Page 50 of Fated

I’m at the edge of the light, past the marquee, between the grass and the sand, halfway between the ocean and the party.

McCormick draws close and looks down at me. There’s his smile and a questioning light in his eyes. And now I know to look, there’s also a wariness, almost as if he’s scared he’s about to be hurt—that he’s expecting it.

“You’re not joining everyone?”

I lift a shoulder. “I like watching. I always have. I’m more an on-the-edges than an in-the-middle kind of woman.”

His eyebrows draw down. “Since when? You’re always the life of the party. You and Robert, you always?—”

He stops then. Looks away from me. The silence stretches, and that tautness between us stretches too, vibrating with tension.

“McCormick?”

He looks down at me. Swallows. The bobbing of his Adam’s apple looks painful.

“Yeah?”

I glance up at him. He’s bulky. He takes up a lot of space, both physically and with that something else, that leashed power. The darkness likes him, it brings out the highlights in his coal-black hair, like the blue gleaming of the fire. His eyes swallow the light and the brown-black of them wink with starlight. His face is more rugged in the dark, and maybe because he thinks I can’t see him as well it’s less guarded. I could trace the lines of hope and fear from his jaw to his mouth. I know them well because I see them every time I look in the mirror.

I wonder why he loves me. Why he’s stayed with me, in this dream life where I’m not good for him.

“Why do I call you McCormick?”

He turns back to me, a single eyebrow rising. He shrugs. “You always have.”

“But why? Your name’s Aaron. Shouldn’t I call you that?”

He looks at me then, really studying me, as if he’s searching for something. The roar of the ocean becomes a soft mumble as I step closer. I’m only a foot away now, and I can smell the smoke on him, the charcoal and the heat.

His gaze flicks to a drop of sweat rolling down my neck, sliding along my collarbone and dipping to disappear at the collar of my white cotton dress. Then his mouth presses tight and he says, “You said you like calling me McCormick because it reminds you of who I really am.”

“Who’s that?”

He lifts a shoulder. “An almost. A never was. A dream that didn’t happen.”

Well.

“I’d rather call you Aaron then.”

He lets out a huff then, an almost laugh. The firelight flickers bright and the tattoos on his arms gleam in the light. His biceps are covered in them, and they trail up and over his chest and abdomen. I can’t see them under his T-shirt, but I know they’re there.

“I don’t mind McCormick. It’s true what you said, and it’ll be true no matter what you call me.”

“Do you like being married to me?”

He glances at me then, turning his gaze from the fire. He thinks about my question. This is something I like about him. He contemplates things. He doesn’t answer without thinking—he takes his time.

“I want you to be happy,” he finally says, watching me. “I want the kids to be happy.”

That wasn’t an answer.

Down the beach a firecracker is set off. It whines and then pops in the sky, bursting like a bright white flower, raining sparks down on the ocean. There are yells and cheers and shouts for more. The bulky bald man from the setup bends over to light another, and the crossing guard stands behind him, keeping the kids at bay.

The music has shifted to a slow song. One made for dancing in the sand.

“You wouldn’t ever leave me, would you?” I ask, considering the solid line of him, his patience with Amy, the way he scooped up Sean this morning and rubbed his cheeks free of banana before dropping a kiss on his nose.

“I won’t leave the island,” he says. “I’ll live and die here. So as long as you stay, then...”

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