Page 4 of Marriage is a Shore Thing
“I’d just be grateful for a bit of company.” Van tugs his lips up, the effort to appear normal as obvious as a neon sign in the dark. “Are you a boxer?”
“I teach it, but I don’t enter the ring,” I say, grateful for the subject change. I excel at getting people into fighting shape, at helping them understand their full physical potential.Navigating amorphous emotional situations…isn’t my strong suit. “Are you?”
“No.” Van rubs his jaw with another slight chuckle. “But my buddy in med school boxed. He turned me into a fan.”
My face remains expressionless as I absorb this information. It explains why Van was as engrossed in the heavyweight match as I was before my friends took off. With the casual drop of “med school,” I can assume he’s a doctor, making him less capable of standing by when someone needs help. That is, if he’s even telling the truth. In my experience, men rarely do.
Van’s smile grows genuine at my silence, and the relief at seeing it has no right being this dizzying.
“Am I allowed to ask the name of my benevolent hostess?”
“Geneva.”
The way Van processes this information, as if he’s tucking it into his chest pocket for safekeeping, makes my skin tingle. Maybe Ishouldgo straight back to the room. That vodka seems to have done a number on my common sense.
Instead, I turn and stride deeper into the casino. “Keep up, Van.”
“Yes, ma’am.” His quick response is cheeky—almost flirty—sending goosebumps down my arms.
I exhale slowly, disregarding the sensation.
We’ll have just one hour together, then go our separate ways, and then I’ll never see Van again.
What’s the worst that can happen?
two
Van
One month later
I stare at the front door to the quaint two-story cottage for longer than advisable. It’s just…stalling feels…necessary. So that’s how I notice that while the rest of the homes on this residential street are painted peach, yellow, or seaside blue, Geneva’s house is a drab beige. How there’s neither a welcome mat nor a cheery ocean-inspired wreath.
“Come on, man. Buck up.”
It’s not the first pep talk I’ve had with myself. The thing is, I doubt Geneva will be excited about the life-changing news I’m bringing with me, especially since it’d been her idea not to exchange contact information after our evening in Vegas.
The late-August sun beats on my neck as I knock, a sheen of perspiration dampening my skin. When there’s no answer,I glance at the car in the gravel driveway, boxing equipment strewn over the backseat. That’s one of the things I remember about that night: Geneva’s love for teaching others the sport she’d picked up a few years ago.
The truth is, I remember a lot about that night.
Maybe Geneva has been playing those memories on repeat as well.
After another round of loud knocking with no response, I move to check the backyard. Before I can get close to the high garden gate, a scratchy voice stops me.
“What are you doing?” an elderly woman asks as she crosses the street. She’s wearing a pantsuit with a jacket buttoned to the neck in frank defiance to the stifling heat and humidity.
I smile, grateful to be able to ask one of Geneva’s neighbors where I might find her. I jog to meet the woman since she’s using a cane to walk.
“Hello, ma’am. Do you know where I could find Geneva?”
“Who wants to know?”
It’s only now that I realize this woman isn’t squinting in the bright sunshine. Her face is pinched in distrust.
“Evander Young, ma’am, but everyone calls me Van.” I extend my hand.
Her tattooed brows raise, glancing at my outstretched hand like it’s a warm tuna sandwich from a gas station. “Like a minivan?”
