Chapter 22
ABBY
Walter and I have lunch after the excursion, and then I spend the rest of my afternoon packing and getting ready for Miles’s surprise tonight.
All he’s told me is to “wear something pretty” and that he’d pick me up at six o’clock.
Surely it isn’t just dinner, but there can’t be that many options at a resort.
There’s a knock on my door not a minute before or after six, and when I open the door to see Miles in a pair of gray shorts that hit his leg mid-thigh and a white collared shirt with his chain peeking out under the collar, I really could swoon.
“You understood the assignment,” he says, admiring my sage-green linen pants and white cropped tank top. I curled my hair in loose waves and wore my cutest strappy brown sandals.
“It’s not a dress, but you’ve seen all those.”
“You could have answered the door in a potato sack and I would have said the same thing.”
He hooks an arm around my waist and draws me in to plant a kiss on my neck, just under my jawline and right behind my ear. It sends a shiver down my spine.
“Well, hello to you, too,” I say, my cheeks warming at his greeting.
“Hello, gorgeous.”
And then he kisses me on the mouth so thoroughly that I consider asking him to cancel whatever plans he has and taking him back into my room. He would say yes, but my curiosity gets the better of me.
“I’m dying to know what the surprise is,” I say as he takes my hand and leads me away from the rooms toward our evening activity.
“I’m dying to show you,” he says with the kind of grin that would make any woman a little weak in the knees.
The moment is punctuated by a flutter of nervous energy in my belly.
However nice this evening is, we have to have a conversation about what comes next, and although I feel confident about what I want, I can’t read Miles’s mind.
And I have no idea how emotionally open he’s going to be able to be with me.
Our walk takes us through the resort and toward a boardwalk, which is mostly just a long stretch of boards that extends into the water, where a sailboat sits at the end, tied to a post. A gentleman wearing a resort uniform waits by the boat.
I abruptly stop, a small gasp leaving my mouth.
“Is that for us?” I ask.
Miles’s smile gives him away before he can answer. “I know you were bummed you missed the sunset sail the other night because of your migraine, so I rebooked it. For just us.”
I think there might be literal hearts in my eyes. This is easily the most romantic thing anyone has ever done. It’s so thoughtful; it’s so sweet. Tears spring to my eyes, and I’m crying before I can stop myself. I cover my face with my hands.
Miles encloses me in his arms. “Hey hey hey, what’s this?” His voice is comforting and sweet, and it does nothing to staunch the flow of tears.
“It’s just so nice,” I say, voice shaky with emotion.
His body shakes with a laugh.
“Don’t laugh at me!” I say and playfully swat at him. “No one has ever done anything this nice for me before.” I dab at my eyes and cheeks, hoping my makeup is as waterproof as it claims to be.
“Well, you deserve it,” he says. “You deserve every good thing.”
He presses his lips to my forehead and leads me down to the end of the dock, where the captain greets us and helps get us loaded onto the boat and seated on a small bench. He tucks a blanket around us and hands us life vests to wear until we’re anchored.
The captain sails the boat out into the ocean, the blue water sparkling with the evening sun.
We pass a number of boats anchored for guests to go swimming or scuba diving, and fewer boats heading back toward the marina.
A number of small vessels seem to be headed in the same direction as us, and eventually the large rocks that once stood a good distance away from us draw closer.
The captain slows and stops the boat, anchoring us in what feels like a half-enclosed area given the way giant rocks jut up from the water.
The captain points out the arch in the rocks to us, a famous Cabo landmark.
The area is beautiful, the sky bright blue, open, and wide above us with a sprinkling of clouds, and its mirror—the water—dark blue and vast. Stretching on as far as the eye can see.
Out here, the heat and humidity still exist, but the breeze is nice and makes it feel cooler than it really is.
I thought the blanket was a bit silly at first, but now I’m glad for it.
The captain leads us to the opposite side of the boat, where there’s a large square net. He throws a couple of pillows onto the net and gestures toward it. Miles, having brought the blankets over, sets them on the net, climbing onto it first so he can help me on.
His hands are warm around mine, squeezing and holding me steady as I step onto the rope bed.
When I wobble, he releases my hand to whip an arm around my waist. It’s probably unnecessary, clutching me against him the way he is, but I let him hold me as I lower myself onto the net.
He does the same, sitting behind me, a leg on either side of my body.
His chest against my back, I lean into him.
The sun has just started to set, orange painting the clouds.
This is what should be called golden hour, when the sky is half-gold from the setting sun.
It burns brighter as it dips lower, gold turning to a deep orange, pink highlights streaking the clouds, blending with the oranges and yellows.
In no time at all, the sky is awash with the most brilliant shades of every color.
They saturate the sky, reflecting in the water so the ocean no longer looks blue, but orange and purple.
Out here on the water, it feels like we’re in the middle of a painting.
I’m not merely observing a sunset; I’m in the thick of it.
I half expect to look down and see my skin turn the same color as the sky.
The warmth the sun provided disappears with its descent, so I arrange the blanket over my shoulders, cocooning myself.
Miles wraps his blanket around him from behind, and with his arms around me, I find I’m actually quite comfortable.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice in my ear.
“Yeah, why?” I twist a bit to look in his eyes.
“Just making sure the motion of the boat is triggering anything for you. I should have told you to bring some anti-nausea meds, I’m sorry.”
“I always have some in my purse, but I’m okay, thank you for asking.” I tip my head up to press a kiss to his chin.
“I like this,” he says.
“Yeah, it’s gorgeous, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but I meant holding you. I like holding you.”
He squeezes me, and I acknowledge him with a sound of contentment.
“I’m so glad we reconnected,” he says.
“I am too,” I say. My heart beats just a little faster.
“Are you? You weren’t thrilled about my presence here a few days ago,” he teases.
“Can’t really blame me for that.”
“No, it was well deserved.”
The nervous flutters are back in my stomach because I feel like I know where he’s leading this conversation and I don’t feel ready for it.
“I, um, I don’t really want to go another eleven years without seeing you again,” he says. “In fact, I don’t really want to go another day without seeing you. And you’re leaving tomorrow.”
I’m glad to be facing away from him, because I worry what he would read on my face right now. I wait, sensing he has more to say, but I nod in acknowledgment of his words.
“And, um—god, this is…I’m so nervous.” He leans his forehead against my shoulder.
“I’ve missed you, Abby. You bring so much light and joy into my life and I want you to be mine again.
I want to be yours. I want to date you. When you leave tomorrow, I want to know that you’re going to text me before your plane takes off and call me when it lands.
I want you to be my girlfriend. I want to be your boyfriend, Abby. ”
The skin on my chest feels too thin to hold my hammering, racing heart.
“I don’t want to lose you again,” he says.
I take in his words. On one hand, they’re a relief. He does want me, and he’s being as open and vulnerable as he was yesterday about his injury, about his dad. There’s comfort in this—in knowing he’s capable of that kind of openness.
And on the other hand, his words paralyze me. They make it harder for me to stand firm on what I want. It would be so easy to just say yes, to give him what he wants, and to slide into discomfort because there’s something comfortable about being uncomfortable for other people.
I take too long to respond, though. He notices my silence, my hesitation. I think it spooks him, because he shifts so he’s at my side instead of my back.
“Abby?”
I nod, because I want him to know that I’m trying. I’m trying to say the thing I want to say.
“I want time,” I say because I need to say something and I can’t just agree with him. I can’t just commit to him right now and give him what he wants. Maybe a small part of me wants that, but a much larger part of me wants time.
“What do you mean you want time? Like, you don’t want to talk when we leave here?”
“I don’t know. I do, I mean. If we don’t, it’s okay, but we could—when you’re back in Pennsylvania—”
“You think it’s fine if we leave here and don’t talk again?”
“No, no.” I set my hands on his arms, an attempt to bring his focus in. I want him to hear me, but my head feels all tangled because he’s misinterpreting what I’m saying. I can feel him slipping away from this conversation and it’s just barely started.
“Please, Miles. Just hear me, okay? I’m—it’s too soon. It’s been nine days. I can’t say yes to you right now because I want more time. I barely know you.”
“What are you talking about, Abby? You know me. You’ve known me for thirteen years.”
“I knew a version of you for two years and then for eleven of those years, you were not in my life at all. You’ve changed! I’ve changed. Yes, there are things about you that I recognize and things that I don’t.”