Page 42 of Marriage is a Shore Thing
I glance up. “Her late husband owned the auto shop, but it’d been unoccupied for years before I moved here.”
What I don’t mention is that the anger consuming me at being abandoned by my mother and friends after a lifetime of my father being barely present made me impossible to be around. Ihonestly don’t know how Joanna tolerated me before I bought the property. One night, after lashing out when I shouldn’t have, I stumbled upon the empty auto shop.
There’d been an abused punching bag and tattered gloves in the corner by the old office. It looked like the previous owner used to work out after closing the shop for the day. Moonlight streamed through the garage windows as I took decades of frustration out with clumsy, untrained strikes. The feeling of calm that slipped into my bones after being able to finally release my pent-up frustration was addicting. I came back the next night and the night after that.
I was still guarded with others, but I stopped seeing the people of Wilks Beach as the enemy. Whenever I wasn’t helping Joanna with her divorce, I researched how to become a boxing instructor. Then I priced out equipment and necessary structural changes, dipped into my savings from past sponsorship deals and prize money, and found out who owned the building.
Van processes the information about Carol being the previous owner of my gym, no doubt updating his mental map of Wilks Beach. After meeting someone or hearing a story from me, he’s never forgotten a detail. His genius brain must layer all those minute facts together and lock them away.
“But maybe”—I’m back to staring at my pants again—“you showing up out of nowhere and forcing me to live in my own house isn’t the worst thing. It’s definitely close to the worst thing.” Instead of forcing my lips into a line, I allow them to lift. “Second to worst, for sure. Right above mistaking maggots for rice.”
For someone I had to human crutch-walk to the tub, Van’s arms are ridiculously strong as they drag me across the couch until I’m tucked into the crook of his shoulder.
“Play our show, sassypants,” he says, spreading the blanket over us both.
“Sassypants?” The smile on my face must be obnoxious, but Van is looking at the screen. “Coming out with the big guns. What are you going to call me next? A meanihead?”
Van sniffs. “Some of us are not as naturally good at insults as others.”
I chuckle, resting my head on his steady chest and pushing play.
And as Tasha reveals surprise baby news—It’s twins!—I mull over Van’s word choice, deciding I don’t completely hate it. Instead, I relax beside my accidental husband and enjoyourshow.
seventeen
Van
The bubble had to burst. I knew that. I knew this day would come, but I’m unprepared at how much I want to revolt like a feral toddler at the prospect of leaving our little nest. Definitely not a love nest, but a friend nest? We’re undoubtedly closer, but I’d love another week of keeping Geneva to myself.
“Tell me again about this,” I say, extending my palm so a firefly can bounce briefly off my skin.
It blinks its light, flitting to join the others over the area of clover that should only be seedlings but has already grown into thick groundcover.
Geneva is practically resplendent in the patio chair across the table, the soda water and muddled pineapple spritzer I made for her dangling from elegant fingertips. For a brief moment, I wonder if she’s noticed the change too.
Does Geneva realize that even though she’s wearing heels, a satiny black sleeveless blouse, and chic black trousers in preparation for dinner at Joanna’s later, she’s reclining with her legs leisurely crossed at the ankle? Does she realize how much she’s shared about her past over the last few days? Does she notice that neither of us has removed our rings? We spent the last ten days secluded in quarantine, hidden away from the scrutinizing eyes of this tight-knit community and never once slid them off. Does she realize that instead of scowling at my question, she gives me an indulgent smile?
Her brown irises look even warmer with little hints of gold flecking from the globe bulbs. I’d take a picture of her, but Geneva would roll her eyes at me before I could capture them accurately.
“The lore is that the island is magic. Not like in fairy tales, but small, more subtle things.” Her gaze shifts to where the lightning bugs make two interconnected rings in the air. “Like this. Noah told you about the library gifting books, but things also grow incredibly well here. The gardeners of the island enjoy produce in half the time it takes to mature elsewhere.”
That knowledge washes over me, and I try to set aside reason to accept that things are slightly different here on Wilks Beach. I suppose I have the island to thank for Prunella, Stella, and Hank’s new feeding area.
But that makes me wonder about…
Unease tumbles in my chest as I scratch my ear. “What about wind?”
“What do you mean?”
“Does it”—tension tightens my spine, but I manage to get the word out—“speak?”
Her brows pinch like I’m insane, which honestly is laughable. We’re talking about things that shouldn’t even exist in a yardthat seems to defy the laws of time while fireflies dance in concentric circles.
“I’ve never heard of that, but I can ask Carol.”
“No, it’s fine,” I mumble, pushing down the lump of pain in my throat.
The fireflies dissipate when Geneva’s phone pings with a text. “Joanna is ready for us.”
