44. Paisley
I’ve yetto have a final full day on Bald Head Island that wasn’t both happy and sad. It’s an interesting dichotomy, to experience these opposing feelings simultaneously.
Klein wakes up before me. He brings me coffee. I stretch out in bed, the caffeine slowly bringing me to life, and join Klein for a walk on the beach. It was his idea, though I would’ve suggested it, too.
Tar Heel gulls laugh over the water, diving for their breakfast. An osprey joins the fun, leading feet first into the water and coming away with a wriggling fish.
Klein gazes out over the ever brightening surface of the water. “I’ve lived in the desert my entire life, and coming here this week has made me realize that I am?—”
“Thirsty?” I ask, unable to stop myself from making the joke.
He laughs, pausing to drop a kiss on my lips. “In more ways than one.”
“And now?” I ask, tipping up my face, asking for more. “Has your thirst been quenched?”
“Not at all.” He obliges me, kissing me again and again. The ocean reaches for us on the shore, the cool water enveloping our ankles. We break apart, watching the water recede. “I think she wants you to come in one more time. She’s beckoning you.”
“Not a chance.”
Turning around suddenly, I start running backward and twirling my fingers at him. “Come in, Klein. Come iiin.”
He bends his knees and ducks, rushing me. I have time for only half a shriek before I’m in his arms, thrown over his shoulder.
Laughing, I run my palms over his back. He does the same to my backside.
“What do you want to do today?” he asks, setting me down.
“Nothing that can be found on an itinerary.”
“Agreed.”
We make good on that agreement. We ride bikes to get ice cream, and I stop at the little grocery store for chicken necks. Klein grimaces, but I refuse to tell him what I’m up to, asking that he trust me.
I take him out to a dock in the marsh, producing two lines of durable string I found in the shed when I was putting Klein’s malfunctioning (lucky us!) air mattress away earlier. The find led to me spending copious amounts of time on the internet learning if someone with a shellfish allergy can go crabbing. The conclusion was affirmative.
“You’re not doing a very good job keeping the disgust off your face,” I say, laughing at his contorted features.
“Maybe it’s because you’re tying a knot around a chicken neck.”
“Raw chicken neck,” I clarify.
“The designation does not help your case.”
“Here.” I hand him a line. “Drop that in the water.”
“Am I going to catch a water monster?”
“Yep.”
“For real?”
“If you consider a crab to be a water monster, then yes.”
Excitement widens his eyes. “I’m fishing for crab?”
A peal of laughter slips out of me. “You’re crabbing for crab.”
He nods once, decisively. “Fishing for crab, then. It’s not an issue with my allergy?”
“I spent twenty minutes this morning reading about it. It appears to be fine, but if you’re worried, we can scrap it.”
“I want to stay. I just won’t touch them.”
“Good idea. They pinch.”
“I—” His line jerks. “Fish on!”
“Crab on,” I correct, jumping to my feet so I can help him. “You have to be very quiet.” I say this with almost no volume. “The crab will let go if they hear you.”
He goes silent. His muscles are tense as he takes the line from the water inch by inch. His thrill at the activity has my heart twisting.
The claw clears the water first, then the remainder of the body.
“It’s a blue crab,” I whisper. “A female.”
“How can you tell?”
“Her claw tips are bright red.”
His neck twists so he can see. “Why isn’t she letting go if she can see us?”
“She’s feisty.”
After another inspection, Klein lowers her into the water. I drop my own line, and we spend the next hour crabbing.
“Who taught you how to do that?” he asks as we ride back to my grandma’s.
“My dad, if you can believe it.”
My grandma has sandwiches and potato salad ready when we arrive. We wash our hands with hot, soapy water and dig in.
The afternoon is spent on the beach with my grandma, Sienna, and Spencer. The newlyweds join us halfway through the afternoon. I have to look away when their kisses surpass a socially acceptable amount of time.
Sienna assures me she hasn’t told anybody besides our mom about me and Klein. Someday I will. It’ll be a great story. But that day is not today.
The sun grows heavy in the sky, and my mother suggests we go up to the house and eat whatever is left in the fridge. It’s exactly the same thing she said on the final day of every trip when I was a kid. Everyone eats something different, or little pieces of everything.
My mother, my grandmother, and I settle in the rocking chairs on the porch. Sienna walks out with a bottle of wine in each hand, and takes the fourth chair. My mother and I share one bottle, Sienna and our grandma the other.
The sun dips lower, and we stay quiet, lost in our own thoughts until Sienna says, “I came here to get married.”
Her hand rests on the arm of the rocking chair, and Grandma reaches over to gently pat it. “If you wanted to get married, you probably should have chosen a better groom.”
We are stunned into silence, but then Sienna laughs. It’s a deep belly laugh, the kind that folds a person in half. My mother and I laugh, too, and Grandma shrugs sassily.
She turns her gaze my direction, and I shrink. “Don’t start on me.”
Her eyebrows raise. “You seem to have found your voice.”
“Klein brings it out of her,” Sienna says.
Grandma shakes her head, disagreeing. “I don’t think he brings it out. More like he doesn’t suppress it.”
My mom tips the bottle to her lips. Following her swallow, she says, “Does anybody else feel like they just received a verbal spanking?”
Sienna nods. “Absolutely.”
“That’s one of the perks of getting older.” Grandma takes the wine from Sienna. “Your filter is worn out and lets more through.”
We talk into the night. Klein joins us with a bottle of beer. My mom asks him to describe his book, and then mentions Ben’s best friend works at a publisher. “It’s always good to have another option,” she says when Klein explains there is already interest. “Even better when one publisher thinks another publisher is after your work.”
My phone vibrates in my back pocket, and when I pull it out, I have to blink twice at the name on my screen. When was the last time my dad text messaged me?
Hey, hon. I had to head back unexpectedly today. Emergency at work. I was hoping to get a chance to talk with you tonight, but it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen.
I stare at the phone, reading the message over and over. Klein leans against me, brushing a kiss over my temple.
“Did you read it?” I ask quietly.
He nods against my skin. I type out a response before I can spend too much time considering it.
Sorry to hear that, Dad. I’m always just a phone call away.
And a flight.
I freeze. Klein rubs circles on my thigh, a majority of the skin left bare by my shorts. He pauses the movement, replacing it with the gentlest squeeze. I know what it means. I’m here for you. It’s ok.
I type my response.
You’re welcome in the desert anytime. The saguaros and I would be happy to have you.
I love you, Paisley.
I love you, Dad.
I look up at Klein. The porch light is on behind him, but the navy blue night casts his face in shadow.
He motions to my phone with his chin. “How do you feel about that?”
“Good,” I answer, reading over the conversation.
“Good,” he repeats.
Soon after, Klein and I head for bed. After hastily packing because neither of us feels like being neat and methodical (our own rebellion against the end of our trip), we slip under the covers one last time.
This week has been a roller coaster from start to finish, but I’m ending on a high note. For the first time in a long while, my heart feels like it’s heading in the right direction.
We have a long day of travel tomorrow, and it begins early. But when Klein’s fingers trail up the inside of my thigh, I respond with vigor.
One more time with the window cracked, listening to the waves hit the shore at the same time Klein’s hips roll against me.
Another opportunity to have Klein in my favorite place, to let him carve himself into my memory of this room.
He holds my hips, my legs thrown over his shoulders, fingers disappearing into the crease at my thighs. His abs flex and ripple with the effort, and I trail a hand over his chest and midsection, feeling the muscles under my palm.
“Paisley,” he groans almost soundlessly, letting go of one hip only to capture a hardened nipple between two fingers and pinch it lightly. He bottoms out inside me, leaving me and then filling me again, until I press a hand to my mouth but keep wide eyes on him.
He drinks in my orgasm, his lips open and his eyes half-closed. With a chin tipped to the ceiling, he finishes with jerky movements.
We go to the bathroom to get cleaned up, and Klein presses a warm washcloth between my legs.
When we get in bed, he wraps an arm around my waist and tucks me into this front.
It’s the perfect ending to a tumultuous week.