Page 76 of Every Beautiful Mile

It’s absurd, but I buy it anyway.

It’s way too big, and I’m leaving in two days, but part of me knows it’s as much about Ethan as it is the beauty of the painting. Like something important is happening I won’t be able to comprehend until much later.

In the twenty-four hours since I’ve been here, I’m awake. Alive.

Somehow, Ethan’s presence has started dredging up the pieces of who I used to be, who I desperately still want to be, and shoved them to the surface.

“Ready?” I step next to him with a bulging bag of ingredients and a canvas almost half as tall as I am.

He shakes his head. “You look ridiculous.”

“Shockingly, I get that a lot.” My face is fixed with a permanent smile.

He takes the painting from me, interlaces his fingers with mine, and leads me across the park to his empty restaurant.

Twenty-nine

With sprigs of lavender, lemon, and a bottle of local honey, once again I make myself at home behind Ethan’s bar.

“Hey!” I say, shielding the ingredients from his eyes with my hands. “No peeking!”

He pulls a loaf of bread and a block of cheese out of a bag across from me.

“I was at the same market you were. I have no idea how you found something so secretive.”

“It’s not like that.” I cut a lemon into wedges. “For me, it’s about taking one ingredient that’s common yet special, figuring out a way to plug it into a drink, and making it a different experience.

“Take the blueberry gin and tonic I made last night. Blueberries aren’t inherently special, right? But they are very Maine, and they do make you feel like you’ve had something magical when you’ve had them in a cocktail.”

“Blueberries aren’t special?” His eyebrows shoot up. “Watch what you say in Maine, Penelope.” He waves a loaf of bread at me. “That’s grounds for some serious punishment.”

I laugh and roll my eyes. “Yeah. Yeah. My point is, don’t expect some exotic item you’ve never heard of.”

He starts cutting the bread, and I can’t help but watch him. Study him. His good looks are obvious but also nuanced in the way random strands of silver hide throughout his dark hair, the soft scruff on his jaw covers the sharpness of it, and eyes that sometimes look blue, sometimes green always seem to be plotting something. I could look at him for hours and still not learn every detail that makes him him.

“You’re staring at me,” he hums.

My gaze drops back to the counter I’m working at. “You’re easy to stare at,” I admit, laughing at my honesty, before trying again. “It’s just, everyone stares at you, and it’s kind of a lot to wrap my brain around.”

“What is?” He drops the bread on the plate and squares his shoulders to me across the bar.

“You know, you have girls that deep throat straws like Brooke and show up for 11:30 dates like Zoey. I don’t know why it’s possible you would want to spend a night at a market with me. I feel like I might ruin your image or something.” I put the lid on the stainless-steel shaker, shaking it over my shoulder.

“And don’t say anything. When I make embarrassing confessions, it’s just easier on my ego for us to not talk about it.”

I pour the drink into two rocks glasses with ice then top them with club soda and a sprig of lavender before sprinkling purple powder over top.

“Nel, it’s not—” I hold up my hand.

“No. Talking. Now close your eyes.”

I clap my hands together as he does as I say and slide the drink in front of him.

The glass is mostly filled with a pale-yellow mixture, but it gives way to a deep purple layer that swirls around the ice at the top. A sprig of lavender nestles lightly against the rim as little bubbles race toward the top.

“Open!” I smile as I slip onto the stool next to him with my drink. “Taste it. Tell me what you think.”

I want it to be good. I want him to think it’s good.

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