Chapter Twenty-Nine

 

 

Middleton, Rhode Island, 2031

 

“Emma, you burning those steaks?” Mike called out to me on the deck.

I jumped up and ran for the barbecue, carrying the book I was reading with me. When I lifted the lid of the smoker barbecue he’d insisted we needed, I winced. I flipped them quickly and added more barbecue sauce. It was Gilda’s recipe and quite good.

“Nope,” I shouted at the screen door. Catching my reflection in the window, I grinned. The girl—woman—looking back at me was so altered I might not have known her. Altered in all the best ways.

Her hair was long and braided at the side. She wore a black-and-white sun hat and sunglasses and her shoulders had freckles. She wore a sundress and held a book, and all the cares in the world blew away in the sea breeze coming off the ocean.

Nothing lasted here—not weather, not feelings, not moods, not pain. Love was the only thing hardy enough not to break on the rocky shores or get swept away in the wind that never really died down.

I’d had no idea I needed it, the ever-changing ocean and the constant wind. I had no idea how therapeutic it was. Even when it was soft, it reminded that changes were coming. Some were good and some were bad but they were always coming, mixing it up and keeping it from ever getting stale.

He came out with a plate and a disappointed scowl. “I can smell the burnt meat.”

“No, you can’t,” I lied a little, grabbed the plate, and raised the lid, revealing completely uncharred steaks.

I lifted them off and put them on the plate, carrying them inside, hoping the sauce was enough to cover the burnt taste of the other side.

He pressed himself against me, kissing my neck and encircling himself over me like a bear. “You smell good. Like ocean air and meat.” He kissed again.

“It’s weird you find that combination attractive.” I handed him his plate, which he’d already done up for us both but was waiting on my single contribution: not burning the steaks.

As we sat on the deck at the large table that never felt empty, he lifted his glass of wine. “To you, Em, for thinking you fooled me by placing my steak burnt-side down and hoping I might not notice. And because you lost, you don't get to read your book while barbecuing, like I said you shouldn't.”

I laughed and lowered my glass. “Shut up, Mike.”

“I love you, even if you’re trying to kill me with carcinogens and can burn steak on a smoker, which shouldn't be possible.” He toasted me and drank. “That’s good wine.”

I took a bite of the salad, also Gilda’s recipe, and nodded. “Good salad too.”

He tilted his head, frowning. “You still don't say ‘too’ right. Too and darling.”

“As well,” I said as American as I could. I didn't tell him that I still read with a British accent.

“Much better.” He winked and cut the steak, flashing the darker side at me. “You’re seriously considering cooking school? Right? I mean, not as a professional, but more like a survival thing. The fact you’re even using the barbecue is amazing. But you need to overcome the whole gas-burner thing.”

“I have thought about it.”

“You really should think about it. If you went in the evenings for something simple, I’d go with you.”

“You don't need to learn to cook.”

“I know. I’d go in looking like a big dumb construction worker and then surprise them by being the class star.” He gave me that bitter grin.

“Oh my God.” I rolled my eyes. “Your humility is awe-inspiring.”

“I know.” He chewed and took a sip of wine. Watching him eat was a pleasure I’d never enjoyed in another person before. He chewed and flexed his jaw in a way that made me pause in the middle of eating and stare. “You’re doing it again.” He scowled and swallowed the bite with difficulty.

“Doing what?” I played dumb.

“The staring thing, where you zone out and watch me eat.” He hated it but I didn't care.

“Oh.” I continued to stare. “Just lost in thought.”

“Speaking of which, how’s the new book?”

“Good. Suspenseful and funny.” I bit my lip, about to confess something I never imagined in all the worlds I would. “I have been meaning to tell you something.”

His expression instantly grew nervous. Our trust had only gone so deep, both of us scared of the level of commitment we were in.

“I’m writing a book.” I took a sip of wine and let that sit in his head.

“About what?”

“All of it. The whole story. It’s so far-fetched I think it might make a great story. I’m co-writing with an author. I sent the story to an agent, just the first couple of chapters and the whole synopsis and she liked it. She knows an author who would be able to add the extras. She said the first draft, the meat and potatoes, should be written by me and then the extras would be done by a professional writer.”

His eyes widened. “Holy shit, Em. That’s insane.”

“I know.”

“That’s amazing. Are you scared of admitting the truth of it all?”

“Yes and no. I’m finding it cathartic to write it all down.”

“Add cathartic to the list of things you say wrong.” He shook his head, grinning. “This is insane but I’m excited for you. I think you’re right; this is cathartic, cleaning even.”

I didn't bother telling him that cathartic meant cleansing. He was too cute.

“And will you publish it while Lana’s still a zombie?”

“No. I will wait until she’s gone.” I shook my head. “The book isn’t about her anyway. It’s about me.”

“Are you the good guy or the bad guy in the story?” he asked carefully.

“Which do you think?”

“In your head?” His eyes burned right through me. “You’re the bad guy. The better question though is, am I in it?”

“You are.” I lost my appetite but forced a bite of salad into my mouth. “Is that okay?”

“No.” He tried to sound serious but a smile crept up and it wasn't even the bitter one. It was the one I loved. “But the story might not be the same without the charming construction worker.”

“It would be very dark without the light,” I agreed.

“Add light to the list.” He tried to sound as though he was joking but all the humor had left the meal. “Burns the steaks and rains out the game.” He cocked an eyebrow. “I think we might have to start setting rules for things you’re allowed to discuss during happy time and what you have to save for your therapist.”

I never did tell Mike, but his mom was wrong. Once you got his brand of humor, he was very funny. Maybe even as funny as he thought he was.

“You know I only tell my therapist lies.” I grinned, saved by the light again. “I prefer to hear about his problems anyway. They make mine seem like nothing.”

“I know. How is old Frank these days?”

“Well, he’s confirmed that his daughter is pregnant, which he’s suspected for months now. She’s showing and well past the point of options, and his wife is going to church again, which he didn't sound excited about. She gets a bit fanatical. And his son has dropped out of football and is dating a girl Frank doesn't approve of. Her parents let him sleep over so Frank isn’t letting him leave the house. It’s a mess. And his blood pressure’s up, so we switch it out, sometimes I take the couch and sometimes he takes it.”

“I cannot believe you pay him to let him tell you his troubles and then lie to him about yours. You have the weirdest life I've ever heard of.” Mike chuckled and started eating again.

“I know it.”

The rain clouds I’d brought to the table left, carried away by the wind. This was our dance. I was gloomy and he was light. And then he was serious and grumpy, and I was cheerful and mocking. And we switched it up, helping each other carry the load.

His burdens became mine and mine his, and together neither of us ever had to take on too much.

I loved the realness of this world, and the truth that was so large inside him that it overshadowed all my lies.