Page 39 of The Spirit of Love

Chapter Twenty-Three

This time, the deer don’t fuck with me. I roam under high stratus clouds, along the northern rim of Catalina.

Down winding, narrow paths hedged by tall pink-flowering bush mallows.

To the cliff’s edge overlooking Parson’s Landing.

And, finally, to the small, solitary wood cabin, and the man I hope to find inside.

It’s a little after noon on Friday when I finally see Sam’s cabin, still nestled at the edge of the island like something out of a fairy tale.

I’ve lucked into my own transportation for this reunion visit—a periwinkle blue Blix electric folding bike, one of six available to borrow from the stowage cabin of The Midlife Crisis .

Captain Dan offered to drop anchor off Sam’s secret beach, which I pointed out to my friends on our approach into Two Harbors.

Olivia and Masha wanted to bring me to shore by dinghy; escort me up the short, steep trail to the cabin; and then, as Olivia put it, hide in the bushes until they’d made sure I got in okay.

Until they made sure I still wanted to be there, after seeing Sam again.

I was less worried about whether I’d want to hang out with Sam once we reunited.

I haven’t forgotten how well we got along, how easy he is.

Even if a relationship with him is unrealistic.

What worried me more was the idea of knocking on Sam’s door, uninvited, unannounced—with an emotionally invested, spying entourage in tow.

Including one very pregnant spy who would likely have to pee.

The bike saved me the social pressure of a door-to-door The Midlife Crisis drop-off.

If at any point my visit with Sam gets uncomfortable, I’ll be just a six-mile, moderately inclined ride back to Two Harbors.

To the Del Rey Yacht Club, where my friends are docked for the night, with a mini-fridge full of snacks and very good wine and an extra cabin with twin bunkbeds and their favorite fifth wheel’s name on it.

Was it easier showing up to Sam’s cabin the first time, when a cataclysmic storm had handled the decision-making for me?

Yes. But is it time for me to take matters into my own adult hands?

To determine not only what I want from this weekend, and how to make it happen, but also what I want from life—and what to tell Jude on Monday? Also yes. Hell yes.

My calves are tingling with exertion and my chest is a hornet’s nest of nerves by the time I reach the edge of the path that leads to Sam’s front porch.

I press the brakes on the bike and look up at the blue curtains covering the window of the bedroom where I once laid with Sam.

Smoke again curls from the chimney. His boots are kicked off in the same place at the same angle to the left of the same sunrise-colored rattan welcome mat.

He’s home , I think with simultaneous glee and dread.

It’s been one month, and yet it feels like a lifetime ago.

Since I was last in this place, I’ve experienced one career freefall, one partial career rebound, one galivant through a costume warehouse, one best friend’s wedding, one desert stargazing session, one tipped canoe, and one episode of Zombie Hospital filmed.

What surprises me is not how much or little calendar time has passed since I was at Sam’s cabin.

What surprises me is how, in measuring my post-Sam era, I think in terms of milestones I’ve experienced with Jude.

I’m annoyed that Jude gave me these marching orders to figure out what’s going on with Sam.

I’m not here only because of Jude’s words last night.

I should—and do—want to know what’s going on with Sam for myself.

I want to know if what I experienced with Sam is worthy of the memory I’ve stored.

Or if this weekend will show me that I painted those days and nights with shimmery, sentimental nostalgia—like music director James Horner did in the climax scene of Titanic , using violins like drugs to induce tears from the audience.

At this point, I just want to know.

If it’s nothing, it’s nothing. I can truly let this whole fling go. This place, this man, the echo of our connection in my bones.

If it’s something…that’s harder to say. Being back on Catalina reinforces that Sam’s life is very much on this amazing island. My life is very much across forty miles of sea.

From the oceanfront eastern edge of the cabin’s wraparound porch, motion catches my eye. It’s an elbow.

Golden and gleaming with sweat, suggesting strength and flexibility beyond ordinary mortal capacities.

Lord, Sam’s elbow is doing it for me.

I lean the bike against a manzanita bush hedging the cabin.

I follow the path on my approach toward Sam, each body part revealing itself like the world’s sweatiest, sexiest cabaret show.

Elbow, bulging biceps, straining shoulder, flexing neck, and gorgeous, handsome face.

A man at once strange and familiar, doing one-armed pull-ups, facing the sea.

He wears thin black joggers. Nothing else.

His feet are bare, his shoulders orgasmic, the nape of his neck damp with a sheen of sweat.

His muscles flex like the hills of Catalina as he raises his body up and then lowers it down.

Up then down. I want to put my hands on his skin.

I want him to see me, to turn around right now, say my name, and run his hands through his hair. And smile.

And I’ll smile back.

But when Sam releases the bar and his feet drop to the porch, I panic and try to duck out of view, to race back to my bike before he sees—

“Hello?”

I bend my knees in busted agony, spinning slowly around to face Sam. I make a broad, awkward wave.

I dare to look Sam in his chocolate eyes.

They widen now in something like stupefaction.

I should have announced that I was here while his back was still to me.

I should not have ogled him from behind for God knows how long, no matter how good his deltoids looked.

I must now acknowledge the awkwardness of my attempt to flee when caught ogling, because with every passing second, I only look like more of a creeper.

“Fenny?” Sam uses both hands to rub his eyes, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. “Is that really you?”

“Just an excellent body double,” I say, waving clumsily with my other hand now because the demonic choreographer controlling my body isn’t done laughing at me yet.

Sam bounds down the stairs toward me, stopping tantalizing inches away.

“Not possible,” he says, crossing his arms over absolutely stunning pectoral muscles. “Your body can’t be replicated.”

Which is rich coming from this shirtless Adonis. I allow my eyes to trail down Sam’s bare chest. It’s the oddest time to wonder about Jude’s bare chest, which I didn’t get to see last night. I wonder if I ever will.

“Wow,” Sam says. “It’s good to see you.”

“It is?” I blink, stunned, snapped back into the present moment by Sam’s unabashed honesty. “Even with the weird attempt to flee just now?”

“I’ll let that slide.” He grins as his eyes run over my face, my hair, my body. It’s warm outside, but goosebumps dot my skin. “What are you doing here?”

“I—well—”

I came because a man I kissed last night suggested it—

I came to sort through my feelings for you and my feelings for someone else I might be falling for in a big way—

I came because, once upon a time, you and I shared something bone-deep and blissful in this cabin, on that beach. At least, I think we did. It’s getting harder to remember clearly.

I came because I need your help figuring out my life. And I’m hoping you can mind-read, too, because I’ve never been as good as you at saying the true things out loud.

“I’m sorry,” Sam says. “Maybe that came out wrong. I meant to sound amazed and grateful. Not to put you on the spot.”

He runs his hand through his hair in that way that he does. It reminds me of what his hair feels like, sun-warmed and silky.

The chemistry between us is real and very much alive.

Two minutes together is long enough for me to know I want all of Sam back all at once.

I want as many inches of his skin against mine as is physically possible.

I want the heat of his breath in my ear.

I want his strong hands on my hips, rooting me to him.

I want his laughter echoing through canyons on a zip line.

I want his cold-water gasp, and his softest kiss, and his burnt toast, and his whispered Stay forever .

And I wish we could skip the need for explanation because this weekend already feels too short, but Sam’s looking at me as if there are things he needs to say.

“I didn’t think I’d get another chance,” he says.

“Isn’t there always another chance?”

“That seems too good to be true,” he says. “Do you know how many times I’ve relived that day we said goodbye?”

I shake my head, surprised. “How many?”

“I must have fantasized a hundred ways it could have gone differently, Fenny. I’ve just been so…stuck. What tears me up, ever since then, is that you might have left without knowing…”

He trails off, licks his bottom lip, and looks away.

“What?” I whisper, letting the tips of my fingers brush the tips of Sam’s. A tingling spark trips up my hand, my arm, then all the way into my core. I meet his eyes and melt as his fingers gently drag up my arms. Soon he’s holding me by the elbows, his hold firm, but his hands so soft.

“I didn’t know how to find you.” His voice is lower, a little raspy. I tip up my face and see him haloed by the sun.

“I’m here now.”

“You’re here now,” he says, amazed. “How long can you stay?”

Logistics and Sam don’t go together, so even though I’ve got a tight two and a half days left, I cast aside reality. “A while.”

“I want to kiss you,” he says.