Page 74 of Make Me Yours

The knowledge sends another wave of apprehension through my core.

If she didn’t stay at the hospital last night, why didn’t she join me at the hotel across the street? Surely, she knows she can call or text me any time of day or night, especially in a crisis.

Second-guessing the wisdom of putting coffee on my irritable, empty stomach, I dump it in a bin and head back to the car. Aiming the Subaru toward Sea Breeze, I consider calling Sully to ask if she’s at home, and if I can swing by to talk, but that feels wrong.

She hasn’t responded to my last message, why would she reply to another one? She’s clearly avoiding me, and the only way to put an end to that is to track her down and insist she tell me what’s bothering her.

She’s probably angry that you pressed charges against her cousin, right after she begged you not to press charges against her father,the inner voice says, but I’m not buying it.

I pressed charges againsteveryoneon that boat, including my own nephew. And Sully isn’t the kind to condone destruction of property, especially when that property is a seafaring vessel. She’s a lobster woman. Her boat is her livelihood. A yacht isn’t the same thing, of course, but that yacht is my home in Sea Breeze. I can’t imagine her being okay with fully grown adults boarding my boat without permission and trashing it.

There has to be something else, something I haven’t thought of yet.

My stomach growls, as if suggesting perhaps the reason I can’t think straight is that I’ve barely eaten in the past day. I managed to force down some grilled chicken and rice last night for dinner, but the room service was bland and overcooked, and I was too worried about Sully to have much of an appetite.

But this morning, my stomach insists on sustenance, no matter how unsettled I am by my girlfriend’s disappearance.

Girlfriend…

I hope she hasn’t decided to end things. I know she must be worried about how she’s going to help care for her grandfather from New York, but that’s one thing about money—it can buy a lot of time, help, and freedom. I can get Gramps a full-time, live-in nurse. And Sully and I can fly back every other weekend to spend time with him.

I’m open to visiting Sea Breeze on a regular basis, but we can’t stay here. It isn’t good for either of us.

I’m reminded of how “not good” things have been as I pass the boat on my way into town and see a Happy Housekeepers van parked in the lot. Looks like Mark is making good on his promise to have cleaners in to take care of things. Hopefully, he’s taken care of hiring temporary staff for the Sullivan boat, as well. The sooner all those ducks are in a row, the sooner we can get out of here.

Fuck being here for the official reading of the will. I’ll attend via Zoom from my apartment in New York and deal with the rest of the estate issues remotely or during shorter, weekend trips to Maine.

I should have known better than to think I could make it through three to four weeks in this place. I wouldn’t stay three or four more minutes if Sully weren’t here.

As if summoned by my thoughts, my focus is suddenly drawn to a wavy blond ponytail bouncing down the street. I tap the brakes, waiting until the ponytail emerges from behind a pickup truck, to affirm that is indeed, Sully.

My heart squeezes tight.

She looks exhausted, with dark circles under her eyes and no makeup on. She also looks…sad.

Or angry?

I can’t read her expression before she reaches the door to the Sweet Pussy Café and swings inside.

But that’s okay. I know where she is now. I’ll find out what she’s feeling for myself.

I pull into a parking space farther down the block and start back toward the café, skin buzzing with an unfamiliar sensation I can’t place. About ten feet from the entrance, I realize it’s anxiety, and exhale a soft huff of laughter.

If only my work colleagues could see me now: Weaver Tripp, the Ice King of Wall Street with sweating palms and a racing pulse. I’m famous for keeping a cool head, even when protestors set fire to the elevator shaft in our building and we had to evacuate down twenty-six flights of stairs.

But then, I’ve never had this much to lose.

As I push through the door, my heart slamming against my ribs, I’m struck by the realization that work isn’t as important to me as I’ve always thought it was. Neither is status or reputation or all the beautiful things I’ve accumulated after years ofprofessional success. They’re all nothing compared to her, the most beautiful person I’ve ever known.

Even in a pair of gray sweats and a baggy white sweater, with one arm in a sling and her hair pulled back, she’s stunning. I step into the cinnamon and butter scented air and even though the café is hopping this Sunday morning, all I can see is her.

She’s seated at the small blue couch in the cat-friendly part of the café, a paper coffee cup clutched in her good hand and a fat gray cat curled up against her with a paw on her thigh, as if to tell her that everything will be okay. She’s sad now, but she won’t be sad forever.

She won’t be sad for another ten minutes if I have anything to say about it, cat, I think as I stride across the room.

Almost instantly, Sully looks up from the carpet, the sadness on her face morphing into a mixture of anger and betrayal that slows my steps.

I lift my hands at my sides, but before I can speak, she sets her coffee down on the table in front of her and jabs a finger at my face. “Don’t. Go away. Just…go away. I can’t deal with you right now. I have enough on my plate.”

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