Page 37 of Marriage is a Shore Thing
“See!” He’s practically giddy. “Oh, they broke up,” Van comments as the recap moves on to two starlets splitting afterfive years of marriage. “I really thought they had what it took to go the distance.”
“Who even are you?” I ask, leaning away.
A laugh escapes him. “What? A man can’t enjoy a little celebrity gossip? Do I need to do one-handed pushups to prove my manhood now?”
Then Van vaults from the couch and proceeds to pump himself away from the floor, left hand behind his back, bare toes gripping the hardwood, counting back from one hundred.
“Stop,” I say, but it comes out more like a chuckle.
“Can’t stop. I need the levels of testosterone in my body to recalibrate.” He flashes me that infuriating smile. “Ninety-one. Ninety. Eighty-nine.”
“Van, stop.” It’s not until the words tumble out of my mouth that I realize I’m laughing.
He doesn’t cease, though, just continues counting like the goofball he is. My stomach hurts, and my head hurts, and all my muscles hurt from the unexpected joy rippling through me.
“I’m serious.” The words barely squeak out of me, rimmed with mirth.
“Oh, I can tell.” At least he has the decency to sound a tad winded.
I turn off the show. It’s the only way I can think of getting his attention. As expected, Van drops to the floor, rolls on his side, and props himself up with one arm.
“Hey. I was watching that.”
“No, you weren’t. Now get back over here and sit down like a normal person.”
I’m unprepared for how Van’s tongue darts out to touch his upper lip, how his smile melts into something hot. “Yes, ma’am.”
The wave of heat sweeping my skin is definitely from my fever—nothingelse.
I expect Van to settle himself a respectful distance away, so when he sits down next to me, taking the remote from my hand and tucking me into the crook of his shoulder, I open my mouth to protest.
“Or,” he says first, “you could not fight me, and we could be cozy, watching this show together.”
“You’ll get sick.” My argument sounds weak, even to me.
Van’s chin is close—way too close—when he looks down and brushes a strand of hair away from my face. I’ve never seen him with morning scruff before. Even when Noah came over super early, he’d been clean shaven. My fingers itch to trace the line of his jaw, to discover if Van’s facial hair is as coarse as it looks.
“Then let me get sick, Geneva. It’ll have been worth it.”
I want to disagree but feel the resistance seeping out of my muscles. Even though I slept for over twelve hours, I’m unbelievably tired. And Van is warm, and smells incredible, and something about the subtle rise and fall of his chest is lulling. I don’t say anything, but my silence is answer enough. Van pulls the gray throw off the back of the couch and tucks it around me one-handed.
“Just so you know,” he says into my hair as the show resumes. “I plan on planting those boxwoods shirtless this afternoon to restock my testosterone stores. I’ll even dig the holes with my bare hands.”
I swat him in the chest, and Van chuckles, squeezing me lightly. But afterward, I don’t move my hand. His heart beats slow and even as we learn about a former child star’s fall from grace.
“Shame,” he murmurs.
For the first time in a long time, I try not to think. I try not to calculate every possible outcome and how eighty-six percent of them will end with my heart carved up with more precision than high-end sashimi. Instead, I let myself relax into the momentwith someone who I’m just starting to know, but who feels like a memory.
fifteen
Van
Iend up getting the flu. But even as I lie here with a 102.1°F fever, sweat dotting my forehead and exposed chest, I don’t feel a drop of remorse. Because for the last four days, Geneva let me take care of her. Not only that, but she’s speaking to me in full sentences. She’s smiling, occasionally laughing—albeit with a good amount of coaxing, but hey…beggars can’t be choosers.
By some stroke of good luck, Brynn never ended up getting sick. Geneva assures me that civilized society would’ve come to a screeching halt if Seabreeze Beans closed down. Locals were, however, taking the temporary closure of Geneva’s gym in stride. They were also bringing meals every night and dropping off supplies we needed since becoming unofficially quarantined.
Since we’re the only ones sick on the island, it makes sense for the two of us to wait out this virus in Geneva’s cottage. I’d expected Geneva to be clawing at the walls at the prospect ofbeing shut in, but she let me feed her and get her as comfortable as possible in whatever room I had a project in.
