20. Libby
CHAPTER TWENTY
libby
“Oh my first town meeting. I’m so excited.” I settle in my seat beside Maggie, my knees bouncing.
The stage curtains are shut to hide the set we’ve been working on.
Like it matters. Half the people in this room have helped with it.
By the night of the show, it won’t be a surprise.
Though I guess that’s just how it’s done on Monhegan.
I’m beginning to realize that’s the answer to a lot of things about this island.
And if you question why, they look at you with expressions that scream why not?
Maybe there’s something to that sentiment. Why not?
Just because it’s done differently elsewhere doesn’t mean it’s wrong here. And I’m learning more and more every day just how much different works for me. This summer has been so much better than I could have even hoped for, and the people are more than half the reason.
Even when they’re growly, like Fisher is 90 percent of the time. His gruff attitude just makes me giggle now.
And boy did he growl a lot at the lobster bake.
Every time someone came over and interrupted us, he’d let out this heavy sigh, as if interacting with other humans was exhausting.
Though he found his second wind when the music started. The man seriously had me dancing nearly half the night. Every time someone suggested he take a break and asked to dance with me—mainly Wilder—Fisher’s eyes narrowed, and I swear little darts shot straight out of his pupils.
He must really like dancing.
I didn’t mind in the least. It may seem counterintuitive, but the more time I spend in Fisher’s arms, the more relaxed I feel. Perhaps it’s the way he smells. I’ve read a thing or two about how one person’s pheromones can be attracted to another person’s. It’s science.
That, or I just really like him.
Doesn’t matter either way. I’m not dating.
Even if I were, there’s no way I should get involved with someone who is raising a child.
My life is a mess. The last thing I want is to drag an innocent child into it.
I’m no good for either of them—or anyone else, for that matter—until I figure out who I am and what I want to do with my life.
This summer is about finding me. Discovering what brings me joy. I think I’m doing a pretty decent job of it so far. Take this moment, for instance. As I sit, surrounded by familiar faces with loud voices echoing off the ceiling, I feel nothing but joyful.
“Scoot down,” a deep voice grumbles from my side.
I peer up, and when I meet Fisher’s eye, my stomach does that weird flip. The tone of his voice is always at odds with the way his brown eyes brighten when they land on me. Like we’re in on some secret. A secret that involves a hidden sweet side of him.
Before I can think too much further into it, Wilder appears at his side, wearing a T-shirt that says I’m a f*cking delight.
“Can I sit on the inside?” He cranes his neck one way, then the other, then his shoulders droop in relief. “Never mind. I think I’m in the clear.”
He eases into the seat next to Fisher, and with a grunt of annoyance, Fisher leans away from him. The move causes our thighs to brush and a thread of electricity to course through me. Those brown eyes find mine again, silently confirming that our proximity is okay.
Without my permission, my lips kick up on one side.
Maggie leans across me and hisses, “What are you two doing here?”
I frown at my friend. “Doesn’t he have to be here since he’s the sheriff?”
Fisher’s expression remains blank. Maggie, on the other hand, is smirking now.
“No. Neither Wilder nor Fisher ever come to the town meeting. They always complain that because they’re on Saturdays, they’re nothing but a nuisance.”
“They are,” he grumbles, the low sound vibrating through me and making me shiver.
She beams, chin lifted, like he’s just proven her point. I’ve never seen the quiet woman so amused. “So like I said, why are you here?”
Fisher completely ignores the question, facing forward.
Wilder shifts our way and whispers, “I’m avoiding the level-five clinger.”
Fisher sighs. “It’s about time you stop hooking up with random tourists, don’t you think?”
I fold my lips in, fighting a laugh. Maybe that’s why Wilder kept asking me to dance at the lobster bake. The woman he was with did seem a bit clingy.
“There’s no one else here,” Wilder says as he leans back and folds his arms across his chest.
Breath held, I peer over at Maggie. Before I can get a look at her expression, the baker who despises me settles in the row ahead of us.
“Hi boys,” she says in that high pitched voice that Sutton hates. I can understand the sentiment, especially when she winks at Fisher. “Are you going to the brewery tonight?”
His jaw ticks, and with a glance at me, he leans back, drapes his arm along the back of my seat, and spreads his thighs wider. “We’ll see.”
Flora’s nose flares in annoyance as she eyes the way he’s touching me.
I can barely focus though because once again I’m surrounded by Fisher.
His warmth, his scent, his almost possessive attitude.
With a huff she spines around and Maggie leans across me again, talking to Wilder. “There’s always Flora.”
Wilder shakes his head, lips kicked up in his usual smirk. “I’m not the one she likes,” he mouths.
Fisher breathes like a wild bull, nostrils flaring. It’s far more endearing than it should be.
“Okay, everyone. Quiet down. We’ve got a lot to get through this morning.” A man I haven’t met bangs a gavel against the plastic table he’s sitting behind at the front of the room.
From the back of the room, a man yells, “Yeah, we need to discuss this proposed ban.”
“Sit down, Blue,” Doris hollers.
“Naked painting,” he grumbles as he shuffles closer to the stage and finds a seat. “Who writes a law banning naked painting? Heathens, that’s who. You’re all anarchists, I tell ya.”
“I don’t think that’s the term you’re looking for,” Wilder’s poor mother mutters, cheeks flushing.
Gosh, I love this town.
An hour and a half later, my head is spinning.
All the volleying back and forth to catch the firework display that was my first town meeting has given me a crick in the neck.
It was complete chaos from beginning to end.
Shockingly, outside of Doris, no one voted for the proposal to ban the naked painting. Not even Mrs. K.
“All her stuff is in here?” Mrs. K asks Fisher as I step outside, relishing the warmth of the sun.
Fisher made a beeline for the exit the second the meeting was over, followed by half a dozen people looking for his help with one task or another.
I stuck around with Maggie, who stopped everyone she could, asking for their help with the play.
She’s a little genius. Those innocent doe eyes and the overalls that make her look like a grown-up Pollyanna are impossible to say no to.
Today her overalls are the same shade as my pink golf cart, I’m kind of obsessed—with her and the overalls.
No one can say no to her, and she knows it.
Fisher pulls a pink overnight bag out of the back of the truck and hands it to Mrs. K.
“Yup. I’ll be by first thing in the morning to pick her up. And my phone is on. Call if you need me.”
As I approach, Mrs. K’s face lights up. With a squeeze to Fisher’s arm, she backs away. “Have a good night. Sutton will be fine. We’ll see you tomorrow. After breakfast. ” She tacks on the last two words like it’s an order.
“Where’s Sutton going?” I ask as Mrs. K heads off with Wilder and Blue.
“She’s sleeping at Mrs. K’s. She forces Eddy and me to leave the girls with her and go out and ‘have fun.’” The last two words are accompanied by air quotes and a sneer.
I can’t totally blame him for being resentful about a night without Sutton. What will I do with myself if she’s not around this afternoon? She’s normally the one who drags me along to all the activities she and Fisher participate in. Now I’ll have to figure out something on my own.
“Well, enjoy your free time.” I force a smile and head toward my golf cart.
I’ve gotten better at driving it. Mostly.
As long as I avoid hills. Though that can be a challenge when the island is one big hill.
Regardless, I do my best to keep my speed low and tap the brakes when I get going a little too quickly.
It does result in a bumpy ride, but when I’m alone, and don’t have to worry about Fisher’s grumbling, it feels like my very own roller coaster.
“Wait,” Fisher calls, striding toward me with a diet ginger ale in one hand. He shoves it in my direction, pink straw and all. “I’ll pick you up at six thirty.”
I stare down at the heart-shaped straw in confusion. “Why?”
“So we can walk to the brewery together.”
My breath catches in my throat. He wants to go to the brewery… with me?
And this time Sutton isn’t the one dragging him out of the house.
His irises darken as he watches me, waiting for a response. What the hell is happening right now? When his focus snags on my mouth, a shiver rolls across my skin, and I can’t help but imagine him dragging his lips against mine.
“Okay?” he asks, his brows folding in on themselves.
I shake the ridiculous thoughts from my head and inhale deeply. “Yeah, okay. See you then.”
Fisher eyes me for another second, then turns and strides away without another word.
“Strange man,” I whisper to my soda. Why does diet ginger ale taste so much better through a pretty straw?
Must be another one of those science things.
“So the brewery with Fisher, huh?” Maggie’s voice startles me.
Dammit. I’ve literally been lost in space since Fisher walked away, and from the look of things, he’s long gone.
“Huh?”
Maggie’s smile is wide. “You’re going on a date.”
I scoff. “Oh, no. That’s not—” I shake my head even as my heart skips at the mere thought that maybe Fisher did just ask me on a date.
Maggie’s green eyes glitter with excitement. “That was so him asking you on a date.”
“He barely said a word.” I clamp my lips around the straw to keep myself from saying anything more.
Like how I hope she’s right. Or before I ask questions about whether he’s ever dated anyone on the island.
I squeeze my lips tighter to keep myself from inviting her to help me get ready because I really want to look good if this is a date.
Maggie laughs, the warmth in her tone easing my nerves a fraction. “He says more to you than he says to anyone. Believe me, that was Fisher asking you on a date.”
I sip my soda and point to my cart. “Want a ride to the theater?”
With a giggle, she points past me. Right. We’re at the theater. “Let’s get some work done before your date,” she sings as she skips toward the building.
“It’s not a date!” I call after her, but like a glutton for punishment, I follow her back inside.
Several hours later, I step out of the theater, speckled in a rainbow of paint colors. I smile when I see my pink golf cart sitting in the shade of a tree. That is not where I left it. Fisher must have swung back this way and noticed it sitting out in the hot sun.
A girl could get used to this kind of treatment. She shouldn’t , but she could.
Humming softly, I hop on and head back to the house.
I’m still not sure what I think about this whole date situation.
It could be nice dating a man like Fisher.
Maggie may have never been on a date, but I’d take that over “dating” other celebrities for the publicity only.
Those are the only kind I’ve ever been on.
I’ve never had time for a real boyfriend.
Hell, I’ve never had time for friends. Just transactional relationships where I was seen out and about with the “right” people.
For all my bravado, I don’t think I’ve ever dressed up just for the thrill of seeing how a man will react when he sees me for the first time.
But the way Fisher reacted before the lobster bake? I could get used to that. That was—I sigh, slumping in the pink seat—butterfly-inducing. Only the butterflies sucked on helium before they took flight in my stomach.
Everyone I pass gives me plenty of room, waving, then darting to one side of the road or the other. It’s a huge change from only a few weeks ago, when everyone greeted me with grumbles. I think they’re really starting to like me. Or at least tolerate me.
My butt leaves the seat as the cart jostles its way around the turn near Wilder’s house. His yard slopes pretty sharply, so I press on the brake to slow myself down. I should order a Bluetooth speaker for Putt-Putt. Put music to the way the whole cart jolts every time I round this corner.
When the cart doesn’t slow, I push harder on the brake. Only to find Putt-Putt speeding up.
Shit. I try again, stomping on the brake this time. But no matter what I do, the cart doesn’t stop its forward momentum.
It’s okay. I’ll be fine. I’ll just take my foot off the gas, and eventually it will run out of juice and come to a stop.
Except the cart picks up speed, careening down the hill, the steering wheel wobbling out of control. I’m feet away from the tree I swear just popped up in the middle of the path when I realize there’s no way to avoid it. Dammit, Fisher is going to be so mad.