20. Klein
Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airportis nestled in the center of the city. Halston has offered to drive me, and for that I’m grateful because it will save me a lot of money in parking fees. It will cost me in terms of owing Halston, and when she reminds me of this, I tell her to add it to my tally.
She drops me at the departures curb with a wave, yawning as she pulls out into airport traffic.
I’ve been sitting next to the gate for twenty-five minutes when Paisley walks up. Her hair is tied in a messy knot on top of her head and she’s wearing sweats and a tank top. No makeup.
“Klein the writer,” she grumbles when she sees me. “I need coffee.”
“Vast improvement from Klein the stripper.”
A flick of a gaze is the only way I know she has heard me.
Wrestling the camel-colored leather backpack off her, I say, “You are awfully zombie-like this morning.”
“I’m a delight.” She squints one eye and looks at me suspiciously. “Are you a morning person?”
Pushing down my zest and zeal, I say blandly, “Yes.”
“Ugh,” she sighs. “Of all the bars in all the towns, I walked into yours.”
“It was your lucky night.”
“Was it?” Her head moves back-and-forth as she speaks, her messy bun careening precariously.
My head tips as I study her. “You’re kind of mean early in the morning. Add that to the list of things I just learned about you.”
“Caffeine,” she says, by way of explanation. “I haven’t had any yet, and it’s the only thing that makes me human at this hour.”
Placing my hands on her shoulders, I steer her in the direction of a coffee shop. “Let’s get you caffeinated so you can start being nice to me.”
Paisley orders the tallest coffee they have, plus a bagel with cream cheese. “Make that two, please,” I say to the cashier, handing over cash.
Paisley’s arm shoots out. “I can pay for mine.”
“You bought my plane ticket. The least I can do is buy you a coffee and a bagel.”
She nods. “I’ll allow it.”
By the time we have boarded our flight, Paisley has finished her coffee and is almost one hundred percent human again. From her bag comes a tattered paperback, corners bent and spine cracked. She stows the leather backpack under the seat in front of us with her foot.
I peer over. “What book is that?”
Paisley presses it to her chest, blocking me out with a curved shoulder. “Don’t worry about it.”
“You do realize all you’ve done is pique my interest in what you’re reading.”
Paisley digs her heels in, stubborn as always. “I told you you can’t see, and now all you want is to see it.”
I fight a smile. “Yes, Royce, withholding makes me want it more.”
Her eyes flare.
“Double entendre.”
“What’s that?”
“A double entendre is a word or phrase that’s— ” I swallow the remaining portion of my explanation. Paisley’s nodding way too enthusiastically to be authentic. “You’re trying to distract me so I’ll forget about the book.”
She doesn’t argue the accusation.
I narrow my eyes at her chest, where the book is tightly held. “Show me the book.”
She doesn’t move. “I always read it before I go to Bald Head.”
“Always?”
She nods. She looks so cute right now. Messy and a little mischievous.
“Starting when?”
“Since I was fourteen.”
I nudge her with my elbow. “Why can’t you show it to me?”
“I can,” she says, “I just feel a little bit shy about it.”
Huffing a breath, she opens her shoulder so it’s not blocking me and moves the book away from her chest.
“Summer Sisters?” I check out the author name. “Why are you shy about it? Judy Blume writes novels for middle grade and maybe young adults who are more younger than adult.”
Paisley points at me. “That is precisely what I thought when I first picked it up. But this book right here?” She lifts it, shaking it just enough so the well-worn pages flap. “Taught me about”—she lowers her voice—“hand jobs.”
I eye the cover. “Seriously?”
“Yep. My fourteen-year-old brain exploded.”
“Not so much that it kept you from re-reads,” I tease, flicking a dog-eared corner.
She scoffs. “It’s a beautiful story about friendship.”
“Sure, sure.”
Paisley rolls her eyes. The flight attendant assumes her position in the aisle. She begins the safety instructions, and Paisley puts down her book, hands folded in her lap as she watches everything the flight attendant does.
When she finishes, Paisley picks up her book. I lean over. “You were without a doubt the only person making eye contact with her.”
“It’s rude to ignore someone who’s speaking to you. Besides, she’s teaching people how to save their lives, and the lives of others. You should be thanking me, because I know what to do if the air masks drop, and you don’t and I’ll end up having to help you.” Paisley fixes me with a sharp glare. “You, sir, are a liability.”
The tip of my tongue pokes at my third molar to keep from laughing. “Do you always listen that closely when the flight attendant gives safety instructions?”
“Without fail,” Paisley confirms.
Thinking back to the night she made the comment about being a stellar pedestrian, I ask, “Are you a people pleaser, Royce?”
“It’s a flaw I’m working on.”
I nod, lips pushed out. “I’m insecure sometimes. It’s a flaw I’m working on.”
“To being works-in-progress,” she says, miming lifting a glass in the air.
We pretend to toast.
She opens her book. I take out my notebook and a pen, jotting down notes for another plot that’s been wiggling around in my brain for a few months.
The pilots position the plane for takeoff, and then we’re picking up speed and ascending.
There’s a bump bump bump after a minute, and Paisley drops her book, white-knuckling the armrest.
I nudge her. “Are you ok?”
“Why is it bumpy?” Panic flashes in her eyes.
I pry her fingers from the armrest, keeping her hand in mine. “It’s the change in air temperature as we ascend. Think about how much hotter it is on the ground than it is up here as we go higher and higher. Air travel is bumpier in the summer.”
She nods as I speak, her eyes trusting. What is it about that look that gets me right in the feels?
She looks down at her hand in mine, appearing to be surprised that it’s there. Smiling sheepishly, she retracts her hand. “Sorry about that.”
“I don’t mind making you feel better about something that frightens you.”
“I appreciate it,” she murmurs, reopening her book.
Paisley loses herself in the story. Her small smiles, the way she chuckles under her breath, the tip of her tongue that intermittently wets her lips, are all indications of how much Paisley enjoys what she’s reading.
Per Cecily’s instructions in a text she sent me this morning (Take pictures!!!), I snap a photo of the world outside the airplane window, making certain to keep the window frame in the picture.
We’re halfway through the flight when I lean over and whisper, “Did you make it to the hand job yet?”
She whips her gaze at me, eyes threatening. “Don’t make me regret telling you that.”
I lift my palms in innocence. “I didn’t say there’s anything wrong with hand jobs.”
Paisley makes a vibrating noise with her lips. She glances at my crotch, the faintest rose blush blooming on her cheeks. “Obviously.”
She goes back to her book. I go back to outlining.
Eventually, I notice Paisley hasn’t turned a page in awhile. “Did you fall asleep, Royce?”
“Hmm?” She looks at me in surprise. “No,” she answers, setting her book on her lap so she can untwist her messy bun. She finger combs her hair, then re-ties it on her head.
“All good?” I ask her.
She nods once, tight-lipped. I’m not buying it. I grew up with two women. They might say they’re good, but it doesn’t mean that. Oftentimes, it means the opposite.
I also learned pushing a woman who doesn’t want to talk can sometimes lead to a sharp-tongued comment, and very likely an insult to accompany it.
In the interest of starting out this trip on the best foot possible, I keep my mouth shut.
We land and head for baggage claim. When Paisley spots her luggage, she moves forward to grab it, but I’m faster.
“I can get it,” she insists, but I shake my head.
“I may be your fake boyfriend, but I am a real gentleman.”
This comment should’ve earned me a retort of some kind, in that playfully sassy way of hers, but she barely manages a shaky smile.
To make it clear I meant what I said, I handle her heavy-ass bag through the airport. Her maid of honor dress, encased in a thick garment bag, drapes over her shoulder.
We grab mediocre sandwiches from a little place in the Raleigh airport, and by the time we’ve picked up the rental car and are headed to the town where we will catch the ferry, my antennas are up.
“Paisley,” I start, watching her fingers drum the steering wheel.
She glances at me. Her blue-green eyes are sick with worry.
“What’s going through that head of yours?”
“I’m starting to feel nervous,” she admits. “I’ve been okay up until this point, but now”—she takes one hand from the wheel and runs it down her face—“I’m wondering if this is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.”
“Bringing me to the wedding, you mean?”
“All of it. What if none of this works? What if everyone feels sorry for me that I’m the maid of honor in my little sister’s wedding to my ex? What if everyone finds out you’re not really my boyfriend and I look like an even bigger loser?” Tears well up in her eyes, thickening her speech. “And even worse, what if I hate the island now? It used to be my favorite place in the world, but then bad stuff happened there, and now I don’t know if I love it anymore.” Her head shakes, as if the confusion she feels can be wrung from her mind. “I want to love it.”
Her shoulders shake as she cries, and all I want to do is haul her over the console and into my arms.
I’m thinking of a way to persuade her to pull over when a sob wracks her body, and I say, “Paisley, pull over right now.”
“I’m”—hiccup—“fine.”
“Now, Paisley.”
Miraculously, she signals to move into the right lane and then takes the exit. Coasting to a stop on the grassy shoulder, she shifts into Park.
“I’m sorry.” Tears strangle her voice.
“You’re on your way to a wedding you probably should’ve said no to, and you’re about to participate in a week of wedding events that culminate with standing beside the bride during the ceremony. Honestly, I’m only surprised you haven’t cried about it before now.”
Paisley turns her gaze on me. She looks lovely with her tearstained cheeks, her nose a rosy pink. “You probably think I’m insane for agreeing to this.”
My head tips side-to-side as I feign considering. “Only a little.”
Through her tears she manages a tentative smile. “Pretend you have a brother and he’s marrying your ex-girlfriend. What would you have said?”
“My hypothetical answer isn’t going to help you. The situation is far more nuanced than that. Cut and dry went out the window a long time ago. And it’s not only why you’re returning to the island, but the fact you’re returning at all.” I scratch at my neck, taking a moment to gather my thoughts so I don’t say something too offensive. “Your sister isn’t marrying your ex at a fancy resort ballroom. She’s marrying your ex at a place that holds both good and bad memories for you.”
Paisley sniffles. “Best and worst.” She reaches into her purse and comes away with a travel size pack of tissues.
“The whole thing is a clusterfuck.” It’s the nicest way I can think to put it. Everything I think so far has a lot of f-words and character assassinations.
“What if they see right through us?” She blows her nose. “You’re a writer, not an actor.”
I smirk. “Someone once told me that writing a book is like the longest, most intricate lie. If that’s true, acting isn’t that far out of my wheelhouse.”
A smile ghosts over her face.
“Look at it this way, Paisley. I’m weaving a story, and I’m really damn good at that, so trust me that I’m going to make the story good, ok? When we’re on the island, everyone is going to see I’m madly devoted to you. If my adoration doesn’t make them nauseous, I haven’t succeeded.”
Paisley sniffles, nodding, looking uncharacteristically vulnerable.
“I’m going to spin a yarn so elaborate, even you and I might get stuck in it.” I don’t know where these words are coming from. My heart? Certainly not my head. My head knows better. But my heart? He’s a mouthy bastard.
Paisley’s throat bobs with a hard swallow. She relaxes into her seat, angling her body toward me. “I’m happy you’re here, Klein.”
“We’re in this together, Paisley. If it’s only Monday but you decide you’re finished, say the word. I will put you on my back and swim you off the island. You got it?”
Her lips curve upward.
I’ll do anything to keep the smile going, to keep the corners of her mouth climbing higher. “I’m not going for any reason but to support you.”
My goal is reached. She smiles. “And eat cake,” she adds. “I’m definitely going so I can eat cake.”
I smile at the joke. “Right. Cake. I’m also here for the cake.”
It’s in this moment I realize I’d have done this for her without anything in return. No digital marketing. No social media. No cake.
She looks out of the windshield and takes a deep breath. “Klein, listen, I’ve been thinking about something.” Her nervous gaze works over my face.
“Say it,” I encourage. “You can say anything to me.”
“I don’t want our first good kiss to be in front of my family.”
Are those angels rejoicing in my chest? A trio of trumpeters? I’d like nothing more than to reach across this console and claim her mouth immediately.
The only thing stopping me is how epically bad our first kiss was. Our first good kiss cannot just be good. It must be phenomenal.
Paisley’s focus is on my mouth, and the angels and trumpeters resume.
I settle for taking her hand, holding its soft warmth in my palm. “I was never, not for a single second, going to follow up a drunken mess of a kiss with a fake chaste peck meant to appease onlookers.” Flipping her hand over, I trace the lines in her palm. I don’t know how she’s going to take what I’m about to say, so I keep my gaze lowered. “I intend to make our first good kiss so unbelievably good, you’ll have trouble remembering we ever had a bad one.”
Her fingers close suddenly, stopping my meandering touch. Our hands intertwined, she nudges under my chin and encourages my gaze to meet hers. “I look forward to it.”
All traces of nervousness are gone from her face. In her eyes is a hunger I recognize, because it’s like looking in a mirror. My entire body wants Paisley.
She shifts into Drive and pulls onto the road, tossing me a provocative grin. “Bald Head Island, here we come.”
To be fair,I was warned.
Paisley told me if I stood at the front of the ferry transporting us to the island, I’d get wet. I thought she meant a little spray.
Nope. My shirt is soaked.
Not that I care. I’m too busy taking it all in.
The salt spray assails my face, and I blink against it. In the distance, the island looms. Rectangles and squares fill the view, sharpening into objects the closer we get. Homes.
Two stories, with roofs of gray and light blue, trimmed in white with matching porches. The beach in front of them, and before that, navy blue churning water.
I look for Paisley, wanting to share this with her. Having placed little more than my sight on Bald Head Island, I feel confident in saying this place is special. Unique.
Paisley leans against the boat, feet planted on the water beaten flooring. She wears a yellow baseball cap that says Vitamin Sea, but still the wind whips her hair up and around her jaw. Before we embarked, she exchanged her sweats for light pink and white seersucker shorts. She kept on the white tank top she’s been traveling in.
“Come up here,” I yell above the sound of the large boat crashing over the choppy water.
She shakes her head, pointing at her white shirt.
As much as I wouldn’t mind seeing her white top soaked through, I refuse to share that view with anybody else.
The captain navigates the channel, pulling into the marina.
People file to the exit, waiting to disembark. Paisley waits for me, grinning when I join her. “I liked watching you take it all in. I was taking pictures of you, too. For Cecily.”
My face hardens, my insecurity getting the best of me. What did I look like? Some loser who has never seen the Atlantic? Never been on a ferry?
We’re at the back of the slow moving crowd, and Paisley slips a hand over my forearm. She tugs, silently asking me to look down at her. So I do. The wind has pinkened her cheeks, tousled her hair. She’s gorgeous.
“I appreciate your openness, your willingness to let yourself feel the island’s magic.”
I allow her words to move through me, to soak in. How many times does Paisley have to make it clear she’s okay with me? With who I am, and what I do for work?
We step off the ferry, but before we can get swept up in the melee of bodies, of people finding their luggage and their way, I fasten my free hand to the hand Paisley still has on my arm. Then I give it a squeeze, attempting to give her a meaningful look in the short time we have.
Paisley smiles like she understands, moving away to seek out our bags, and her grandmother who’s scheduled to pick us up.
When we have our bags, we step out of the mostly organized chaos, finding a calmer spot off to the side.
“My grandmother said she’ll be here in a minute,” Paisley says, glancing at her phone. “A quick rundown on her: she’s funny in a way that will probably take you off-guard, my grandpa was the love of her life and she still can’t talk about his passing even though it was five years ago, she will almost certainly tell you about the time she went on The Price Is Right and kissed Bob Barker, and she dresses in a style we call ‘coastal grandma.’”
I’m fumbling with all the information Paisley tossed my way, including this being the first time she mentioned her grandpa passing.
“Got it. Be ready to laugh, don’t mention your grandpa, let her tell me about Bob Barker, and… coastal grandma? That one needs explaining.” I spend a good portion of time studying descriptors, and clothing styles, and physical characteristics. But ‘coastal grandma’? I’m lost.
“It means she wears white and ivory and cream in cotton and linen. Flowy, unbuttoned button-ups, striped cardigans, a fisherman sweater. It says”—Paisley’s palms are pressed out, tipping back and forth—“she’s ready for all things beach. She can light a bonfire, sip white wine, prune her garden, maybe even clip hydrangeas and arrange them in a vase.”
“That was...descriptive. And effective.” I’m impressed.
A woman on a golf cart rolls up beside Paisley. “Excuse me,” she calls out in a melodic voice. “You look a bit like my granddaughter, only more beautiful.”
Paisley’s face splits into a grin before she has the chance to turn around. The woman climbs out from behind the wheel of the golf cart. She wears a navy and white striped blouse tucked into loose white linen pants. On her feet are camel-colored slides and dried sand, like she walked off the beach and onto the cart.
Paisley drops her bag, peels off her hat, and folds her grandmother in a hug. The hug continues, developing into a sway. The woman catches my eye, winks, and says, “Paisley, introduce me to your boyfriend.”
Paisley untangles herself from her grandmother’s embrace. “Grandma, this is Klein. Klein, this is Lausanne.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Lausanne.” I take her offered hand, cocooning it in both my own. Her smile is warm and welcoming, and she wears three strings of varying length delicate gold chains around her neck. She is regal, stately, carrying herself with a posture that has me correcting my own but is still somehow relaxed. If I wrote all that down on page, she might sound standoffish, but she is affable, offering me a second wink and patting my shoulder.
“Your name is unique. I’ve never heard it before.” I make quick work of our suitcases, stowing them in the third row of the golf cart.
“I’ve never met another Lausanne,” she says happily, settling behind the wheel. Paisley takes the seat beside her, and I slide into the second row. “My father served in the military, and spent some time in Switzerland when he lived in Europe. There’s a town there called Lausanne, which means Lake Geneva. So, technically, my name is Lake Geneva, but Lausanne is just fine.”
Lausanne lets off the parking brake, and the cart comes to life. We pull out onto the cart path, and while I’m trying to pay attention to the conversation happening in the front seat, it’s nearly impossible. There’s so much to look at, to understand.
Forget the palm trees, the coconuts. The trees lining the paths are huge, so tall I have to crane my neck to see their tops, but for some I can see only the canopy.
“Maritime forest,” Lausanne says, her voice traveling behind her as she winds over the path. “Live and Laurel oaks, mostly.”
Paisley looks back at me, grinning. Her tousled hair takes a beating, wrapping around itself. Her blue-green eyes shine, a sparkle attributable to happiness.
I can see why Paisley called this her favorite place. She’s soaking it in, this special spot of hers. It’s too bad she has experienced pain here. And even sadder to think that pain is likely not yet finished.
What does the rest of the week hold for her?