Page 65 of Marriage is a Shore Thing
I inhale a shaky breath, knowing I need to. I’m drained from not grieving these last five months.
“She’s the one who gave me my name.”
When Geneva just waits, expression open, I continue. “The story goes that Mama had been looking through a baby name book and read the meaning of Evander—a good man. She’d laughed bitterly, saying there was no such thing, but Taylor latched on to the idea. Mama preferred Christopher, but Taylor wouldn’t let it go. She’d been learning her letters in preschool and wrote Evander on every scrap of paper. Eventually, Mama agreed, saying the name would help ensure I turned out better than the man who disappointed us all.”
Geneva’s thumb rubs back and forth across the base of my skull. “She sounds like a fighter.”
A genuine laugh tumbles from my mouth. “You and Taylor would have gotten along.”
“Was she also a cranky dragon?”
I chuckle despite the crevasse opening in my chest. I’ve been trying not to focus on memories of Taylor for so long that speaking about her feels like relearning a language.
“No. Her disposition was more like mine, always trying to find the positive in any given situation. Or rather…I got my outlook from her.”
I stare off into the sluicing rain, a slight smile curving my lips. “Her laugh was always a bit too loud—a touch too boisterous. She used to hoot every time she was excited. It drove Mama crazy, but Taylor took life by the horns and squeezed joy out of every moment. And then she grabbed my hand and dragged me along. We didn’t have much growing up, but she made everything fun. It wasn’t until I did activities without Taylor that I realized that life wasn’t inherently joyous.Shemade it that way.”
Geneva intertwines our fingers when my voice cracks. I’m immediately grateful for the support. Otherwise, I’m pretty sure my sternum would break open.
“You can imagine my surprise when I found out that my friends didn’t have M&M-eating contests after getting shots, or got to sit on the top of their apartment building to count the stars when they got straight As because their sister had stolen a skeleton key, or that she turned taking out the trash into a covert spy mission with code names and broken walkie-talkies.”
“That’swhy you’re so obsessed with this ring heist.”
Another bark of laughter escapes me at the same time a single tear slides down my cheek. I glance at Geneva as she wordlessly catches it with her fingertips, her eyes the softest I’ve ever seen them. Her silent support catches me off guard. I’ve seen Geneva end a conversation the moment it veers toward the emotional. Her willingness to hold space for me gives me the courage to keep speaking.
“She also stood up for others, like you do. When I started showing signs of being advanced for my age and began getting bullied, Taylor defended me any way she could—words, fists, whatever was necessary. One time, she took kitchen scissors to a neighbor kid’s bangs.” A watery chuckle bubbles in my throat. “He looked ridiculous for weeks but never spoke to me again. Taylor took that natural protectiveness and used it in her job as asocial worker, helping foster kids get the absolute best care they could. You two would have been unstoppable together.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet her,” Geneva says, her words thin.
“Me too.”
A peaceful quiet stretches between us as the storm pitters into errant drops and whispers of breeze. It’s only now that I notice the wind has stopped murmuring my name. With Geneva’s fingers playing with the hair at the nape of my neck, I rest my cheek to her crown. Exhaustion sags at my muscles, but it’s like the kind you feel after a long workout, one you know you’ll recover from.
When Geneva yawns, I ask, “Can I help you to bed?”
“No. Not yet,” she says, stifling another yawn on the back of her hand. “Not if you’re not ready.”
“I think that’s all I want to say tonight,” I tell her, sitting up to catch her gaze. “But can we talk more if I need to later?”
Geneva’s fingertips trace my cheekbones, my temples, before one thumb wisps over my eyebrow. “Whenever you need to.”
I lean forward. I’m helpless not to, but the second our lips brush, I know this kiss is different than any we’ve shared before. As her hands cradle my face, I feel nurtured and adored and wanted in a way that’s separate from our usual heated kisses. Geneva’s fingers tremble as they slip down my neck and grip the back of my t-shirt to gently pull me closer. I’m two seconds from saying something I shouldn’t, from murmuring what’s been radiating from my heart since Saturday, since I could so easily see our future—our forever—together.
It was then that I realized how much I’ve been lying to myself. At the concert in Vegas, I rationalized the otherworldly shift I’d felt the first time I saw Geneva as a side effect of my overwrought emotional state. Even when I saw her later at the bar, I ignored that incessant pull, telling myself I was imagining things. Whenher surprised laughter felt like it was breathing life back into my weary soul, I shook my head at my foolishness. But a month later, when I came to Wilks Beach to simultaneously keep my word to Taylor and hold grief at bay, it felt like coming home.
Now, as Geneva kisses me tenderly, all I can think is…yes, now, here,you.
Always you.
“Stay with me tonight?” Geneva says on a breathy exhale, her brown eyes darting between mine. “Just to sleep. I want… I need to know you’re okay.”
I should make a quip about being confident and capable—doing so would return us to our usual teasing repartee—but instead, I rest our foreheads together.
“Okay.”
After I carry her upstairs, I get comfortable on the opposite side of the bed and turn off the light, pleasantly surprised when Geneva rolls over and rests one hand on my chest.
“Good night, Van.”
