Page 95 of The Lies I've Told
“Yeah, when is that?” Millie asked.
“December twenty-sixth,” I answered. “Or is it?”
Dean and Cora looked at each other, some sort of couple communication passing between them.
“Yeah, I think it is,” Cora finally said. “Who cares if it is a crazy time of the year?”
“Exactly,” Millie said, raising her glass to the happy couple. “Love is crazy.”
I turned to her, realizing I’d thought those exact same words about our relationship.
“You couldn’t be more right, Millie McIntyre,” I said, holding up my glass to hers as our eyes met with a raw intensity. “Love is indeed a crazy adventure.”
As our glasses touched, our mouths did the same, fusing together as beer sloshed down our hands. Neither of us cared because this was as close to a declaration of love as either of us had been brave enough to make.
And didn’t that deserve its own toast and moment in the sun?
The sun had begun its descent into the horizon, and the anticipation for the annual Ocracoke Independence Day fireworks celebration was palpable.
“Come on,” Millie said, her eyes gleaming. “Let’s grab a blanket and spread it out on the grass.”
I didn’t have a chance to agree before she darted inside and flew back out the patio door half a second later, a large plaid blanket in hand, ready for action.
As she walked back toward me from the house, I took those moments to appreciate just how lucky I was. I’d come to this island, lost and alone, ready to give up on just about everything—my career, my future, and everything in between.
Millie, this smart, sassy woman, had breathed life back into me, and I knew I wouldn’t have such a positive outlook on my prognosis if it wasn’t for her.
“You’re looking awfully sappy, Aiden Fisher. What’s going on in that mind of yours?” she asked, tilting her head to the side as she brought her hand to her forehead to block out the setting sun.
I caught her smiling and couldn’t help but do the same.
“What were you doing on this day last year?”
I wasn’t sure why I’d asked, but she seemed to go with it all the same.
“Hmm.” She handed me one side of the blanket while she kept the other. We raised it high in the air before neatly setting it on the grass below. “On the Fourth of July last year, I was in Paris, I think.”
I raised my eyebrows as we both took a seat on the soft blanket. “That sounds horrible,” I joked.
“Honestly? It was.” Her eyes flickered to her parents huddled together on their own blanket nearby, sipping wine and laughing, as we all waited for the show to begin. “I was in a hotel room with a serious case of jet lag, and outside of a few people I knew from work, I didn’t know anyone in the city. I remember sitting on that hotel bed, my hands running over the ridiculously high thread count sheets as I stared out at Paris. I should have been happy, you know? How many people get to live that life? But, in that moment, all I wanted to do was be in my childhood bed, roasting marshmallows like we had done when I was a kid.”
“So, you much more prefer this over Paris?”
She leaned back on her elbows and gazed up at the sky, a glorious array of pinks and yellows. “Definitely. But not just for the marshmallows.”
“I don’t believe I’ve actually seen any.” I grinned.
“Oh, just you wait. Have you ever even had a s’more?”
I sort of shrugged. “There was this place in SoHo that had this dessert—”
She sat up cross-legged and waved her hands. “No. Absolutely no. That doesn’t even remotely count. Unless it was made in the wilderness or in your own damn backyard, it is not truly a s’more.”
“So many rules.”
She laughed. “Yes. And here comes another one. You can’t watch fireworks without a drink in your hand.”
I suspiciously eyed her. “That one sounds made up.”
