Page 43 of Seashells and Other Souvenirs

“One more chapter?”

Jude marks our spot in the book on his lap with his left hand. His right arm is draped across my shoulders and bent at an angle so he can play with the ends of my hair. “You sound like Donovan.”

I snuggle in closer to his side. “I could only dream of being as cute as Donovan.”

“I don’t know, I think you’re pretty cute.” He opens the book again. “Especially when you fangirl over Frodo.”

I smile. “Frodo is definitely not the reason I’m enjoying this.”

He kisses my temple, clears his throat, and resumes the story. We seem to be operating under some unspoken agreement not to acknowledge the fact that I’m leaving tomorrow morning. We’ve spent the past two days choosing these simple moments together over grand adventures and traditions.

Yesterday, I helped Kelsey clean her new apartment while Jude and Ty loaded Ty’s truck with a bed and the extra couch as well as a few kitchen essentials to get her started.

Other than that, we’ve filled the time with Legos, movies, walks, working on the book for my cousins, and reading.

Neither of us has touched our poetry notebook.

He stops reading. “You hungry?”

There’s an emptiness forming in the pit of my stomach, but it has nothing to do with food. I check the time, surprised and angry that the hour is later than I’d realized. “Not really. You?”

He shakes his head. “Let’s go for a walk.”

We walk until the sun is long gone and our feet ache like our hearts do. Maybe if we never stop moving, we can keep the dawn at bay.

“Hey.” He pulls me close when the tears have overtaken me.

I try to quiet myself, straining to commit the harmony of his heartbeat and the ocean to memory, like I’m cramming the night before a test. Rubbing my back, he murmurs into my hair.

“I need you to know that this has been the best summer of my life.”

It’s crazy how I came here thinking my best years were behind me, how scared I was that nothing could come close to the kind of love I’ve known in my past. But my answer could not hold any more truth. “Mine too.”

I step out of his embrace, reach for the hook on my necklace, unclasp it, and refasten it around his neck. “How did I ever go six years without seeing you? I’m not sure I’m going to make it through the first six hours tomorrow.” I start to break down again.

“Shh.” He pulls me close in the darkness, threads his fingers through my hair, and gently tips up my chin.

This time, his kiss is like the ocean, deep and beautiful and overwhelming.

I love him. I love him with a love I didn’t know existed back in May.

I have never been happier. I have never been more devastated.

Because here, on this beach that has drawn me back like the tide year after year, the love of my life isn’t just kissing me.

He’s kissing me goodbye. And I’m drowning on dry land.

“I filled it up yesterday when I checked the oil, so you should be fine on gas. And traffic shouldn’t be too bad.”

We stand side by side in his driveway next to my car loaded with all my belongings except for the sweatshirt and our notebook in my arms. A tiny thread of silver glints where the necklace peeks out of Jude’s shirt collar.

“Thank you. For everything.” I don’t know what else to say. Everything else, I’ve either already told him or can’t say at all.

“Alex.” I think he’s about to reach for me, but he tucks both hands into his pockets. “I know this is probably not a fair question at this point, but I was wondering if I could ask you a favor.” He eyes the notebook, and I pull it closer.

“Okay.” I brace myself for the request.

“Don’t leave.”

My mouth goes dry. He steps closer, sincere eyes trained on mine.

“Stay here with me,” he pleads. “There are plenty of schools here still looking for teachers. Or you could focus on your writing. I’ll take care of you.

We can plan the city’s events together. We can start our own traditions, our own family.

Or, we could just be the coolest aunt and uncle ever. Whatever you want. I just want you.”

“Jude.”

“I can’t give you the world, Al, but I can buy you tiny boxes of cereal and read to you and take you for ice cream and walks by the ocean. I’ll build you a fort every day and let you win every game if you want. I think I could make you happy if you’ll let me.”

“Please don’t do this.” I close my eyes. “These last few days have been perfect. I don’t want to leave like this.”

“Then don’t.”

I’m not sure if the anger rising up in me is directed at him or myself. “My cousins are expecting me there tonight.”

“So go be with them and then come back.”

I step backwards until I’m leaning against the door of my car. “I have a job back home, Jude. A life.”

He waits for me to look at him. “You have a life here too. We could have a life. Together. I just . . . this isn’t just some vacation for me.

And I refuse to pack up everything we have and shove it into a box.

” He juts his chin toward the shoebox in my backseat.

“Love isn’t a trinket. My heart isn’t a souvenir. ”

“I . . . I can’t.” I stammer. I’ve been bracing for the impact of this moment for weeks, and suddenly the floor has opened up and I’m still falling.

What happened to what he said about this summer being a season?

I’ve already resigned myself to the fact that it’s over, already started grieving him.

Of course I want to make this work, but ending things now might be better for my heart—and his—in the long run. “I need time.”

His face pinching, he nods. “Okay.”

My throat feels tight, but I force the words out. “I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to be another person who leaves you, Jude.”

“Look at me,” he says, his tone kind but firm. “Guilt is the last emotion I want you to feel right now, okay? It is not your job to make sure I’m okay. I’ve lived through a broken heart before, and I’ll do it again. I just want you to be happy.”

These last words are making it even harder to think about getting into my car than his earlier plea.

He reaches for the notebook, and I’m too thrown to stop him. “I just need to borrow this last page.”

“Wait. What?” I watch him tear the paper from the binding.

“I wrote it last night when I was hopeful this conversation might end differently. But it needs some editing now.” He passes the book back. “Don’t worry, I’ll get it back to you, I promise. It just needs a little tweaking.”

I’m positive this poem that I’ve never read is my favorite of them all. And now, I’ll never read it.

Jude folds the page and slides it into his back pocket, then hugs me and says, “Drive carefully.”

My body switches to autopilot as I open the door and get in, as I back out and drive away, as I watch Jude get smaller in the rearview mirror. I understand why he didn’t want to let me go. He was right. I won’t be able to do this again; I won’t be back before next July.

By the time I reach the bridge, I have no breath left to hold. On the other side, I pull off the road and park my car, weeping so hard I can barely see. I turn the air up, reach for my purse, and do the only thing I know to do: I call my cousin.