Page 75 of Every Beautiful Mile

He scoffs. “That’s ridiculous.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” I tease. “If only these women tried one of your cocktails.”

“Funny,” he deadpans.

Then we’re quiet as we walk, but it isn’t awkward—it’s comfortable. Familiar. Easy.

A group of kids play hide-and-seek around trees in a section of the park while couples lounge on blankets in front of the band.

“This is the first farmers market I’ve been to since before Travis died. I didn’t know how much I missed it until now,” I say while we walk. “Like this part of me has just been hiding in the shadows, waiting for someone to shine a light on it. Thank you, seriously. This is amazing.”

“I’m glad you like it,” he says, bumping his shoulder against mine.

When his hand brushes against mine, the feeling it gives me is all-consuming.

And stupid.

He’s him, I’m me.

I’ll be gone in days, and I’ll never see him again.

If I just move over an inch, I’ll avoid him altogether, but the need to feel his skin against mine is as strong as the pull of the opposite ends of a magnet.

On the third time our knuckles brush, he wraps his fingers around mine, squeezing my hand in his, and says, “Gotcha.”

I press my lips together in a poor attempt to hide the smile that shatters my face and look down at our intertwined fingers before looking up at him.

“Careful, Ethan, people might get the wrong idea.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “And what would that be?”

“That you don’t only go on dates that start at 11:30 at night.”

He laughs under his breath. “Maybe I don’t care if they think that.”

I allow myself three seconds of imagining what that means before shoving the thoughts aside.

At the last table of the market, covered in colorfully painted Maine landscapes on canvases, we stop. Every piece is filled with bright colors and bold strokes. Instead of green trees, they’ve been layered in shades of yellow and pink. They’re stunning.

The artist, Rhonda Donalds as written on the sign, is an older woman with a kind round face. She stands from her chair, smiling, and greets us.

“I love these,” I tell her as I trace the lines of one of the abnormally bright trees. “My mom’s an artist. She also favors bright colors.”

“I always say I paint the world as it ought to be. Maybe your mom would agree,” she says, dark eyes shining in the reflection of the lights.

Then, she walks me around her booth and tells me about each painting. She’s painted everything from busy Maine cities to rocky coastlines near Canada.

We stop in front of a large canvas. “This one is the Androscoggin River. Flows right through the heart of Maine. This river is as much a part of us as it is the state,” she says.

“We were here?” I turn to Ethan, and he nods.

The painting shows the scene we had floated through. Tree-covered mountains are depicted in explosive color, with a river flowing through. Hues of yellows and reds dot the water. It’s both exactly and nothing what it looks like.

“I’ll take it,” I say, surprising myself. “I want to remember my time here just exactly how you have painted it—filled with color and light and unexpected beauty.”

I run a finger along the curve of the river on the canvas.

Ethan clears his throat, but I don’t dare look at him.

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