Chapter 12 Past
I guess his ability to make someone tongue-tied had rubbed off on me, because once we got outside and walked over to my bike, the nerves seemed to shift to him.
He fidgeted with a straw wrapper, eyes on his hands, like he wasn’t sure what to do with them.
“I’ve had a really good time,” he said, a little quieter than before.
“I mean… if you’re not in a rush to get home, maybe we could hang out a little longer?”
I think I sounded a little too eager because I blurted out, “Yes!”
Then quickly lowered my voice.
“I mean… as long as I’m back by sundown.”
…
Unlike me, Paul lived a bit further from the diner, so he drove.
His white-and-blue convertible Mustang was a dead giveaway that he belonged on Bay Street—especially when it was parked between the Buicks and Oldsmobiles lining up for the early bird dinner special.
We cruised through town, and I swear every pair of eyes in Shay was on us.
The top was down; the wind—a welcome break from the heat.
As we turned onto Bay Street, my stomach flipped—I remembered the day I nearly crashed my bike into the ditch right in front of his house. My cheeks burned. Did he remember that?
We pulled into his driveway—it was lined with large pear trees.
His house—three stories high with a huge wraparound porch—was the biggest on the street.
Floor-to-ceiling windows gleamed in the sun.
A tall wrought-iron fence wrapped around the entire property, enclosing a guest house and a pool house in the back.
I was still taking it all in when the car came to a stop.
Paul walked around to open my door—like a true Southern gentleman.
We climbed the side steps, and he asked me to wait on the porch.
I didn’t mind. I was too busy staring at the size of the columns holding up the roof.
Even as an old plantation home, it was stunning—fresh paint, rocking chairs lined across the porch, colorful flowers spilling from blue and white painted pots.
As I drifted closer to the front door, I heard voices inside.
I didn’t recognize them, but one sounded older—maybe his dad.
It wasn’t quite an argument, but it didn’t sound friendly either.
Then came a sharp slam of a door. Moments later, Paul stepped back outside, blanket in hand… and a gun tucked into his waistband.
He caught me looking and smirked. “Just in case I have to save you from another snake.”
My cheeks went hot again, thinking back to the first day we met.
Instead of taking his car, we walked. We started down his driveway and turned toward the center of town. As we strolled the oak-lined street, some of Shay’s finest matriarchs sat on their porches, waving their paper fans as we passed.
I had no doubt the town gossip would start up before we were even out of sight.
Brunch at The Marsh House—the exclusive waterfront restaurant perched just so, overlooking the entire lake—would be buzzing with whispers.
“Our sweet Paulie could have any girl he wanted…”
They’d talk about how their granddaughters would be much better suited for him. That he needed to marry a local girl. A Shay girl. Because that’s what would be “best for the town.”
I could already see the headlines posted up at the diner:
"The Yankee Snagged a Newsome."
I tried to shake the thoughts and turned my attention back to Paul. He was pointing out small landmarks as we walked.
He talked about how he’d lived in Shay his whole life, but something in his voice—almost distant—made it sound like he was telling someone else’s story, and he’d just been put there to live it out.
Or maybe that was just me, letting my own insecurities about Shay get in the way again.
The stories about Shay slowed as we made our way down to the boat ramp.
It was slippery—he took my hand to steady me as I stepped carefully along the edge.
Just past where the fishermen usually launched their boats, there was a small sandy patch set into a curve of the shore.
A few trees offered soft shade, and the late-afternoon sun filtered through the leaves, painting patterns on the sand.
Paul laid the blanket down, smoothing it once before sitting, then looked up at me. He patted the spot beside him, that same easy smile inviting me in all over again.
I could feel the blood rushing to my face—maybe he’d mistake the redness for a bit of sunburn and not realize I was blushing.
It was quiet for a moment—not awkward, just still. Like we were both taking it in, both realizing this was going to be more than just an afternoon walk to the lake.
The silence didn’t last long.
Paul started laughing and pointed toward the boat ramp. “Watch this guy,” he said.
I followed his gaze and saw a man struggling—really struggling—to back his boat into the water. It took the better part of twenty minutes before he finally figured it out. We laughed, settling into that easy rhythm only people-watching can bring.
After a while, we lay back on the blanket, staring up at the sky, pointing out clouds that looked like animals, faces, and completely unidentifiable shapes. I told him my mom and I used to do this back in Maryland when I was little.
I didn’t want to spend too much time talking about myself, but Paul wanted to know more. He rolled onto his side to face me as I talked.
I couldn’t help but go on about the things I missed—little pieces of “home” that still tugged at me.
I worried I was rambling, that he’d start tuning me out, but when I looked over, his face was completely focused, like he was soaking in every detail.
I knew it had to be getting late, so I reluctantly told him we should start heading back. He agreed.
We got to our feet, and Paul grabbed the blanket. He shook it clean and folded it up neatly. As we made our way back up the boat ramp, his hand pressed gently against the small of my back—just enough to steady me.
It made my stomach flip in the best way.
Back at his house, he dropped the blanket on the steps and quickly made his way to the passenger side door. As he opened it, he reached for my hand to help me in. This time, I didn’t bother hiding my smile. I wanted him to see exactly what he was doing to me.
When he walked around the front of the car, I caught a glimpse of his face. There was a hint of pink on his cheeks. Maybe it was the sun.
Or maybe he was feeling the same thing I was.
He slid into the driver’s seat and began backing down the driveway. I was still caught in the moment when I saw him.
Mr. Newsome.
He was standing in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes locked on us as we pulled away. I tried to smile, but I couldn’t tell if he even noticed. His expression didn’t change—blank, unreadable. It left me with a strange feeling I couldn’t quite name.
I don’t know if Paul saw him. If he did, he didn’t let on.
Maybe it was nothing, because the mood shifted as soon as we hit the road. We didn’t say much. Honestly, we didn’t need to. Being with Paul felt easy. Familiar in a way that somehow still felt new.
He turned on the radio and kept the volume low. After a few minutes, he shifted slightly in his seat, and his hand brushed against mine where it rested on the console. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to feel intentional.
I moved my hand closer. Not quite touching, but close enough to feel the heat between us.
When I glanced over, I caught the curve of his lips pulling into a slow grin. I turned toward the window, trying—and failing—to hide the smile I couldn’t hold back.
The trees blurred past us, but everything about that moment felt still. The wind tangled in our hair, the music played low, and the tension between us only grew louder.