6.

 

I head back to my apartment and spend the rest of the night in a whirlwind of manic activity, packing up my personal effects and cleaning like crazy. I go onto the college alumni message-board and offer a sublet for the summer; within the hour, a nice girl writes back, needing a place to stay during her law internship at a firm downtown. I give her my parents’ details and promise they’ll let her in next week, then drop my keys in the mailbox, load up the car, and hit the road.

It’s crazy, I know, I’m not giving myself a moment to think about what I’ve just done. But that’s the point. If I pause, even for a second, the full weight of my actions will come crashing down on me. I can just imagine if I’m still in the city when that happens: my parents crowding around, the reality of rent and bills looming, and waking up tomorrow morning knowing I’ve made a huge mistake and there’s no taking it back.

No, not a mistake, I correct myself as I hit the freeway at 2:00 a.m.

A change.

I turn the radio loud to drown out the rest of my doubts and focus on the relief I feel instead. No more late nights in the office, eating limp salads at my desk at nine o’clock at night. No more asshole clients, or office politics. And no more Harper and his flying spittle of rage.

As the miles fly by, I feel the tight knot in my stomach slowly unravel; the weight lift from my shoulders, and a new sense of freedom take its place instead. By the time I make it in to Beachwood Bay and turn up that winding coastal road, the morning sun is bright in a cloudless blue sky.

I pull up in the cottage driveway, and take a deep lungful of crisp ocean air.

The house is just as I left it: the white shutters framing the faded blue clapboard planks; the overgrown front yard, and the namesake roses twisting wild up over the porch.

The last of my doubts melt away, and I feel a sense of calm wash over me.

Yes.

I’m so tired, it’s all I can do to grab my bags and unlock with the keys Albus sent me. I stumble through to the back studio, tumble face first onto the bed, and fall fast asleep.

 

*

 

The sound of my cellphone wakes me, insistent. I groan, reaching blindly for the bedside table, but my hand hits something soft and fringed instead. It teeters under my grip, then crashes to the floor with a smash.

I drag myself upright, squinting in the bright sunlight. Then it hits me. My bedside table isn’t there, because I’m not in my city apartment. I’m in Nana’s old studio, at the B&B.

Where I live now.

I jolt awake, checking for the time. It’s afternoon now, and down on the beach, I can see families and people playing in the bright summer sun. I must have slept all day.

My cellphone is still ringing. I dig it out of my bag and check the caller ID.

Mom.

I wince, and set it to voicemail. I go take a quick shower in the bathroom, then wrap myself in a fluffy towel and play the message.

“Hi sweetheart, I just wanted to check, did you leave your sweater here the other night? I have a blue one here, and I can’t for the life of me remember if it’s mine. Talk soon!”

Beep.

I pause. I was braced for lectures and disappointment, but it sounds as if she hasn’t heard yet. I figured legal gossip would get back to my dad, but maybe I was worrying too much. After all, I’m small-fry. An associate meltdown probably happens every other week at the big firms—nothing to put it on the radar of anyone my dad knows, at least.

My hopes rise. I’m going to need some time to figure this out before facing my family’s inquisition. Even a few days could let me come up with some answers for what on earth I’m doing here, and why. I’ve seen what they’re like when they turn the full force of their debate skills on an unsuspecting subject. My older sister, Olivia, considered becoming a family physician for a hot minute—before my parents started talking about goals, and ambition, and realizing her potential. Before the week was up, she was signed up for a surgical residency, and never looked back.

I’ve buckled under the weight of their expectations before, but this time, I need to stand firm. I’ve spent too long trying to make them happy—and crushing my own dreams in the process. Here, right now, this is for me, and it may seem like a crazy, impulsive mistake, but for the first time in years, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

 

I dress in my summer uniform of cut-offs and a tank top, then lace up my sneakers and head into the main house. Last time I was here, Kayla gave me a quick tour, but I didn’t really take it in. Now, I take my time, checking each room in turn and every closet and bathroom, too.

There are six guest suites in total, all decorated in Nana’s trademark old-fashioned style. The main sitting room and dining room areas are packed with antique-looking furniture, and in the back, I find a sunny little office nook with some file cabinets and a stack of ledgers.

Jackpot.

I put some coffee on to brew, dig out a pack of cookies from the pantry, and settle in. There’s a ton of paperwork, and before long, I’ve got a headache trying to make sense of it all. As far as I can tell, the mortgage on this place is paid off, with Nana’s main expenses being utility costs, food for the guests, and the wages of the girls she had cleaning and helping with laundry. Her rates were reasonable, and from the looks of the appointment book, most of the summers were booked solid, with guests tapering off in late September, and not checking in until May and the summer season.

I sit back, thoughtful. This place is far too big for me to just rattle around by myself. And Nana always said, the best part about being here was getting to share the stories of all the people passing through, and help make their vacations into wonderful memories.

Would it be so hard to keep the B&B running?

The thought lingers in my mind. I have the house here, all I would need to do is provide a breakfast every day, and advice and vacation tips for the guests. Kayla said they had cancelled everyone who was due to come this summer, but in the front of the appointment book, I find the list of names.

I call the first one on the list, Mrs. Peterson in Connecticut. I quickly explain that I’m Nancy’s granddaughter, and that I’m considering reopening Rose Cottage. “Do you think you’d be interested in staying here, if the rooms were available again?” I ask.

“Oh yes!” She exclaims, “We’ve been staying there every summer for the last five years, it’s the perfect vacation spot for us. But will it be the same though?” she adds, sounding worried. “We just love her breakfasts, and those little homey touches. She would make this incredible apple cake…” Her voice trails off wistfully, then she laughs. “It sounds odd, I know, but we look forward to it all year long!”

“Me too,” I smile. “But she taught me to bake it herself. I promise, everything will be just the way you remember.”

“Then sign us up,” Mrs Peterson declares. “You know, we’ve been looking for somewhere else, but nothing’s quite the same. It’s a real special place.”

“Yes,” I smile, looking around. “It is.”

I call the rest of the list in turn, telling them about the reopening, and reassuring everyone that the cinnamon rolls will be back on the menu. About half the guests have already changed their plans, or booked someplace else, but soon there are enough names listed on the makeshift calendar to make me feel like this is the right move. Everybody loves their time here so much, I know that Nana would want them to keep on enjoying the B&B, even without her.

By the time I’ve called everyone, it’s past 7:00 p.m., and my stomach is rumbling. The pantry and fridge have been cleared out, so I pull on a cardigan and walk into town to grab some dinner. As I stroll along the beach road, watching the ocean waves roll in, feeling the sunlight on my skin, it seems like I’m in a dream. Just twelve hours ago, I was stuck under bright fluorescent lights in an office building twenty stories high, dressed up in an uncomfortable pant-suit and heels. Now I kick a pebble down the sandy road, so light I feel like I could float away.

But what about everything you left behind? a critical voice reminds me. Your family, your career, everything you’ve spent your life working for. Wasted—and for what? A harebrained scheme you’ll regret in a couple of days. What do you even know about running a B&B?

For a moment, the sun seems to dim behind a cloud. I shiver, caught up in the whispers of doubt. Then the cloud passes, and everything looks bright again.

I can do this, I tell myself firmly. I’ve spent my life thinking logically, and it made me miserable. Now I’m just going to follow my instincts for a while, and see where they take me.

Like to the diner, for a real home-style meal. My mouth is already watering at the thought of butter-whipped mashed potatoes as I push open the front doors. They’ve barely changed a thing since Nana owned it: there are still black-and-white checkerboard tiles on the floors and cracked red vinyl booths. The front counter display of pies is already empty, and the jukebox is playing old 1960s girl-group songs. Tonight, the diner is busy with people and chatter: families still toting beach bags from their day on the sand, and a few couples sharing milkshakes on a date.

“Hey!” Kayla greets me, wearing a mint green waitress uniform. “You’re back!”

“I’m back!” I agree, smiling. “I was meaning to find you, actually. Are you still available to come help out at the B&B? I’m going to be reopening.”

“That’s great! But I already picked up a bunch of extra shifts here.” Kayla’s face falls. “I’m sorry. I might be able to squeeze a couple of mornings in, just for the summer?”

“That would be perfect, anything would help,” I tell her.

“Sure, I’ll check my schedule and let you know.” Kayla smiles. “Anything to help my college savings. Sit anywhere you like,” she adds. “I’ll get you a menu.”

“No need,” I grin. “Bring me the Thanksgiving special, all the trimmings.”

“Coming right up!”

I look around for a free table, and my eye falls on the group in the big corner booth. They’re about my age, laughing over a spread of food. And there in the middle, is Ash.

My heart stops.

He’s lounging back, dark-haired and devastatingly handsome. He looks smarter than the rest of them, cleanly shaven in a button-down shirt. There are two other guys, and two girls—one of them sitting right beside him. She says something, and he laughs, shoving good-naturedly at her with his elbow.

I feel a pang strike through me. Are they together? Is that why he couldn’t bolt away from me fast enough the last time we met?

But what about that night in the city? The fact he kissed me, touched me.

Left me crying out in pleasure…

He looks up suddenly and catches my eye across the busy diner. The smile drains from his face, and suddenly, he looks almost nervous.

I’ll bet he does.

A surge of anger flashes through me. If he’s been running around, cheating on some poor unsuspecting girlfriend, then I’m not going to just let him get away with it.

I march over and stand right in front of the table. “Hi Ash,” I say loudly.

They all fall silent, and look at me with interest.

“Hi,” he answers evenly.

I narrow my eyes. “So what are you doing here?” I ask. “You left so fast when I saw you last week, you didn’t tell me what brought you out of the city.”

Ash clears his throat. “Family business.”

Another short answer. He clearly doesn’t want to talk to me right now, but that only makes my annoyance grow. We spent the most incredible night together, sharing our deepest secrets, and now he can barely look at me?

“Well, that’s just great,” I reply icily.

The rest of his table are openly staring at me, curious. “How’s it going?” The dark-haired girl beside Ash speaks up, looking delighted. “I’m Tegan, and this is my fiancé, Ryland, and Dex and Alicia.” She points around the booth in turn.

Her fiancé. I relax, just a little. At least now, Ash is just being a rude asshole, and not a cheating rude asshole.

“Hi, I’m Noelle Olsen,” I introduce myself to them, smiling.

“Olsen?” Tegan brightens. “You mean like here?” She holds up the menu, Mrs. Olsen’s Diner written on the front in the old vintage design.

“One and the same.”

“That’s so cool,” she exclaims. “Isn’t that cool, Ash?” she nudges him hard.

He doesn’t reply.

I fume. He’s acting like I’m a complete stranger, someone he can just kiss and run.

“So how do you know my brother?” Tegan asks.

Brother. Of course. They both share the same dark hair and blue eyes—although right now, his are wary, while Tegan’s are smiling.

“We met in New York a couple of weeks ago,” I say. “Ash?” I add, trying to keep my voice even. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

He looks like he wants to disappear right into the back of the booth, but Tegan shoves him. “Go on, God, what’s wrong with you? You’re acting so weird.”

Ash gets to his feet. They all scoot over to let him out.

I head to a quiet corner, trying to control my anger—and rejection. I’d be fine if he’d explained that our night together was just that, a one-time thing, but we’ve never talked about it. I left him my number, and he never called. Now, all I have is a random, heart-stopping kiss to figure out what he wants from me.

“Well?” I turn on him, out of earshot of the diner. “Do you want to explain what all of that was about?”

Ash looks uncomfortable. “All of what?”

“That!” I try to keep my voice down. “You’re acting like we’ve never met before. What’s wrong with you? I don’t understand.”

My hurt slices through the anger. I thought what we’d shared was special, an amazing memory, but clearly he thinks differently.

“I’m sorry,” Ash says finally, his expression still unreadable. “For the way I acted at the bar, and being impolite now. I wasn’t expecting to see you here, and with my family around… If I was curt, then I’m sorry.”

There’s silence.

I blink. “That’s it?”

He looks confused. “What more do you want?”

How about an explanation, or some affection, or for him to kiss me like it’s the end of the world, and all he wants is to consume me, completely?

But it’s clear, kissing is the last thing on Ash’s mind. He’s standing there awkwardly with none of the easy charm and flirtation I knew, keeping a safe few feet away from me, like he couldn’t even bear for us to accidentally touch.

My heart slowly sinks.

“It was a mistake, what happened between us,” he adds, regret flashing in his eyes. “A lapse in judgment. It won’t happen again.”

Rejection hits hard, but I fight to keep my voice even. “Fine. If you can refrain from kissing me, I’ll try to do the same.”

He blinks at my sarcasm, and for a moment, he almost looks amused. Then the cool smile returns. “Thank you. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything to my family about…what happened. I prefer to keep my personal life private. I’m sure you understand.”

I understand alright. The Ash I met that night at the party—the funny, charming, spontaneous man who made me feel so alive—is nowhere to be seen. Instead, it’s like a stranger staring back at me. No fun in those dark eyes; no hint of adventure or wild pleasure in his gaze.

I guess I didn’t know him, after all.

“Whatever you want,” I tell him, stony. “I’ll let you get back to your dinner.”

Ash pauses. For a split second, I think I see something in his gaze. Some kind of warmth, maybe, a glimpse of the man I thought he was. “I heard your grandmother passed,” he says softly. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I know she meant the world to you.”

I pause, thrown. “I… thank you,” I reply, but before I can say another word, he turns and walks back to his table, leaving me standing there, my head spinning.

I see Kayla passing, and quickly flag her down. “I’m going to need that order to go.”