking the basket of garlic knots from him. I pop one into my mouth and Jordan raises an eyebrow. “We were a good fit,” I mumble as if that’s the answer to all of this.

“A good fit ? Like what, relationships are like finding the perfect pair of Levi’s? That’s not how love works. Where’s the passion?”

“There was passion!” I argue. Although truthfully, I don’t know what it looks like to truly be in love.

I didn’t exactly have the greatest role models.

And sure, the movies on television look nice, but I know that kind of all consuming, passionate love only exists for the big screen.

I may have believed in it once, years ago, but not anymore.

“I…I don’t know. I’m not getting any younger,” I say.

“You’re thirty, Tate. Snap out of it. Live a little. Go meet some ladies, go crazy, and maybe—hear me out—maybe even talk to one without sizing her up in your mind as a potential wife.”

“I don’t do that,” I mutter. Though he’s right, I do. I just don’t see the point in wasting time if she doesn’t have potential to be Mrs. Right.

“You’ll find her,” Jordan says. “Probably when you least expect it.” He pops the last garlic knot in his mouth then wipes the buttery remnants from his face with a napkin. “So, what’s your next move?”

A grimace works its way across my face because I have no idea what my next move is, and not knowing is making me itchy again. “I don’t know,” I admit with a groan. “I think I need a vacation.”

“Tate Matthews without a plan?” Jordan fakes a gasp.

I roll my eyes. “What can I say? It’s the start of a new era.”

Jordan narrows his eyes and I ignore him, choosing to flag down the waiter for another basket of garlic knots I know I will most definitely regret in the morning.

Everything about this buttery, carb-infested dinner is in stark contrast to my usual, perfectly portioned macros that coexist with my strict gym schedule.

My mind keeps circling around something but I can’t pinpoint what exactly. What was I thinking about? I’m in a sad, carb-induced haze, and need to make myself focus. Cheating. Plans. Love. Vacation…Vacation!

“Jordan, I’m going to go call my mom,” I say. “And then I’m heading out. You good?”

Jordan nods and takes a sip of his water, “You’ll be alright, my dude.

Tell Amy I said hey.” He waggles his eyebrows, never once missing a chance to remind me that he thinks my mom is hot.

I pretend I don’t notice and step outside the noisy restaurant to punch in my mom’s number, hoping she will have the solution to my vacation problem.

There wasn’t much to split when my parents got their divorce, but she got the beach house that was handed down from my grandpa.

My stomach churns at the mere thought of my grandpa. I had called him last week to check in, but he sounded spacey. I really need to go see him in person.

She answers on the third ring. “Tate?” she asks.

“Is everything okay?” I cringe, making a mental note to call her more often.

Of course she’d assume something was wrong—it’s a random Friday night, and lately I’ve only been calling her once a month, if that.

“Well, actually, I was wondering if I could head down to Widow’s Wharf for a few days? ”

“You want to go to the cottage?” she asks. “You haven’t shown interest in that place in years.”

“Yeah, well, things change unexpectedly,” I mutter.

“I can have Nick’s assistant check to see if it’s rented. Do you care if I go ask her really fast?”

I wait for her to go check with Nick’s assistant, although I’m willing to bet it’s not. No one goes to that town unless you’re a fisherman with a death wish.

Nick married my mom after the divorce, and now they live together in Atlanta where he works as a lawyer.

He’s never asked me to call him my step dad, and I’ve never offered, and I think we’re both okay with that.

After a few minutes she comes back. “She said it’s free but she thinks there’s a leak somewhere because the last water bill was pretty high.

Last month there was an electrical issue.

It’s always something. It’s probably time to sell. ”

“Oh,” I say hesitantly, unsure if that’s something I want to get tied up in right now. Then, I remember who is in my apartment with all of her stuff, and decide that the old, janky cottage is the better option. “I can take care of it. I will go and see about the repairs and hiring a realtor.”

Mom hums softly. “Well, if you’re sure, it will save me a trip. Although, I’m due for another visit with Grandpa. I haven’t visited in a couple of months. Have you talked to him lately?”

“I called him last week,” I answer, though guilt still grips me. I should’ve made time to go see him before now.

“The key is right where it always is,” she says. “Call me and let me know what the realtor says, if they even have a realtor office still. Remember how small that town is?”

Images of Widow’s Wharf flash through my mind, and it only takes a second, but I can feel a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth until it’s replaced by something else…

something akin to heartbreak. Is this something I really want to do?

Heading back to the cottage feels like picking at a scab that’s been trying to heal for the past ten years.

“Yeah,” I finally answer, realizing I don’t have much of a choice.

“I forgot how much I loved it there. I’ll call you in a few days, Mom. Love you.”

I slide into my car, turn my phone off, and toss it into the passenger seat.

I pull out into the never-ending Charlotte traffic and mindlessly head east toward the only place I can remember being able to be myself, the only place I could be carefree.

I just hope that the only place that has the potential to break me may also be the one place that can help me heal.