Don’t give in now. Let him go.
“I love you,” he said. His eyes looked glassy, his sapphire irises stormier than usual.
A dull gray blanket of allergy medicine made it possible to keep her face expressionless.
“You’ll get over it.”
She looked away. She’d found the words but couldn’t look at him.
He glared. She could feel his thoughts—one word repeated over and over, as clearly as if he’d spat them at her.
Traitor.
“Go,” she whispered.
He released her and strode from the room without another word.
She heard the front screen door bang and counted down from ten.
Two...One...
The ticking of the clock in the kitchen sounded like a hammer in the silence.
He isn’t coming back.
She sobbed one loud hiccup and slapped her hand across her mouth. Her chest felt as if it would crack open to spill her heart to the ground.
I can’t do it. I can’t live—
The screen door banged again and she gasped beneath her palm.
“Shee?”
Not Mason.
Dad.
Home early.
She ran into her bathroom and shut the door.
“I’m in the bathroom,” she called.
Hands over her face, she sat on the edge of the tub willing herself to stop crying. Through her fingers she stared at the unfeeling objects around her. They looked the same as they had a day earlier, but they weren’t. Everything had changed.
Her toothbrush.
Her hair dryer.
Her trash can, and in it, the white tip of the pregnancy test poking from beneath the wad of tissues she’d used to hide it.
&&&
Chapter Twenty One
Present Day
Shee stared into the bathroom mirror, her arms braced on either side of The Loggerhead Inn’s guest bathroom sink, her breathing heavy. The taste of bile encased her tongue.
What’s wrong with me?
Twice in twenty-four hours?
I haven’t thrown up since that syrupy batch of hurricanes in New Orleans ten years ago.
She plucked a tissue from a shell-covered box and blew her nose.
I know they heard me heaving.
At least she’d made it to the bathroom. For a second she thought she’d spew croissant across Mason’s loafers.
She scowled.
They were really nice loafers.
What SEAL wears Italian loafers? Was he deployed in Italy?
She shook her head.
Stop it. Who cares.
She didn’t need to get all skip tracer on his ass.
She had bigger problems.
Is he really here?
This scene had played out so many times in her dreams, though he’d never been at The Loggerhead. She didn’t remember ever throwing up in her dreams. But she’d pictured seeing him again in so many different configurations...
He’s older.
That was her proof.
She’d aged, but Peanut Butter had remained trapped, forever twenty years old, flying around her memories like the world’s hottest Peter Pan.
There was something else...
Could he actually be better looking?
The general shape of his body had remained the same. Tall, muscular, trim, as if he’d never received the memo about how age makes you soft. The lines that Time had etched on his face had somehow enhanced his masculinity. A bumpy scar peeked from beneath the polo sleeve on his right arm, evidence of a horrific wound... and yet somehow sexy. The crow’s feet beside his piercing blue eyes, accentuating as he’d grinned at her, only made him look more adorable.
I want to kiss those crow’s feet.
How was any of that fair?
He got sexier, she bought a new night cream every month trying to fight back time.
She opened her eyes and found her attention floating to the silver tray of complimentary products, specifically the bottle of mouthwash. She’d always wondered what crazy people used public mouthwash. A stack of waxed-paper shot glasses sat on the tray, but surely some idiot had swigged straight from the bottle, right?
She’d never used public mouthwash.
Now she understood. Some situations called for community mouthwash.
Shee poured herself a shot, swished and spat. After a moment’s consideration, she took another hit.
Rack ’em and stack ’em, bartender. Listerine for all my friends.
Shee squatted on her heels and rested her head on the edge of the counter.
I have to go back out there.
Maybe it was a dream. Maybe he’d be gone.
The sting of minty alcohol in her mouth said it’s real.
This is happening.
She straightened, feeling wobbly, closed her eyes again and took a deep breath, willing herself into a trance of tranquility.
Breathe in...one, two, three, four...breathe out...one, two, three, four...
In her mind’s eye, Mason waded from the Mediterranean sea, a shirtless, sexy Neptune, leading a team of men to the beaches, the rising sun glinting off the polished leather of his soggy Italian loafers...
She opened her eyes and stared at herself in the mirror.
“You have issues.”
The image agreed, echoing her sentiment, and she nodded.
“Fair enough. Let’s do this.”
She took one strong step toward the exit and then threw herself backwards to avoid the door as Beatriz entered, bucket in hand.
“Which toilet?” asked the housekeeper.
Stunned into obedience by the command in the woman’s voice, she pointed to the first.
“There wasn’t much. Coffee. Mostly dry heaves really—”
Why am I sharing all this detail?
Beatriz ignored her and pushed into the stall.
Okay. Good talk.
Shee bared her teeth in the mirror one last time, searching for flakes of soggy croissant, and then strode into the hallway.
Here we go.
All eyes locked on her as she entered the lobby.
Everyone remained in the spots they’d occupied when she’d left and she flashed a smile she feared appeared more like pain than joy. “Sorry. Hi, Mason. It’s good to see you.”
His arms remained at his sides this time, having learned his lesson—hugs equal barf.
