Unforgettable
Page 5
Noise and chaos hits me. I look around, anxiously scanning the crowd for a glimpse of his tall frame and dark hair, but there are so many people, it’s hard to see. I push my way across the room, searching for any sign of him, but there’s nothing—except three hundred people all jostling for position in front of the tiny stage.
He’s gone.
“There you are!” A voice makes me turn. It’s Juliet. “I was worried we’d lost you. Is everything OK?” she adds, frowning. “You look all flushed.”
“Umm, yes, sorry. I don’t feel so good.” I try to pull myself together. “It’s so crazy here. I think I just need to go back and be alone for a while.”
“Of course.” She gives me a quick hug. “Get some rest. We’ll see you tomorrow at the funeral.”
I head back to Rose Cottage and turn in to bed, but I can’t sleep. The room feels too hot; the air too close. My skin prickles as I toss and turn in bed, until finally I give up. I pull a quilt over my shoulders and go out into the garden; the moon is bright overhead, casting a silver glow over the beach and ocean beyond.
I sit on the back porch steps and breathe in the scent of roses and honeysuckle. I still feel unsteady, light-headed from everything that’s happened tonight.
Ash. Here, in Beachwood Bay. Kissing me.
I can’t believe it. The night we spent together in New York was so far from my everyday life, it feels like a dream to me. But there was nothing imaginary about that kiss just now; I can still feel the imprint of his lips burned on my skin, the trail of his hands across my body.
But he still didn’t call.
An unwelcome voice of reason cuts through the haze. I left my number with Ash that night; I got the call about Nana and had to leave fast, but I wrote my details on a slip of paper and left them in the pocket of his shirt as he slept.
He could have contacted me any time this week; invited me out for dinner, or even just a casual drink. If he’d wanted this to be more than just one night, he could have made it happen.
And he didn’t seem thrilled to see me tonight, either.
I feel the sting of rejection. I may not be an expert on relationships—my ten-hour days at the law firm make dating an impossibility—but I’m pretty sure that when a man breaks a kiss and bolts without a backwards glance, it means he’s not exactly itching to schedule a romantic date. I don’t know what he’s doing here, or even a last name. I have no way of reaching him—even if he wanted to see me again, which he’s made pretty clear that he doesn’t.
I let out a wistful sigh. Nana would have loved this intrigue: she was always asking for gossip about my love life. With my punishing work schedule, I never had much news to offer, but I enjoyed telling her about the parade of terrible blind dates my family and friends have been setting me up on: the guys who obsessively checked their cellphones all through dinner, and the ones who spent all night long talking about their exes. Nana always said, it only takes one: when I found the right guy, I would know it in my bones. She was a romantic like that.
I wish it was so easy for me. With online dating and cellphone apps, sometimes I wonder how anyone finds the time to make a real connection. My best friend in New York, Lexi, met her boyfriend in college, but I was too busy cramming for finals to think about dating. Then in law school, I was having regular panic attacks over my course load, and the minute I started at the firm, they made it clear: weekends and evenings were their time. My parents are determined to set me up with an eligible guy, but everyone they bring around is the same: a stuffed shirt with a ten-year career plan, who looks at me like I’m crazy when I suggest going downtown to try out a new food truck, or skip out to Coney Island to go ride the roller coaster.
But Ash is different. He was spontaneous, and funny, and full of adventure. For a few glorious hours that night, I got to feel at home in my own skin—like anything was possible. I wasn’t trying to be the perfect, sexy, cool girl, I was just me. And it felt good.
So why did he look at you tonight like you were the last person he wanted to see—or kiss?
I give up on trying to make sense of tonight. It’s almost 3:00 a.m. now; the sun will be up soon. I gather up the quilt and head back inside. This time, I open the windows and leave them wide, and finally fall asleep to the soothing lullaby of the ocean crashing endlessly against the shore.
4.
My family arrives the next day, just in time for the funeral. There’s a beautiful service in the packed church with poetry readings and songs, and then we all cross the street down to the beach to scatter Nana’s ashes in the waves, the way she always wanted. Everywhere I go, there are kind words and sympathy from the people in town. It’s touching to see just how much she meant to them all.
“You should have seen her at a backgammon table. She didn’t take any prisoners!”
“After the last hurricane, she let everybody sleep at the B&B until they had their houses fixed up. I didn’t want to go home, I was eating so well.”
“And remember when John Stafford won the pie-eating contest at the state fair? He always swore it was because they were Nancy’s best apple pies.”
Everyone has a story—usually involving Nana’s baked goods. I could listen all day, but the service is barely over when my parents pull me aside. “We have to get going now.” Mom kisses me briskly on both cheeks, then rubs the lipstick traces away.
“Now?” I protest. “There’s a big reception planned at the diner, people will be so hurt if you don’t go.”
He’s gone.
“There you are!” A voice makes me turn. It’s Juliet. “I was worried we’d lost you. Is everything OK?” she adds, frowning. “You look all flushed.”
“Umm, yes, sorry. I don’t feel so good.” I try to pull myself together. “It’s so crazy here. I think I just need to go back and be alone for a while.”
“Of course.” She gives me a quick hug. “Get some rest. We’ll see you tomorrow at the funeral.”
I head back to Rose Cottage and turn in to bed, but I can’t sleep. The room feels too hot; the air too close. My skin prickles as I toss and turn in bed, until finally I give up. I pull a quilt over my shoulders and go out into the garden; the moon is bright overhead, casting a silver glow over the beach and ocean beyond.
I sit on the back porch steps and breathe in the scent of roses and honeysuckle. I still feel unsteady, light-headed from everything that’s happened tonight.
Ash. Here, in Beachwood Bay. Kissing me.
I can’t believe it. The night we spent together in New York was so far from my everyday life, it feels like a dream to me. But there was nothing imaginary about that kiss just now; I can still feel the imprint of his lips burned on my skin, the trail of his hands across my body.
But he still didn’t call.
An unwelcome voice of reason cuts through the haze. I left my number with Ash that night; I got the call about Nana and had to leave fast, but I wrote my details on a slip of paper and left them in the pocket of his shirt as he slept.
He could have contacted me any time this week; invited me out for dinner, or even just a casual drink. If he’d wanted this to be more than just one night, he could have made it happen.
And he didn’t seem thrilled to see me tonight, either.
I feel the sting of rejection. I may not be an expert on relationships—my ten-hour days at the law firm make dating an impossibility—but I’m pretty sure that when a man breaks a kiss and bolts without a backwards glance, it means he’s not exactly itching to schedule a romantic date. I don’t know what he’s doing here, or even a last name. I have no way of reaching him—even if he wanted to see me again, which he’s made pretty clear that he doesn’t.
I let out a wistful sigh. Nana would have loved this intrigue: she was always asking for gossip about my love life. With my punishing work schedule, I never had much news to offer, but I enjoyed telling her about the parade of terrible blind dates my family and friends have been setting me up on: the guys who obsessively checked their cellphones all through dinner, and the ones who spent all night long talking about their exes. Nana always said, it only takes one: when I found the right guy, I would know it in my bones. She was a romantic like that.
I wish it was so easy for me. With online dating and cellphone apps, sometimes I wonder how anyone finds the time to make a real connection. My best friend in New York, Lexi, met her boyfriend in college, but I was too busy cramming for finals to think about dating. Then in law school, I was having regular panic attacks over my course load, and the minute I started at the firm, they made it clear: weekends and evenings were their time. My parents are determined to set me up with an eligible guy, but everyone they bring around is the same: a stuffed shirt with a ten-year career plan, who looks at me like I’m crazy when I suggest going downtown to try out a new food truck, or skip out to Coney Island to go ride the roller coaster.
But Ash is different. He was spontaneous, and funny, and full of adventure. For a few glorious hours that night, I got to feel at home in my own skin—like anything was possible. I wasn’t trying to be the perfect, sexy, cool girl, I was just me. And it felt good.
So why did he look at you tonight like you were the last person he wanted to see—or kiss?
I give up on trying to make sense of tonight. It’s almost 3:00 a.m. now; the sun will be up soon. I gather up the quilt and head back inside. This time, I open the windows and leave them wide, and finally fall asleep to the soothing lullaby of the ocean crashing endlessly against the shore.
4.
My family arrives the next day, just in time for the funeral. There’s a beautiful service in the packed church with poetry readings and songs, and then we all cross the street down to the beach to scatter Nana’s ashes in the waves, the way she always wanted. Everywhere I go, there are kind words and sympathy from the people in town. It’s touching to see just how much she meant to them all.
“You should have seen her at a backgammon table. She didn’t take any prisoners!”
“After the last hurricane, she let everybody sleep at the B&B until they had their houses fixed up. I didn’t want to go home, I was eating so well.”
“And remember when John Stafford won the pie-eating contest at the state fair? He always swore it was because they were Nancy’s best apple pies.”
Everyone has a story—usually involving Nana’s baked goods. I could listen all day, but the service is barely over when my parents pull me aside. “We have to get going now.” Mom kisses me briskly on both cheeks, then rubs the lipstick traces away.
“Now?” I protest. “There’s a big reception planned at the diner, people will be so hurt if you don’t go.”
