Chapter Sixteen
Lucy
Lucy is reading on the boat—or, rather, meant to read but is morosely researching how much she could make with a side hustle tutoring—when a text from Patrick sends her adrenaline into overdrive.
Do you want to come over for dinner tonight? I was thinking of making that creamy lemon chicken
What’s the occasion?
Nothing, just dinner
She doesn’t understand. She loves that dish. He’s never made it once. Her mouth is dry, and when she reaches for her glass of water, her hand trembles.
Who else are you having?
No one
It sounds oddly close to a date, which makes her nervous. As badly as she misses him, seeing him could knock her over again. If he’s going to leave her, he might as well really leave her and let her make a half-hearted attempt to move on.
I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.
Why not?
I’m not sure I’m ready to be friends yet.
Or ever. It’s mortifying to admit. She feels like a loser—too sensitive to be in the same room as someone who no longer loves her. She shields the screen from the sun, watching as Patrick types and deletes and retypes something. Finally, the message pops up.
Don’t worry about the label
Driving home is eerie, maybe because of just that: It still feels like home. This part of Fox Hill is less forested than the lake side of town, with plain, single-story construction in white or gray vinyl siding. It has its charms—the steepled town hall was once a Puritan church and still looks the part—though not the rustic coziness of Loon Road.
Lucy’s been anxious all day, spinning between two extremes. Her inner romantic is desperate to believe he wants her back, while her bruised side—pummeled, really—tries to rein in her expectations. She can so easily see herself getting lost in some fantasy and wind up crushed again. It wouldn’t be the first time Patrick blindsided her.
Ringing their doorbell and waiting for him to greet her would be too weird, so instead, she pushes the door open while rapping on it twice. “It’s me,” she calls.
Stepping inside, her chest tightens with nervous anticipation. When he appears, it takes all of her concentration to fight muscle memory and resist kissing him hello. Don’t worry about the label , he’d said, which makes no sense. He knows Lucy worries about everything.
“Hey.” With a flicker of self-conscious hesitation, he hugs her for a split second longer than a friend might. After he steps back, the feeling of his hands lingers.
The living room isn’t quite as it was. Yes, there’s the brown tweed couch that looks straight out of a British library, the deep cranberry carpet that reminded her of the rug at the lake house, the striped throw pillows—but the coffee table is invisible beneath clusters of beer bottles and video game controllers. The shoe rack is half empty. Nobody’s dusted.
“I know it’s a mess,” he says, frazzled. “I ran out of time to straighten up.”
“That’s okay.”
In a way, she appreciates the proof that her absence is so visible. It would be easy for her to grab the open bag of chips and a few bottles on her way to the kitchen, but this is not her job anymore. He’s made that clear.
“How are you?”
How ah yeh. It’s like a bite of homemade chocolate cake after the store-bought version she gets from Vivian. She can tell he’s aiming to act casual, but he has this flustered air of nervousness, too. He doesn’t seem to know exactly what to do with his hands.
“I’m…” Sad. Confused. Floundering. Dating someone else? “Okay, I guess.”
“Actually?”
Maybe it’s embarrassing to be such a wreck when he was able to walk away so easily. But she’s never been able to hide anything from him.
“I mean, I’ve been better. You?”
His gaze is still. “Same.”
She swallows, too afraid to push for more lest the answer disappoints her. “How can I help with dinner?”
Patrick seasons the chicken. Lucy minces garlic. They bump into each other when reaching for the silverware drawer at the same time. She tells him about Vivian staying for the summer, the celebration of life ceremony she’s planning for her dad, the job search, and diving into Celeste Levy’s books. He vents about his boss and catches her up on the latest twist in the saga down the road—the never-ending drama about one neighbor’s dog getting into the other’s herb garden, with each one posting thinly veiled shade in the Fox Hill Facebook group.
The conversation is perfectly pleasant, but it doesn’t melt the tension from his shoulders. Lucy still feels wary. Patrick doesn’t casually cook with friends. He barely cooks at all; he’d rather microwave a Hot Pocket than scramble eggs.
By the time they sit down to eat, she can’t ignore the maddening strangeness any longer. “What’s happening here?”
Patrick looks up from cutting his chicken, eyes wide. “I wanted to have dinner with you.”
“Yeah, but exes don’t typically hang out like this.”
He grimaces at that word. “You’re going through a rough time. I don’t want you to be alone.”
“So this is a pity dinner?”
“No, it’s…” He sighs and puts down his utensils. “I was going to get into this after we ate.”
Rigid with anticipation, Lucy curls her fingers around the edge of the chair. “Okay. Well. Can we talk about it now?”
He clears his throat, scoots in, sips his Sam Adams. “Fourth of July? I…liked being there for you. It felt right.”
“It did,” she admits.
“Good.” His gaze drops to the table. After a labored inhale, he finds eye contact again. “I’ve missed you.”
The words are electrifying, though she refuses to agree out loud. Not yet. She’s humiliated herself enough already.
“I wonder if…” He swallows. “I wonder if I made a mistake.”
“What?”
Lucy feels faint. Frustrated, too. If he’d sorted out his feelings this spring, they both would’ve been spared the heartache.
He looks at her for what feels like an eternity. “Maybe I gave up on us too soon.”
She goes very still and strains to glean every nuance of his expression and voice. “What are you saying?”
“I don’t want us to rush into anything, but…I want to spend time with you. Not as your ex. Not as a friend.”
“As what, then?”
He rubs his jaw and looks away. “We’re family, Luce. That’s what marriage is. No matter what happens, I’ll always care about you.”
Care. Not love.
“You don’t throw away family,” he adds.
“But you did,” she says bitterly.
His face goes from serious to mournful. “I’m sorry. I really thought separating was the right thing at the time, but now…I don’t know.”
Her heart hammers against her ribs. “You don’t know? Or you’ve changed your mind?”
He hesitates. “I love you. I want us to try again.”
Time slows down. Lucy has the surreal sense of watching herself from above. Whatever she says next will change her life. It’s bigger than saying “yes” when he asked her to marry him, bigger than saying “I do” at their wedding, because this time, there’s no easy response. Yes, she wanted him back. Yes, this is exactly what she hoped to hear. But now that it’s happening, the gravity of it all terrifies her.
“Why, though? You said we ‘lost the spark.’?” The simple act of reciting his words hurts.
He’s quiet for a moment. “I took our life for granted. I shouldn’t have. I miss you, and I want to be here for you—here for it all.”
He reaches across the table to slip his clammy palm into hers. His calloused thumb strokes the back of her hand and slides over her knuckle to skim the edge of her wedding band. They’d promised themselves to each other once.
“You didn’t take it off,” he says, touched.
Her voice quavers up, high and tight. Blinking back tears, she lets her words slide free. “I’ve missed you, too. I love you.”
He exhales with relief. “Come here,” he says, standing and pulling her up to him.
Unlike the other night with Harrison, here, there’s no awkwardness, no stomach-lurching fear of making the wrong move. She slides her arms over his shoulders and his hands settle on her hips; it’s as natural as breathing. Patrick kisses her tenderly. Flush against him, she senses his frenzied pulse and the smile tugging at his lips. Being this close to him again is like the sweet relief of unbuckling too-tight ice skates. It’s hustling out of the frigid cold to warm up, pink-cheeked and toasty, in front of a roaring fire.
When Lucy was young, she’d fully bought into the romantic ideal of high school sweethearts and felt lucky to have found her ultimate match when she did. Their future would spool out naturally for decades: bleachers and prom corsages, then wedding bells and a house of their own, then cribs and carpools. Each checked milestone would make them even happier. She was too young to realize that was an airbrushed fantasy, or at the very least, a mere outline, yet to be shaded in with the mundane details and squabbles of real life. Now she knows. Maybe their separation only gives their story a few blemishes—character—and isn’t that better, anyway, because it’s real?
The kiss feels like home, pure and simple. They’re back.
The chicken goes cold and neither of them cares. The air feels buoyant, like the catharsis that comes after a good cry. On the couch after dinner, she nestles into him and he drapes a comforting arm over her side. Her head rests on his chest. The motions of marriage are like riding a bike. She’d been yearning for this particular route.
With the tension broken, they can talk for real. She’s honest about how ferociously lonely she’s been, how much she missed him, even while on dates with someone else.
He almost chokes on his beer. “What? With who ?”
“Nobody you’d know—and I’m not remotely interested anymore.”
Patrick squeezes her a little closer. “Obviously.”
She secretly likes his flash of jealousy. Anyone could make her swoon under a blanket of stars, but this is all she wants.
He admits that Brody insisted on hauling him out to the strip club on Route 95 to get his mind off the separation. The plan backfired when Patrick declined a lap dance; the girl’s blond hair and brown eyes reminded him too much of Lucy’s. He spent the rest of the night in the parking lot.
They decide that Lucy will stay on Fox Hill Lake through Labor Day. She wants to keep her word to Vivian, and if she’ll only have access to the house for so long, she wants to make the most of it. Patrick agrees. They shouldn’t rush back into living together. But that night, Lucy sleeps next to him in her own bed. When he reaches for her, she indulges in his heady, familiar comfort. For the first time in weeks, she falls asleep easily.
Vivian
That weekend, Vivian invites Caleb over for dinner on the boat. Lucy has plans with Patrick that night, but that’s okay. They have their own friendship outside of her anyway. When she hears the crunch of his tires on dirt, she finishes what she’s doing on her phone and flips it face down on the counter. It wouldn’t be right if he got a glimpse of the project Vivian’s been working on at Dawn’s request. That’s private.
Caleb slides open the door, clad in a burnt orange T-shirt that brings out the amber in his eyes. This late in the summer, he’s tanner than she’s ever seen him. He’s clutching two plastic-wrapped whoopie pies with creamy filling spilling out from between rich chocolate cakes.
“I thought I’d bring dessert,” he says. “They aren’t homemade, but that’s probably a good thing.”
“These look amazing, thank you.”
The effort is sweet. They remind her of the extravagant flower deliveries Oscar would send to her apartment, trimmed from the restaurant’s florist budget, similarly intended to make her smile. Those were huge, stunning—but something about them always felt a smidge inappropriate. She’d sometimes hear coworkers grumble about their paychecks and know exactly where Oscar could find a few extra bucks.
He peers into a brown paper grocery bag. “All right, put me to work.”
She ropes him into shelling shrimp, then cooks them in a tomato-garlic sauce with a heavy dose of red pepper flakes. She uncorks a bottle of white and pours it into Mason jars.
“Okay, do your wine thing,” he says, giving his glass a clunky swirl.
If she has nothing else—no Della, no place of her own—at least she’ll have this.
She flashes the label at him. “This is a pinot gris from Alsace.”
“Pinot grigio?”
“Good, but no. That’s from Italy. This is French. The shrimp is spicy, right? This is light, tart, notes of citrus and green apple on the palate—it balances out the heat.”
There’s more she could say, but who cares. He grabs the bottle, standing an inch closer than a friend might while he reads it, near enough that she can feel the soft puff of his breath. She’s acutely aware of the slight flush that rises in her cheeks and takes a step backward.
“Cool,” he says, placing it on the counter.
His eye contact makes her skin tingle. “Yeah.”
Carrying dinner down to the dock, Vivian notices that the sun is lower in the sky than it used to be at this hour. The season slips away a little more with each nightfall.
He bends to undo the right knots and hops easily into the boat. “Want me to drive?”
“Oh, I—” She’s about to say she’s got it. She often takes the wheel around Lucy just to prove that she can, but it’d be nice to relax. “Sure, thank you.”
After they’ve untied and reversed past the dock, they loop around the lake at forty miles an hour. He steers with ease, even as wind blasts their hair in every direction. They rocket by the island topped by scrappy trees. A white bird skims low over the blue depths. This place sometimes makes her feel like a fish out of water, but she grew up on this lake, too. It’s home.
When he slows to a serene crawl, she kicks her feet up onto the glove compartment and unscrews her jar.
“So, guess what I did today?” he asks, drumming his hands on the steering wheel.
“Get that grumpy waitress to smile?”
“I’ll win her over someday, I swear. But no—I bought a one-way ticket to Thailand. I leave next month.”
She should’ve seen it coming, but the news smacks her with loneliness. She shoves it away. This isn’t about her.
“Caleb!”
He’s lit up with embarrassed pride.
“Oh my God, amazing. You’re going to have the best time.”
She imagines him trekking through jungles, devouring delicacies he hasn’t even heard of yet, letting loose under the moonlight. It couldn’t be more perfect for him.
He shakes his head lightly, like he’s not entirely convinced it’s all a dream. “Finally.”
“How long do you think you’ll be gone for?”
“Three months, maybe? That’s the plan for now, at least.”
There’s a weird sinking feeling in her chest.
“I’ll miss you.” The thought slips out by surprise and hangs in the air.
“Yeah?” he says, grinning a little bit.
Flustered, she pivots. “I don’t know what I’m going to do next, but…”
“Aren’t you opening your bar?”
“That was the plan. But now, solo, I don’t know. It depends on…” She waves her hand vaguely toward the house.
“Ah.”
For the weeks she’d allowed herself to fantasize about that prospect, the dream had nourished her. She can see snippets of it like a movie: She’d pull bottles for customers, pour samples of deep ruby liquid into tasting glasses, eavesdrop on first dates; spend late nights and early mornings balancing budgets and restocking inventory. It would be overwhelming and invigorating and hers—in name and in spirit, if not entirely in dollars and cents.
And now it can’t be hers. Or could it?
Despite the utter chaos of this summer, Vivian’s happy here in Maine. She likes the canopies of pines and the rhythm of the sunsets. She wants to try Millie’s moonshine, and paint landscapes of lupines and snowbanks as the seasons change. She could hang out with Lucy and Caleb—and even Paige has warmed up to her. And she’s forming a friendship with Dawn; lately, they’ve been texting a few times a week. Sure, she’d miss the city, but her lease will be up in October, and returning to Della isn’t an option.
“Do you think I’d like living here?” Vivian asks.
“Like, for real?” he says in disbelief. “In Fox Hill?”
“Portland, maybe.”
Leaving New York would be radical enough; she doesn’t have to hack life in the woods, too. She badly needs a fresh start—not because she’s running from home, but because for the first time in her life, she wants to unfold a new kind of future somewhere else. Running a business in Maine would require her to stand on her own two feet in a way she’d never quite be able to in the city. She’d be a newcomer; there’d be no home court advantage. It terrifies her in the best way possible.
His eye contact makes her heart beat a little bit faster. “I’d really like that. It’d be cool to see you around.”
They’re both quiet for a moment amid the engine’s low rumble.
“I don’t know how I would’ve gotten through this summer without you,” Vivian says. “Things were so bleak—and having you in my corner made everything feel a little lighter.”
He reaches for her hand in a friendly squeeze, but neither of them lets go right away. Caleb looks down at their intertwined fingers.
“Don’t forget about me when I’m gone,” he says lightly, skimming his thumb over her knuckles.
“Never,” Vivian promises.
“This—” he says.
“And—” she starts.
“You go ahead.”
“No, you first,” she insists, burning with anticipation.
He clears his throat. “This summer wasn’t the right time for us. But when I’m back, if you’re nearby…I’d want to see you. It could be as a friend, if that’s what you want. But…maybe as something more.”
She watches this daredevil fight, syllable after syllable, to openly state how he really feels. His eyes glint with tenderness.
“Do you want to be something more?” she asks.
She remembers Caleb as an irresistible flirt, an intoxicating fling. She knows him as a friend, too. This romantic side, however, is uncharted territory. Delicate.
The answer is all over his face before he says it out loud. “Yeah.”
For weeks, she’d been telling herself that this was solely platonic. But she can’t pretend anymore.
“I do, too.” She can’t predict when or how it would work, but now there’s no doubt she wants to try. “I’d really like that.”
Vivian leans forward and kisses him. It’s nothing like their first adrenaline-fueled tangle. This time, it’s slow and sweet. He grins into the kiss and then there’s the gentle sweep of his tongue. She cups his jaw and feels a soft bristle against her palm. His fingers skim up and down her arm, but that’s it, like he’s in no hurry to unfurl their connection again, as if he believes there will be plenty of time to explore that later. She hopes there will be.
“Please don’t tell me we need to wait another four years for that,” he says.
She can’t tamp down her grin as she pulls them onto the bench seat in the back. “No, I don’t think we will.”
Shyly, they lean against each other and admire the brilliant yellow glow slipping between periwinkle clouds. The boat rocks slightly over the shimmering lake. The wine is a crisp zing of citrus. Something floats between them, promising and intangible. Now simply isn’t their time. But in spite of everything Vivian thought she wanted, she can imagine sitting here next summer, curled closer under his arm, night after night after night.
Lucy
The email finally arrives on Tuesday afternoon. She can barely breathe as she scans it: An administrator from the Portland school district apologizes that Lucy’s application got lost in her inbox. If she’s still interested, would she like to come in for an interview? The message came while Lucy was desperately scrolling through other job listings—she could potentially find part-time employment as a call center representative, or temp work leading leaf-peeping tours from Kennebunkport to Bar Harbor. She scrambles to reply that she’s available to meet as soon as Wednesday. Her escape hatch is here.
The next morning, as she’s getting ready for the interview, she brushes her teeth and studies the whorls in the bathroom’s wooden door, the chip in the warm tan paint, and the dated paisley shower curtain with proof of her one-time pink dye job streaked down the corner. This could all be half hers, half Vivian’s—or they could walk away from it entirely. Both options feel tantalizing and bleak.
On the drive over, Lucy circles through the talking points she prepared. In theory, a job interview is supposed to be nerve-racking, but she feels grounded and calm. There’s even a flicker of excitement in her chest—not optimism, just solid confidence that she’s a single conversation away from landing the position—the life—she’s wanted for so long. She’s an excellent teacher and she’s hungry for more. There’s no reason this school wouldn’t want her. She can do this. She’s ready.
Zipping home from Portland has never felt faster. Giddy and flush with satisfaction, her head spins at seventy miles per hour.
“Patrick?” she calls out, letting herself in.
She’d let him know that she was on her way over.
Two seconds later, he meets her by the front door with a kiss. She doesn’t take that kind of automatic affection for granted anymore. They were barely separated for three months, but that was long enough for her to miss it.
“Hey. You’re dressed up.”
She’d worn slacks and a blouse to the interview. (“ Slacks ,” Vivian had said on her way out. “You sound like my grandma.”) It was a step up from the usual jeans-and-sweater combos she typically wore to work, and fussier than what Patrick liked, but the professional outfit imbued her with confidence.
“I had a big day. An interview.”
“Yeah? How’d it go?”
She can’t help but beam. “Really, really well. At the end, she said the job was basically mine. She just needs to send over some paperwork.”
Patrick lights up and hugs her. “That’s amazing! This is the Lewiston gig?”
She stiffens ever so slightly, watching for his reaction. “No, they’d already hired someone. It’s in Portland.”
His brow wrinkles. He puts the Sox game on mute and drops onto the couch. She follows him.
“Are you going to take it?”
She’s surprised—and a little hurt—that he’s even asking. “Of course.”
“That’ll be a hell of a commute. You’d have to leave here at, what, six a.m.?”
“Well, not necessarily,” she says slowly. “I’d want to live nearby.”
His focus had drifted to the TV, but that snaps his attention back toward Lucy. “You’d want to move?”
“Yeah,” she says, disheartened by the way his face falls.
“But my work is here.”
She twists her wedding band around her finger. The modest diamonds come and go like painted horses on a carousel.
“I know. But you could take jobs there.”
He gives a frustrated laugh. “You know I’m booked out for the next few months.”
“So, it would be a few months of back-and-forth. We wouldn’t have to move right this second.”
“Our whole life is here.”
She stares at him, feeling disappointed and stuck. “I don’t know what to tell you. I need to work.”
“It’s wicked expensive there.”
“I’d be making more money, and…Vivian and I could sell the house.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “You’d do that?”
“Maybe.”
She’s still torn. He gapes. She can practically see him calculating what he could do with that kind of money. Building their own house from scratch would be first on his list.
“I’m sorry, Luce, but I really don’t want to move. Even if we could swing it.”
Her heart sinks. “Remember how we wanted to live there after college?”
“ You wanted to live there.”
“You did, too,” she insists. “Not forever, but for a while.”
Even if Portland had been more of her idea than his, he’d been on board. He wanted to make her happy.
“We were kids, that was different.”
Lucy had practically been vibrating with excitement ever since she got the job offer. Now the news feels tainted.
“I’m going to accept the job. I basically told them I would—I just haven’t signed anything yet.”
“Great, take the job,” he says simply. “But stay here.”
He heads into the kitchen. Lucy follows him. There’s a stack of dirty dishes in the sink and clutter on the counters.
“Won’t you just consider it?” she asks.
He rips open a bag of potato chips and pops one into his mouth. “Luce,” he groans, exasperated.
“Please.”
“I don’t need to consider it. I know I’m not going to change my mind. No.”
She stares at him for a long time, seeing all the versions of him layered like sheets of transparency paper: the boy she fell in love with, the man she exchanged vows with, the husband who disappointed her time and time again. Now he’s too comfortable for his own good, already too set in his ways. But Lucy is on the brink of a whole new chapter. She’s sad, angry, and, most painful of all, powerless to sculpt Patrick into someone he doesn’t want to be.
“You don’t really care about me,” she says, stunned as the idea clicks into place. The heartache is instant and real, an actual pang in her chest.
“Are you kidding me?” he says incredulously. “I’ve checked in on you every single day after your dad died. I held back your hair when you were throwing up. That’s not enough for you?”
“But when it comes to the big picture, it’s all about you. I want to move, you say no. I wanted quality time, date nights—you made an effort for a few weeks, then dropped it. I wanted to be married,” she says, voice hardening. “And you decided we were over.”
He shakes his head. “This is bullshit.”
“I wanted to get back together, and you said no, right up until you changed your mind,” she says. “Then, boom, you made one chicken and got me back.”
“We’re back together just like you wanted and now you’re mad at me?” he asks incredulously. “I don’t get what you want.”
“Marriage should be more than a piece of paper. It’s work sometimes. That’s okay. That’s love. And if you can’t agree with that—can’t even consider what I want—then I don’t want you back anymore.”
Her voice is surprisingly steady. Once upon a time, she was willing to pull his weight in the relationship, but that’s not the case any longer.
He gapes. “Lucy.”
“I’m serious. I can’t do this again if it’s going to be more of the same.”
“So that’s it? We’re really done?”
“You don’t want to fix this?”
He throws up his hands. “There’s nothing to fix.”
He doesn’t even put up a fight for her.
A lump is rising quickly in her throat. “Then that’s it. We’re done.”
Amid the low hum of the fridge and the air conditioner’s white noise, the silence between them is eerie and heavy. Lucy knows what she’s getting herself into: brokenhearted days, lonely nights, long stretches of feeling like a hopeless failure. But she’s also making room for something better.
“I’m sorry, Patrick.”
She slips on her sandals, grabs her purse, and takes one last look at him before walking away.