Page 14 of The Spirit of Love

Chapter Eight

Shocking absolutely no one, Sam looks fine as hell in a canoe. And yet, I hate the sight of it because we’re pulling away from our secret beach and he’s taking me to Two Harbors, where I’ll catch the ferry home.

It’s after noon on Sunday, and my ferry leaves at four.

Sam’s canoe is loaded with my backpack and the lunch I helped him pack.

He didn’t have anything in his fridge beyond turkey, bread, and mayonnaise, but why mess with yesterday’s perfection?

We’ve also thrown in his last bottle of sparkling wine.

We’ll both need a little liquid courage, because somewhere along this coastline, we’re going to have to figure out how to say goodbye.

I don’t know how the morning passed so quickly.

Deep in the night—somewhere between my second high-decibel orgasm and sunrise—we hiked back up to his cabin.

I protested this move at first but was promised a series of full-body kisses once my head hit the pillow in Sam’s bed, and the man did not disappoint. The man has yet to disappoint.

I’m glad I woke up in his bed, to the sight of him watching me. To the sound of his voice asking, “How do I get inside your dreams?”

I’m taking that memory with me when I go.

Along with the hoodie Sam insisted I keep and the adder stone I’m wearing around my neck.

It’s warm in the center of my heart. These are my favorite souvenirs I’ve ever picked up.

And like all souvenirs, they pale in comparison to the trip and companion they’re supposed to help me remember.

Like the smell of his burnt toast again this morning.

Like the whooping ovation he gave me when I achieved exactly one pull-up on the metal bar on his ocean-facing porch before I collapsed, red-faced and aching.

Like him explaining over jasmine tea how he’d carved the fireplace, which evolved into a fireside make-out session.

I like the way my viewfinder looks around his neck as he rows. I’ve never met anyone who makes me want to mess with the space-time continuum, who makes me want to go back and do two days all over again. Just as they were. No notes. We wouldn’t have to change a thing.

How can it be only two days since Sam unzipped my tent, since Sam unzipped me? I feel like we’ve known each other all our lives. I think this is because I let him see more of me this weekend than I’ve let other boyfriends see in years of dating.

“You look worried,” Sam says as he rows. Our beach recedes behind him, the zip line barely visible. My eyes travel up to his cabin, already too far away.

“I don’t want to leave,” I say.

Sam stops rowing. “I’ll turn this thing around right now. You can stay forever.”

I laugh and put my hand on his. “I don’t want to leave, but I have to. Tomorrow—”

“I hate that word,” Sam says.

“It’s a big moment for my career,” I say.

Sam looks at the sky. “How can our timing be so perfect in bed, and on the beach—”

“And in this canoe, if you’re up for it—”

“Yet so out of sync that you have to leave here when we should just be getting started?”

“I’m trying to be grateful that we got this weekend, instead of angry we didn’t get more.”

“Is it working?”

“Not yet.”

Sam rows on. I reach into the bag for our provisions. I unwrap both sandwiches and offer him one, which he declines.

“You’re not hungry?”

“I’m always hungry, but I’ve got to row if we’re going to make it on time.”

I lean forward to feed him one bite, then take a bite myself. I used to watch my mom feed my dad on long road trips. They always seemed to find an outsized pleasure in the act. I understand it now. The intimacy of watching him chew, the tenderness of timing the next bite.

I pop the cork on the cava and pour it into two aluminum flutes. We eat and drink like this as the coastline curves and juts. I’m looking at Catalina, but Sam is looking through my viewfinder at the mainland.

“You sure you don’t have a boyfriend over there?”

“Let me think,” I say. “Oh, yeah! There is a guy I forgot about. You should be really jealous. He carves fireplaces and does one-handed pull-ups… at the same time !”

“Wouldn’t be that hard,” Sam mumbles.

I laugh. “There’s no way I could be like this with you if I had a boyfriend.”

Sam lets out his breath, and I’m charmed by his obvious relief.

“I’m not seeing anyone either,” he says.

“Sure you don’t have a steady stream of desperate housewives sailing out from Beverly Hills?”

“Land ho!” Sam laughs but then grows serious. “It feels like a long time since I’ve met someone I like as much as you.”

“It feels like a long time for me, too,” I admit.

“Like maybe ever?” he says, holding my gaze, waiting.

“Are you asking about me, or telling me about you?”

“Both.”

I swallow. I could say it, and maybe it is true, but something holds me back. “Two days isn’t long enough,” I whisper instead.

And then, right on cue, the gleaming white Catalina ferry comes into view.

The last time I was on that boat, I was a different person, embarking on a different trip. I don’t know how to go home and be the same old me.

Yet tomorrow is a bright new day. I’ve got nothing but good things to look forward to, starting at nine a.m. I know that once the ferry hits thirty-two knots, that once the Port of Long Beach wraps its arms around the boat, I’ll be back in the show biz mindset, back in creative mode.

But for now, I’ve still got the taste of a gorgeous man on my lips. Parts of me are sore that haven’t been for ages. I get to be here, with him, a little longer.

“Tell me about those sunset whales,” I say.

“Have you ever heard them sing?” he says.

“I think once, on PBS.”

“You should come back. In a few months, they’ll be all along this coastline. You can see them first thing in the morning. Sometimes I think I can feel their vibrations through my paddles.”

“What do you think they sing about?”

“One says, I am here , and another says, Understood—I am over here . And finally, one of them works up the courage to say, Want to be together? ”

“Do you think they ever fight?”

“Orcas bite each other’s tongues,” Sam says.

“It’s not a bad way to shut someone up.”

Sam looks at me with his deep brown eyes. There’s a long, peaceful pause. “Hey, Fenny?”

I look up at him. “Yes?”

“Anytime you want to do this, exactly this, again? I’m down.”

“Yeah? Great.” I grin. “Or you could come visit me. Anytime. I think you’d like Venice. It’d be fun to show you around.”

I try to picture it—curled up at a corner table at Gjelina, ordering too much pizza and wine.

Bringing Sam as my plus-one to the Zombie Hospital dinner at the Malibu home of the president of CBS.

Making my on-set trailer rock. Brunch at my sister’s house in Silver Lake.

Dancing with him at Olivia and Jake’s wedding later this month.

Sam in my bed and my shower. Sam on my roof deck, squinting through power cables at the stars.

“Maybe,” he says. His eyes aren’t on me, and his voice sounds distant.

“Oh,” I say, surprised. “Or, yeah, maybe it’s easier if I just come back here.”

He grins. “Hey! We already know it works!”

“Right.”

I feel my brows furrow, but I try not to read too much into this. After all, how many times does Sam have to say he wants me before I let myself believe it?

“We should swap numbers,” I say. “I can’t believe we haven’t done that yet. I actually can’t remember the last time I hung out with a guy who I hadn’t texted with for days or weeks before we ever met in person. Modern romance, right?”

Sam looks away and keeps rowing. “I don’t really do the phone. You know where to find me.”

“Okay…” I blink in surprise, hurt. I turn toward the ferry, which looms up ahead. I feel embarrassed and want to be onboard it more than I thought possible twenty seconds ago.

Have I been wrong about this weekend? Is my reality askew? I consider that I never saw him with a phone this weekend. Is it possible he doesn’t have one? Of course he has a phone.

“And Fenny?” he says. “Please do.”

“Please do what?”

“Find me. Again.”

Our bow touches the beach in the harbor where the ferry is already loading passengers. It’s time to go. And I don’t want to go, not with the awkward taste of this conversation in my mouth.

Sam climbs out and drags the canoe farther up onto the beach. I grab my backpack and stumble clumsily onto the sand. “Thanks for the ride—”

But his mouth is on mine before I can finish.

His hands are in my hair, and his tongue is searching for mine.

His lips remind me of the tide, steady and yet surprising with the intensity of their pull.

I kiss him back, surrendering completely to how aroused this man can make me in a second.

I’d do anything for one more time with him.

The ferry horn blasts.

Anything but miss the last boat home and my chance to direct tomorrow. I’m weak in the knees as I pull away.

“Is it just me, or is it seven thousand degrees out there?” I gasp.

“You could come back,” Sam says, like a man leaving for war. “You might.”

It doesn’t need to be this melodramatic. We could simply swap numbers and sext for a month like normal people until one of us says, Hey, I bought a ferry ticket. Let’s low-key hang.

Only that doesn’t seem like something Sam wants to do. And now the loudspeaker at the terminal exclaims that it’s last call for anyone who needs to reach the mainland tonight.

Time’s up.

“Last chance to stay forever,” Sam whispers in my ear.

“Bye, Sam.”

“Bye, Fenny.” He nods.

I nod back like this isn’t agony. Saying goodbye for a day would be hard enough—but not knowing if or when I’ll ever see him again, or why he refuses to give me his number…it’s a form of torture I’ve never known.

But what can I do about it? Other than rush onto the ferry, which is so packed with tourists that there’s not a single seat left. I can’t even get near a window to take a final look, to prove to myself that Sam, and this whole weekend, wasn’t just a dream.