Page 3 of Holiday Tides

A surprised breath fills my lungs while Nick simultaneously barks at the two barely sixteen-year-olds who’d carelessly tossed the carpet and uses the heel of his boot to stop the roll from hitting the truck. The two boys mutter an apology, ducking back into the house.

Bewilderment is easier to focus on than how Nick literally swept me off my feet. Or how he makes this low sound in his throat as he hoists me higher on his chest. Or how the heat of him seeping into my frigid body is as comforting as it is disorienting. When his chin dips slightly toward me, red flashing alarm bells flood my vision.

“Let go of me.” I push at his—okay, wow—very firm shoulders.

“Not until you’re out of here.” He moves toward the middle of the street before halting. “Where did you come from?”

“The yellow cottage,” I reply, trying to tuck my legs out of his strong grip.

When we’d been kids, my five siblings and I would pile into our parents’ minivan on weekends and traverse the hour-long drive along farm-lined roads to visit our only grandparent. I spent my childhood wishing I was an “islander,” like my grandmother, but had to settle for living on the “mainland” and visiting.

The locals refer to this two-mile, narrow stretch of beach as an island, though it’s technically a peninsula. The Atlantic Ocean stretches to the east; Back Bay to the west; a wide inlet separates the town from North Carolina’s Outer Banks to the south; and a large, inaccessible, 4,983-acre wildlife preserve borders the northern edge. All the island kids had a heck of a commute to the high school on the outskirts of Virginia Beach, the large metropolis where I was raised.

Including the grown-up version of one currently manhandling me.

“That’s right. It was your grandmother’s place. I should have put two and two together earlier.”

Nick says the warm words directly over my ear, but I know better than to look into his face. If I glance up, I know what will be there: mesmerizing green eyes, a jaw that has only become more chiseled with age, and that teasing smile—mocking me…always mocking me. Instead, I focus my attention on the hole in the knee of my leggings.

“Are you visiting your brother?” he asks.

My youngest middle brother had been living in Gramma’s house for the last two years. One of my siblings has been living there since her death my freshman year of college. But last week, my brother moved to Miami with his girlfriend. Since I owe a cool quarter-of-a-million dollars in med school debt, I jumped at the chance not only to live rent free but to satiate my childhood dream of living on Wilks Beach.

After graduating my residency program five months ago, I’ve been living in a tiny apartment in Virginia Beach and setting aside every extra cent to pay back said bone-crushing loans. AndI’ve been volunteering to take everyone’s weekend call. This is the first weekend I haven’t been on-call in a long time.

Working extra has unintentionally endeared me to the rest of the physicians at my new practice. Not the worst side effect of trying to pay for years of modern indentured servitude, especially since being on-call no longer means rushing to the hospital. It now consists of talking to parents and instructing them to head to an urgent care or calling in prescriptions from the comfort of my couch. Either way, I still answer dozens of daily pages from worried parents looking for help.

Winter is tough on the littles.

“The silent treatment is below you, Bummer. How long are you going to be in town?”

“Put me down.” I shift my shoulders defiantly at the sound of my old nickname. “I can walk from here.”

The jerk simply chuckles—chuckles—all low and breathy. “I forgot how stubborn you are.” Then Nick flips me over one shoulder like I’m an unruly toddler, not a fully grown thirty-year-old woman. “Hold still. We’re almost there.”

I’m blinking rapidly, disbelief coursing through my veins as Nick trudges up my walkway, rights me, and gingerly sets me on my doorstep. Sanity stops being a guiding principle when his large hands remain on my ribs, standing entirely too close. I can’t bring myself to look at him, so I focus on the notch between his heaving collarbones. He’s breathing hard, like I was heavier than he expected.

I should say thank you. Nick technically prevented me from having to get a tetanus booster. But this brief moment is too reminiscent of one that’s burned into my mind as my most embarrassing memory of high school. It’s in a file in my brain labeledDo Not Revisitburied beneath antiquated pharmacology, my aunt’s flan recipe, and the lyrics to “Frère Jacques.”

And I shouldn’t be standing this close to Nick when I’m currently dating another man. When Cooper’s face snaps into my mind like a whip crack, I step back and shut myself behind the door. I tell myself the soft, “Summer,” I heard was just the wind. Then I race upstairs to take the world’s hottest shower to wash this whole impossible interaction away.

three

Nick

Disorientation isn’t a new sensation for me. Being an avid surfer means that I occasionally wipeout and get rag-dolled before I can determine which way is up. But I’ve never felt so unclear of my surroundings on dry land. It takes me a full ten seconds to notice I’m still staring at the decorative stained-glass window of Summer’s closed front door—frozen.

Summer Owens is back.DoctorOwens, technically.

Okay, yeah, so I shouldn’t have kept tabs on her over the last few years. I shouldn’t know that Summer accomplished her goal of becoming a pediatrician, that she’s still as breathtaking as ever, and she hasn’t posted on social media since July. It sounds bad, but I don’t check on herthatoften. It’s just hard to give up the one who got away—even if Summer never knew how I felt about her in high school.

That last night flashes forward easily. I’ve only retraced every step thousands of times over the years. It was graduation night, and everyone was high on the possibility of the future. I was set to move to Connecticut and Summer to North Carolina. I knewthere was no chance of anus, but I’d just needed a few more seconds in her presence before life took us our separate ways.

“Great speech, Bummer.” My knuckles lightly tap the shoulder of her graduation gown.

I catch the exact second she suppresses an eye roll. “It was a real shock you didn’t want to take over the valedictorian speech.”

“I never said I was good at public speaking,” I say, palms lifted.

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