Chapter 34
Bailey
This has to be one of my favorite things yet — Rhett’s fingertips tracing up and down my arm, teasing goosebumps back out that were already coming up from the breeze on my bare skin.
Our boat skims across the water. We’re the only ones left out on the lake now, crashing across it toward home. I’ve always loved being out on the water just after dusk, and without the motor blaring, you could hear a pin drop.
As we drive, my head rests on his shoulder so I can watch the stars come out.
Millions of pinpricks painted on a navy canvas, like a sheet.
One by one, each star is claimed into a constellation the second they appear, as stories and illustrations subtly fill the sky.
Some of them I know, and some I never will.
Too many to be told over just one lifetime.
But each time I’m here, I think of how every human that’s ever lived has marveled at this exact view.
And how we each get one nanosecond here on our own piece of the sky to write a little story of our own.
A half-dozen birds fly overhead, shaped into a V, while others swim in long lines together toward the shore.
They always head home this time of day. We all do.
Like something in each of the stories painted above compels us to return to whatever we find the most familiar and comforting at the end of the day.
And for me, I know I’m already there.
Having him right beside me.
I stop a shiver as the air grows chilly by cuddling in closer.
He’s quiet. But relaxed.
I left my phone back at the cabin, wanting to disconnect from anything we have going on back there, so I’ve completely lost track of time.
He must feel me favoring his profile instead of the stars because he plants a kiss on my head and squeezes me in closer, pumping his palm up and down my arm to keep me as warm as he can as we race toward the glowing porch lights reflecting off the water.
When we arrive at our dock, the moon illuminates it almost as well as the old lantern off the front of the boat.
“I’ll need to get that figured out next,” he says, pointing to the light mounted to the front. “We’re going to need that part working better if we’re going to make another trip back to the grotto at this time of day again.”
My heart breaks into song at the word again, and I lean up to kiss him.
Then I hop out onto the dock, holding the rope tied to the front of the boat, and begin pulling the old woodie in until it’s flush with the dock’s buoys. Once we’ve tied it off securely for the night, Rhett pulls his phone out, and the screen illuminates his face.
“The internet is still out,” he says, studying the app that should be showing the view from the porch cameras. He glances up at the house, and I can feel the familiar surge of nerves washing in.
“We’ll get it figured out since we’re going to be staying longer,” I tell him. “I’m going to need it to write anyway, but . . .” I trail off, hoping the nerves setting back in don’t stop him from relaxing the rest of the night. “How about that hot shower . . . ?” I add, hoping he’ll race me inside.
We make our way up to the Monroes’ cabin, and Rhett pulls out his keys to unlock the door.
I lean in to hug my body against his from behind while he slides the key into the lock — but he goes totally rigid when it clicks into place.
“What?” I ask, peering around him.
“That felt different,” he says, staring at the lock. He clicks it over, then back in place to click it over again.
He turns to look behind us, scanning the dark line of trees.
“The lock?” I feel myself go rigid, too. Straining my eyes into the dark, I try to make out anything outside the glow of the porch lights. “Maybe the metal in the lock contracts in the colder air?” I ask. “You’ve never had to unlock it in the dark when it’s this chilly.”
I look to the curtain blocking the window from inside, wishing there was a two-way peephole in the door to see what’s inside before we go in. Whether it’s the trauma of the break-in at my apartment or Rhett’s hypervigilance making me feel paranoid, my heart is now beating faster than I’d like.
The door was locked, I remind myself. It’s fine.
He pulls his phone up again to check the internet and cameras, but it’s still out.
I slide my hands down his back, anxious to go inside.
“Let’s go in,” I tell him. “We can go into town and figure this internet thing out tomorrow.” Shivering, I glance over my shoulder. “There’s nothing we can do about it out here right now.”
When he pushes the door open, I breathe a heavy sigh of relief.
Everything is exactly how it should be. My book on the end table, what’s left of the pie sitting on the stovetop, the dishes still in the sink from earlier.
“I’m going to check the modem,” he says, flipping the kitchen light on. “You go warm up. I’ll be there in a second.”
I take the stairs two at a time and walk to the end of the hall toward the bedroom we shared last night, looking over my shoulder, unable to shake the feeling that came with the darkness outside. Like someone was watching us while we stood shivering on the porch.
The shower door is still open from when I left quickly to go downstairs when Savannah showed up earlier.
I reach inside and twist the hot water on, then turn to grab a few dry towels from the linen closet, telling myself to slow down.
No one is in here, I remind myself. It’s just the memory of the break-in flooding my mind. Making me antsy.
But when I turn, something catches my eye in the middle of the bathroom counter. Sitting right beside the sink.
It’s a lipstick tube on end.
No.
Maybe I left it there?
But I know I didn’t.
My hand is shaking when I pick it up.
Not wanting to see what’s waiting when I pull the lid off.
And by the time I peer inside, I’m already screaming his name.
The tube is completely empty.
Someone has cleaned every last drop of color out and left it right there for me to find.