Page 87 of At First Flight
Her lips curve. “I just had a chocolate mousse that changed my life.”
“So… that’s a yes?”
She laughs, and God, I’d drive across state lines just to hear that sound again. “Maybe a little.”
“Come on,” I say, lacing our fingers together again. “There’s a place two blocks over. I hear it’s the best ice cream in town. Open late. It’s practically law that we stop.”
She pretends to groan but lets me tug her along, her shoulder brushing mine with every other step.
It’s not crowded when we get there. Just two teenagers behind the counter arguing over what song to play next and the hum of an old chest freezer working overtime.
She picks lemon sorbet. I go for cookie dough. We take our cones to a bench outside, where the breeze carries the scent of salt and sea grass from the nearby dunes.
Lila swings one leg over the other and leans back, eyes on the stars above us.
“I forgot how quiet it is here at night,” she says softly. “Like the world finally exhales.”
I watch the way the wind toys with her hair. “You like that?”
She nods. “In Boston and Hartford, everything buzzes. Lights, traffic, ambition. You forget to listen to your own thoughts.”
“And what are yours saying now?” I ask, keeping my tone light, but my gaze steady on her face.
She licks her sorbet, then shrugs one shoulder. “They’re still sorting themselves out.”
We sit in silence for a minute, my fingertips rubbing back and forth across her bare shoulder. It’s not uncomfortable. Just thoughtful.
“I used to think I needed the noise,” she says after a while. “The chaos of labs and grant deadlines. The constant forward motion. Like if I ever stopped moving, I’d… disappear.”
“You’re not disappearing now.”
“No.” Her eyes meet mine. “I think I’m finally learning how to stand on my own.”
I shift, letting my knee rest against hers. “You don’t have to choose one version of yourself, Lila. You don’t have to be just the scientist or just the nanny or just the girl who kisses her boss in the back row of a movie theater.”
That earns a quiet laugh. “You say that like it’s simple.”
“I don’t think anything about you is simple.” I grin. “But that’s kind of the point.”
She finishes her cone, wiping her fingers on a napkin, then looks over at me, eyes serious now.
“You make it easy to believe in the good things,” she says. “Even when I’ve spent years preparing for them to fall apart.”
My heart stutters. “That’s all I want. To be something good. For you.”
She reaches over, her fingers threading through mine again. “You already are.”
We stay like that until the cones are long gone, until the teenagers inside lock the door and turn off the neon sign.
Then I stand and offer her my hand again. “Walk with me?”
She takes it. No hesitation this time.
We wander toward the beach, shoes in hand as we reach the sand. The moon glimmers on the water, silver threads woventhrough inky black. I roll up my pants and wade in a few inches, the surf cold enough to bite.
Lila stays on the edge, the hem of her dress fluttering around her knees. I walk back toward her, salt air curling between us, and slide my arms around her waist.
She steps in closer, her palms on my chest. “You’re sandy.”
