Page 28 of The Christmas Letters
-Max
Chapter Eight
Tess
Iglanceupfrommy book, watching as the gulls sweep toward the water, then back up again. It’s been a long time since I spent time on the beach alone, but Max’s first letter arrived a couple of days ago, and I’ve been itching to be here ever since.
I screamed out loud when I checked my mail and found an actual letter, scaring my neighbor and making three different dogs in the complex start to bark. But then I read the letter, and Max’s words immediately settled my nerves. It wasn’t that he said anything truly profound. But I still feltseen—like he knew exactly how to answer my question. And of course, he mentioned the beach and how much it helps him feel peace.
Which, hello. The ocean has always done the same thing for me. The beach in Bali was the only thing that saved me after I broke things off with Preston, and I spent almost every weekend on the sand growing up. But somehow, since getting home, I haven’t made it out here. I’ve been so focused on settling into my apartment and making peace with my parents, it’s like I forgot that all I have to do is cross the Ravenel bridge and I can be on a beach in minutes. ItisNovember, so that hasn’t helped. But I don’t need to swim to feel the breeze or smell the salty air.
I turn my face to the warm winter sun and breathe out a long sigh as I dig my toes into the sand. Most of the time, I drive over to Isle of Palms. My family has a beach house there, so it’s easier to park, and of course, access to showers and bathrooms and a fully stocked kitchen is a nice perk. But today, I’m on Sullivan’s.
I told myself when I turned right instead of left that it was only because Sullivan’s is quieter, with fewer tourists. Plus, Francie’s Cafe is on Sullivan’s, and that’s as good a reason as any to be here.
But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t at least have a little to do with Max. He mentioned he spends most Sundays on the beach, and he mentioned Sullivan’s Island specifically. It’s not like I have actual hope of running into him. It’s a big beach. Besides, even if I did, how would I even know it’s him? But I’ve still imagined running into him at least a dozen times, and I’ve looked at every person passing by with an extra level of scrutiny, especially men who look close to my age.
There have been three. And none of them looked like Max.
Which,yes,I realize how ridiculous that sounds. Of course I can’t know what Max actually looks like. But a girl can dream, andthis girlwould love for Max to have deliciously broad shoulders and smoldering blue eyes.
A very specific set of blue eyes pop into my mind’s eye, and I force the image away with a grumble. But thinking of Drew right now, in the middle of my Max-themed fantasy, is an apt reminder. Just because I feel a connection to Max’s letters doesn’t mean we’d feel a connection in person anyway—at least not one that’s reciprocated. That’s exactly what happened with Drew.
If I had any doubts about his lack of interest before, those doubts are long gone now. The last time I was at the hospital to volunteer, we made direct eye contact over the snowflakes I was hanging up in the waiting room of the ER, and he walked away without saying a word.
Not ahello. Not anice to see you again. He just looked at me with those wide blue eyes, then he turned and walked in the opposite direction.
Down the beach, a man tosses a stick toward the water, and a large chocolate lab retrieves it then lumbers back to drop it at the man’s feet, tail wagging happily.
Maybe I need to get a dog. A dog will love me no matter what. A dog will never pretend like it doesn’t see me in a crowded ER waiting room.
“I definitely need a dog,” I say out loud.
As if lured by my words, the chocolate lab I’ve been watching trots over to me, tongue lolling to the side.
The dog looks happy and friendly, and I immediately smile. The tag around her neck reads “Roxie.”
Roxie extends her nose, sniffing my hand before leaning forward and licking the side of my face.
I laugh, scratching her behind the ears. “Well, you’re friendly, aren’t—”
My words freeze in my throat when I see the dog’s owner approaching.
No. No, no, no.How is this even possible?
I look around for somewhere to go, somewhere to hide, but I’m on thebeach.Hiding is impossible. Not unless I want to crawl under my blanket and pray the man doesn’t realize who I am.
Because it’sDrew.The one person on the planet I most hoped to never see again. What are the freaking odds?
I try to shoo Roxie away, but my efforts only make the animal try harder. She wants my attention, and she isn’t giving up until she gets it.
In a last-ditch effort to hide, I pull the hood of my sweatshirt tightly around my face and lift my book up, holding it directly in front of me. Roxie is still breathing on my cheek, but at least, for the moment, she seems willing to chill.
“Sorry if she’s bothering you,” Drew says. He stops a few feet in front of my blanket.
“No, no, she’s fine,” I say, dropping my voice a little in a way I hope sounds convincing. We talked a long time through the bathroom stall door. He might actually recognize my voice before he recognizes my face.
I pull the book closer, so close the words blur on the page, but it’s not like I’m reading them. I can’t do anything but sit here and hope my heart doesn’t climb up my throat and flop onto the blanket beside me. With the way it’s pounding, it feels like an actual possibility.
