Chapter 2 Tessa
“Eesh,” he whispered.
Tessa leaned forward, craning her neck as they passed the intersection. Police cruisers clustered, lights cutting through the humid night. A handful of people stood off to the side, silhouettes frozen in confusion and shock.
“Well,” she murmured after they passed, so grateful it wasn’t them. “Someone’s Fourth of July definitely didn’t end with sparklers and watermelon.”
“Yeah. Those aren’t the kind of fireworks you want to remember.” He sighed heavily, not for the first time in this car ride, she realized.
They drove on, the road humming beneath the tires, the night air rushing in through the open windows. Tessa rested her elbow on the door and let her fingers trail against the breeze that carried the scent of salt and smoke and celebration.
She glanced at Dusty, who was quiet and definitely deep in thought.
It wasn’t…them, was it? She didn’t think so.
Yes, they were dancing around the nature of their relationship, which was intensified by their recent decision to co-buy a beach house. They didn’t live together, but they shared a two-unit home, so they saw a lot of each other.
By a lot, she meant daily, nightly, and any chance they got. Each day, she was getting to know this man better.
He looked relaxed at first glance, posture easy, one arm resting casually near the window. But she could read him well enough now to sense something was humming beneath that calm exterior. Something heavy.
They turned off the main road and onto their street, a narrow strip running parallel to the beach. The houses here were a mix of Old Florida charm and newer renovations, some pastel bungalows, weathered rentals, and the occasional modern rebuild rising confidently above the rest.
And then there was the little fixer-upper they called home. Two homes, actually. Hers on the top floor, his below.
The beach house sat a little higher than the neighboring homes, pale against the dark, windows glowing softly. They’d had a quick closing and moved in a week ago, which was a minor miracle, considering that a few weeks before that, they’d ended their brief romantic relationship.
Tessa had made it clear that, at fifty and single for her entire life, she wasn’t in a relationship for kicks. Not anymore. Tessa Wylie was done with flings and fun—she wanted forever.
But the only love Dusty had ever known—his wife, Nicole—had died after years of illness. He’d been drained by caretaking, broken by loss, and ready for those flings and fun.
Rather than accept that, she’d done the unthinkable—at least for Tessa. She’d insisted that it be her way or the highway.
He’d taken the highway…and then made a U-Turn.
She smiled faintly at the memory of their not so coincidental meeting to see this house—thanks to Lorna, their mutual real estate agent. She’d brought them back together in an empty living room, keys heavy in their palms, the sound of the Gulf drifting faintly through open windows.
The beach-facing house they’d both dreamed about individually was available—but only if they pooled their resources and agreed to share the cost. That decision had been kind of a no-brainer. But them? As a couple? Wanting different things?
She could still hear his voice, low and sincere, as he’d taken her hand.
I’m going to say it again, Tessa. I’ve missed you.
Her throat tightened as the memory unfolded.
I can’t stop thinking about you. I wake up wondering what you’re doing. I want to kick myself for being a fool—which is how I think we’d both feel if we don’t at least…try.
She wasn’t sure if he meant them or the house, and when she’d asked, he’d smiled, not dodging the question, but not forcing an answer either.
The moment had shifted everything. They agreed to buy the house, each take an apartment, and see what happened.
Something was definitely happening between them.
They shared evenings and meals, spent late nights on the rooftop, sipping pinot grigio, looking at the stars, and listening to the surf.
They continued to learn about each other, kissed each other goodnight, and went to sleep in their respective beds.
Every morning, Tessa woke up with him on her mind and knew he did the same. No, she didn’t think their relationship was what had Dusty so quiet tonight.
“Before the party, Vivien and I read a diary entry from this very day in 1993,” she told him, partly to fill the silence, partly because some of the entry was still echoing in her head. “Wow.”
Dusty let out a low groan. “Oh, no. Please tell me my name didn’t come up.”
She laughed. “It absolutely did.”
He shot her a look, bracing. “What kind of idiot did I make of myself this time?”
“Relax. It wasn’t a horror story.” She smiled. “Actually, it was kind of sweet.”
“That’s not usually how stories about eighteen-year-old Dustin Mathers start.”
“Well, apparently, you surprised everyone.” She leaned back against the seat. “Crista had a meltdown and you soothed her.”
“The meltdown I can believe. My soothing? Not so much.”
“You were a therapist even way back then,” she said.
“Really? ’Cause I thought I was a troubled mess who was usually drunk and secretly pining after the blonde in very short shorts.”
She snorted. “They weren’t that short, but I do remember thinking you were a hero.”
He stared straight ahead for a moment, then shook his head slowly. “Huh.” Then he threw her a look. “I’ll take that as a win.”
Even as he smiled, she felt that subtle strain again. The way his gaze drifted, his expression tightening. The fact that he dropped the subject of her short shorts.
The car rolled into the driveway, tires crunching over shell-strewn gravel. Dusty cut the engine, and the sudden silence settled over them, thick and intimate.
They sat there for a beat longer than necessary.
Tessa reached for the door handle, then hesitated. “You okay?” she asked gently.
“Yeah.” The answer was too quick, and he looked like he realized that. “Just tired. Long week. Saw a lot of patients.”
That made sense. Dusty’s work as a therapist specializing in grief counseling wasn’t easily left in his home office. And she’d seen lots of cars in the driveway spot they reserved for his clients, so it had been a busy week up to the holiday.
“More work tomorrow?” she asked.
“Maybe. I have one patient…” His voice faded as they each got out of the truck, the sound of the surf faint but constant.
As they reached his first-floor front door, he sighed.
“I don’t know if I’m dreading seeing this patient or really looking forward to telling her something.
” He adjusted the dark-rimmed glasses that she’d grown to adore because they made him look smart and professorial, like her father had been. “It’s weighing on me.”
So it was work. He really couldn’t talk about his patients for confidentiality reasons, but she could practically taste his need to unburden himself.
“How about a glass of wine on the roof?” she suggested.
He threw her a wry smile. “So I can talk about what I can’t talk about?”
“Maybe you can speak in hypotheticals,” she said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “And I’ll pretend I’m asleep so you’re not breaking any rules.”
He studied her, something vulnerable flickering in his eyes. Then he nodded toward the stairs. “Yes, please. But don’t pretend to be asleep.”
“I’ll go in through your place,” she said, following him inside, “and change into something less party-ish and more like pajamas.”
There was an outside entrance up to her second-floor apartment, but because the house had once been a single-family dwelling, there were also stairs inside his unit. They used that convenient connection so frequently, it made her wonder if in some ways they were living together.
Inside, his living room was cool and quiet, the scent of fresh paint and ocean air lingering in the open spaces. The whole house was full of potential that he would soon draw out with the handyman skills he’d used to renovate the home where he and his wife had lived before her death.
Here, the living area stretched out before them, flowing into a modest kitchen, everything functional but dated.
Beyond the French doors, the small deck and plunge pool glimmered in the moonlight. She used his pool as often as he used her rooftop, and that worked for both of them.
“Meet you on the roof,” she said, heading up to her apartment.
“I’ll bring the wine,” he said. “You bring the short shorts.”
“Shut up.” But she was smiling as she went upstairs.
The unobstructed Gulf view from the roof, even at midnight, was a glorious thing to behold. And tonight, there was the occasional flash of a diehard celebrator with one last screaming crackler to make the blue-on-black horizon and moonlit sky even more enchanting.
Tessa hadn’t done much in the way of decorating her apartment yet, but she’d put in a lot of effort up here. The day after they moved in, she’d sprung for comfy chaises with a cocktail table, and an umbrella-topped dining set where she and Dusty shared breakfasts, lunches, and dinners together.
They’d hung some vineyard lights, which cast a golden glow over the little slice of paradise. Up here, the world seemed far away, with the view and the stars and the sky to envelop them like a privacy bubble.
She hoped that vibe helped him unload what was on his mind tonight.
He poured wine into two stemless glasses, and they toasted lightly before settling on their chaises. But Dusty didn’t lean back. He took a long drink, staring out at the horizon, silent while Tessa sipped and set her glass on the table.
She stretched out her legs, flicking the bottoms of her sleep pants, and crossing her bare feet.
“Okay,” she said quietly. “Pretend I’m asleep and you’re dictating patient notes.”
He gave a soft scoff.
“Tell me as much as you can,” she urged. “At least enough to get this burden off your heart.”
He turned to her, his eyes narrowing behind his glasses. “How are you so perceptive?”
“One of my million great qualities.”
“Seriously.”