Once again, I find myself up on the roof of O’Donnell’s.

It’s funny how this place somehow became my escape over the years - how it still is even now. Long before my brother took over the place, long before I left this town, and long before everything changed, we used to come here.

Maybe it was the view.

I slump down into one of the same two vinyl lawn chairs that have been up here for at least two decades are still here - the ones I’m sure no one even remembers being put here in the first place at this point. I shake my head at the roles they’ve played over the years, from when we were kids to now. Monster fort, lookout post, a place for secrets, therapist chair, gossip chair, a place to explore the feeling of the lips of the last boy you should be kissing.

I got engaged up here.

Service hasn’t started yet at St. Michael’s church over in Stoborough. But we’ve been up the entire night anyways. Besides, it being this early means know one’s here yet. It means the priest is free.

“I know who you are, you know.” Father Murray had said quietly, eyeing me. “I know your father, and I’ve got a feeling he wouldn’t be too happy about this.”

“He will be when we tell him.”

Because telling people and worrying about what they’ll say or how they’ll react is secondary to us.

We’re young, and in love, and this is the be all to end all.

This is our everything, our world.

Father Murray does it anyways. We say the words, we make the vows, we exchange the rings.

The woman who plays the organ and the groundskeeper finishing his shift are our witnesses. She cries, the gardener is drunk.

And then we have three days. Three blissful days of perfection until it all gets shattered like windshield glass across a highway guardrail.

* * *

“Thought I’d probably find you up here.”

I’m not even surprised by his voice. It’s almost an eventuality it seems, running into him in this town.

Eight years of absence followed by not being able to get away from him here back home in Shelter Harbor. And in a way, that’s why I’m even here. It’s why I’m up here, avoiding it all, running from the questions from family.

Because I know as much as I hate him, there’s only one person who’s ever been able to listen to and hear what I need to unload. And somehow I think I knew I’d find him up here.

“Beer?”

I still haven’t said anything at his appearance, but I nod slowly as he hands me one from downstairs.

“I thought you’d upgraded from storeroom to houseboat.”

He grins as he sinks into the chair next to me. “Missed this place.”

“And the kind of girls who leave purple bras all over the office?”

He raises a brow and then chuckles as he shakes his head and looks out over the Harbor.

I can feel a fire rise inside at how cavalierly he brushes it off, as dumb as that is.

It’s been eight years. Eight years later, I’m sure there’ve been other girls. I mean God, look at him. Shadowed eyes, chiseled jaw, and the slight hollow of his cheeks.

Those lips.

That casual, supremely confident swagger.

Yeah there have certainly been other girls.

I look away.

“Yeah, not from me, by the way.” He chuckles as he takes a swig of beer. “Might want to talk to your brother about making sure his girlfriends remember to put their shit back on when they leave.”

I wrinkle my brow. “Yeah gross. I’m not asking my brother about his sex life.”

Silas laughs. “I’ve been meaning to talk to him about his recent choices.”

And I hate how relieved I am that the girl’s bra isn’t from him - that it’s not some lacy purple bra he pulled from some girl’s shoulders as he kissed her, as he slid his hands over her skin.

Because I remember what those hands feel like.

“So what are you doing up here?”

I shake my head, sipping at the beer. “Stewing.”

He says nothing, as I glance over to see him grinning that roguish, crooked smile at me. “I’m still shocked you’re drinking that.”

I frown. “What, beer?”

“Don’t you have like a cleanse or something going on? All kale-juice diet? Hot yoga tomorrow?”

I flip him the middle finger and he chuckles as he turns to look out on the harbor. The lights glitter in his eyes as he pushes his fingers through his thick hair.

And then somehow, I’m telling him. I’m spilling my failure of a relationship the man who left me incapable of succeeding at them.

“Blaine left.”

His head jerks towards me, a frown on his face. “Oh?”

“He wanted to ‘slow things down’, but it was because he wanted to jump horses to some other girl.” I groan, almost embarrassed that I’m telling this to him - unsure of why I am.

Maybe because long before all that, he was my best friend.

“There’s another girl.”

I glance up, and his face is dark, lines etched across it.

“Blaine sounds like a piece of shit for leaving you.”

“You really want to go there?”

There’s a hint of a smile as he shakes his head. “No further questions, your honor.”

He takes a sip of beer.

“When?”

I look at my feet. “The other night.”

He swears under his breath. “Jesus.”

“What?”

He growls as he turns his body towards mine, his eyes flashing in the low light. “Is that what the other night was on my boat? You trying to ‘get back’ at your fucking boyfriend?”

My eyes narrow at him. “You don’t have any claim on me you know,” I hiss. “Not after eight fucking years.”

“You’re my wife.”

I laugh mirthlessly. “This is insane. I don’t even know why I came here.”

I stand, and I’m turning to stomp away back down the stairs and away from this place, but there’s a hand on my arm as he pulls me back.

“You know exactly why you came here.”

I look up into those eyes, and I can feel my heart, my pulse, my heat.

I swallow quickly. “If that’s what you think, then you’re delusional.”

I start to pull away, but his grip tightens as he shakes his head.

“Tell me you still hate me,” he says roughly, his eyes burning right into mine.

“Tell me you still fucking hate me, and that there’s nothing left of what we used to have still in there somewhere, and I’m gone, Ivy. I’ll walk away, I’ll sign fucking papers, I’ll do whatever you want.”

I say nothing, the sound of my pulse hammering in my ears as I let myself drown in those sea-blue eyes.

He moves even closer, so close that I can practically feel the heat from his body against mine.

“But if there’s one fucking shred of what we were still in there,” his words tease across my lips, and I tremble.

His hands move to my hips, like they know them.

And they do.

He doesn’t wait, he just slides them around me, until he’s holding the small of my back, pulling me against him.

And I want him to.

I want those hands there, comforting, holding.

Familiar.

“If there’s one shred of what was in there, Ivy,” he whispers gruffly. “If there’s one shred, then nothing on this earth is going to drag me away from you right now.”

It’s like a flash of light, and a thousand memories pouring through my mind. A thousand little memories of what we were, and every single one ends with a kiss.

And I already know this one will too.

I know it even before I let myself go.