Page 1 of Must Have Been Love

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SKYLER

Have you ever known you’re making a bad decision at theEXACTtime you’re making it, yet still you won’t back out? That’s me, right now. To be honest, that’s been me for the majority of my life. The last twenty-nine years of my existence have been one bad decision after another.

But this one could definitely be the worst.

I’m sitting in my car, the wipers working overtime to push the rivers of rain away from the windshield, staring out at an ocean that looks so foreboding I’m surprised anybody willingly drives down this road and onto the ferry that’s waiting at the end of the jetty.

“You promised me sunshine,” I say out loud, my voice echoing in the empty car.

A chuckle blasts out from the speakers. “I said I remember the sun shining there,” my sister says through the phone line. “It’s just one bad day. It’ll get better, Skyler.”

It’s ironic that Lee’s the one who’s being all optimistic and rah-rah-rah. She’s been against this from the start. So has our mom, which is a huge part of the reason I’m here right now, staring out at the rivers of rain pouring down the road to the dock. I’m the family mess up. The black sheep.

And for once, I want to prove them wrong.

A baby starts to cry from the other end of the phone followed by Lee’s cooing. She has her daughter Cora, her husband, James, who’s made it big in business, and her own career as an entertainment agent that is thriving. She’s been on maternity leave since my squishy little niece was born but she’ll be back at it soon enough.

“I should let you go,” I tell Lee.

“No, please don’t. You’re the only adult I’ve spoken to all day.” She sighs heavily. “Describe exactly what you can see.”

I lean my head forward, trying to squint out through the blur of the rain, but I only succeed in obscuring the glass even more with my misty breath. “I can see the ferry,” I say. It’s currently unloading the cars who have sensibly left the island.

It’s called Liberty, or at least that’s what everybody calls it. Its full name is Cape Liberty Island but according to Lee, nobody has ever called it that. It’s a pretty little island off the East Coast, lined with beaches and a main street that used to attract tourists by the boatload in the early part of the twentieth century, before the commercial airplane was invented and the rich moved on to foreign resorts.

But, from what I have gathered, there’s been some investment that has improved the town, as well as the hotel and bed and breakfasts that are there. I guess I’ll find out in a few minutes.

“What else can you see?” Lee says, sounding almost desperate. I know how much she loves her little girl, but I also know how much she hates being isolated at home.

“Um, I can see the island in the distance,” I lie, because I sense she needs this. “Just barely though.” There, not too much of a lie.

“It’s so pretty there,” she tells me. “You’ll call once you get to the bar, right?”

“Of course,” I say.

“And it’s usually sunny, I promise. I remember that visit with your dad…” she trails off. Mostly because she doesn’t like sad things, and this is definitely an upsetting subject. We have different fathers, but for a couple of years mine was a parent to both of us. She can remember him in a way that I can’t. Can remember who he used to be before the alcohol took over and changed him.

Whereas I can only remember bad times.

Because he’s been absent for most of my life, and now he’ll be absent forever.

The last car is off the ferry. A guy in one of those yellow rubber capes and hats gestures at the cars waiting to onboard. There are only two vehicles ahead of me. The one at the front belongs to an air-conditioning company. The second is another van, this one with the wordsThe Grand Liberty Hotelwritten across it.

I lift my hand to the steering wheel, my bangles making a jangling sound. “Looks like it’s my turn to drive on,” I tell her. “I should probably go.”

“No!” she says quickly. “Don’t hang up. Let me hear what’s going on.”

“You know there’s a big thing on the wall of your living room that’s much more exciting than this,” I tell her.

“I hate watching television,” Lee says. “It reminds me too much of work.”

The guy in the yellow raincoat beckons to me and I drive onto the metal ramp that leads to the small ferry, the wheels groaning and clanging as I pull into the space ahead of me.

As I press on the brake, the bedraggled man knocks on my window and I lower it, the wind pushing a sheet of rain inside the car and wetting my face.

He glances at my clothes and I inwardly squirm. I’d taken Lee’s rose-colored memories at face value and dressed for a beautiful summer island day. I’m wearing a white gypsy style top and a floaty cotton skirt that I found at a thrift shop in Manhattan, along with sandals that show off my freshly pedicured – by myself – toes.

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