Chapter 20 Nellie Today #4
Though the fog is so low that the details are hard to make out, a cluster of tiny prefab houses line a grassy cliff above a wide sandy beach and churning gray ocean. A sign—so distant I can hardly decipher the words—announces this is the Point Reyes Seashore.
Sign. Me. Up.
The cottages themselves sit on paving stones the color of overcast days, protected by raw wooden fencing at the cliff’s edge. But beyond that, the view gets wild. Windblown cypress trees are frozen as if petrified like supersized bonsais with splintered trunks.
Looking at them is like seeing the Earth change in real time.
“I wonder if geology is my missed calling,” I say out loud, as Noah cuts the engine.
“I’m pretty sure that requires math,” he says, sliding a dubious look my way.
“What are you trying to say?”
“That you’re terrible at math.”
“Why?” I say, propping a hand on my hip. “Because I’m a woman?”
“No. Because you—specifically—are terrible at math.”
I want to tell him once again that he doesn’t know me.
I want to not feel comfort at the fact that he does.
I want to announce that since he last saw me, eking by in pre-calculus thanks only to Cara’s help, I have taken up coding and stock brokering and volunteering for NASA in my spare time. Those are math things, right?
But alas. It’s only a matter of time until he sees me use the calculator on my phone just to figure out a tip.
“Ready?” he asks me, as we prepare to run toward a shop marked GENERAL STORE—the only building that looks open.
There’s a restaurant that is clearly shuttered currently, an office that—probably thanks to the evening hour—is dark and closed for the day.
I am praying that not only is there a room, but that there’s someone there to give us a key—if only because the art director in me needs to see the decor in these adorable houses.
“Ready!” I say with more bravado than is real.
“Go!” he says, and we both shove open our doors and bust out into the storm. It’s raining so hard that I almost lose my footing trying to slam my door shut. Seeing me struggle, Noah jogs around the car and helps me.
Then, he grabs my hand.
Together, we run like the wind through the rain. But it’s all for naught. Because when we jog up the stairs to the covered porch and arrive on the threshold of the shop, breathless and huffing, we are soaked like we just went swimming fully clothed.
“It’s like we jumped in a pool,” I say, gazing down at my sopping-wet clothing.
“Or a hot tub,” he says.
And my face gets hot. I am suddenly conscious that we’re still holding hands—and the dampness is doing nothing to tamp down the wattage searing up my arm. But I’m afraid to let go, because, honestly, I don’t want to. And also won’t that make it more of a thing?
“Haha,” I say. “Maybe don’t humiliate a lady in a hot tub and then tease her for it.”
“Sorry, sorry,” he says. Then he squeezes my hand, sending another wave of something torrid through me.
I play my shudder off as chills. Then, under the pretext of opening the door, I let his hand go—and immediately miss it.
Inside, once I get over the fact that we are literally dripping water all over the wood floor, I look around and realize we have landed in my happy place.
This store is part gourmet market, part home decor boutique, and part surf shop.
And those are all the things I love.
One side of the space is stocked to the gills with local snacks like garden veggies with citrus hummus, sandwiches, pasta salads and, of course, more wines, beers, ciders, and cheeses.
There are artisan chips aplenty, with West Coast flavors like jalapeno and chili lime, and a bakery counter with what smells like outstanding coffee.
There are fresh donuts and signs for some kind of straight-from-the-cow soft serve. Moo.
On the other side of the store—beyond a dishware array and Turkish kitchen towels that I vow to peruse at length later when I’m not straight from a dunk tank—is everything you might need for a beach vacation. And I mean everything.
Big-ticket items like wetsuits and bathing suits; small-ticket items like playing cards and old-school bulk candy. There are neon woven beach blankets that need to be mine.
I am ready to pounce. But before I can step toward it all, a young woman—in a hoodie and board shorts—steps out from the back, sees us, and gasps.
“Oh, no!” she says. “You’re all wet.”
“Are we?” deadpans Noah. He winks at her and that’s all it takes.
She giggles. And it’s annoying to me that he is so adorable that even twenty-five-year-olds are still in his demo.
“One second,” she says, flustered. “Don’t move.”
“I don’t think I could if I wanted to.”
She reappears minutes later with plush towels, and it’s a bit like trying to staunch a gunshot wound with a miniature Band-Aid. But at least we can wander around now without creating puddles.
I let Noah handle the room situation with her at the counter while I examine all the adorable things, and I am smelling a candle scented like “moonbeams” when he appears beside me again. It’s like I can sense him there before I see him—like I have Noah radar.
“There’s space,” he says.
“Oh, good,” I breathe, though my pulse jumps. I regard him warily. “How much space?”
“It’s one suite, but it has two bedrooms.”
One suite. Two bedrooms. I can handle that! After all, that’s our thing.
I try not to think about how truly tiny the tiny houses appeared.
The restaurant is indeed closed, so Emmy, the woman who is working the shop, takes us over to a tucked-away fridge and freezer area stocked with all sorts of ingredients for all sorts of dinners.
“The houses have full kitchens,” she explains.
“Do they have full chefs?” I ask.
She looks confused. This zone is irony-free.
I turn to Noah: “I do not cook,” I say without apology.
“I don’t cook either,” he says. “Pasta?”
We buy penne and marinara sauce, some fresh veggies sourced from a nearby farmstand, and several Charleston Chews—which feature prominently in my summer camp memories.
I grab two toothbrushes and toothpaste, and we’re good to go.
Except we are drenched. Which feels like the perfect excuse to buy some replacement clothes and, within moments of stepping into our house for the night, I run into the bathroom and change into dry sweatpants, a cozy T-shirt, and socks that are fluffy like a Pomeranian.
They are buttery soft, and I have never been happier.
The look inside the homes is mid-century with modern touches.
The cottages themselves are gray and slatted, with giant picture windows and cream-colored Adirondack chairs parked out front, facing the sea.
Inside, atop bleached wood floors that I am deeply hoping I didn’t ruin with my soggy sandals, there is a cushy couch in front of a gas fireplace, a granite kitchen island, and a vintage 1950s-style mustard-yellow fridge and matching turquoise microwave.
In the back I find a single bathroom (gulp) and two bedrooms, as promised—a primary and, just above up a short staircase, a lofted option with a low ceiling, probably designed with kids in mind.
It all feels thoughtful but unfussy. Like these are rooms that families are supposed to use but also love.
I immediately fall for this place, hard.
I can’t believe how much they’ve fit into this tight space without it feeling cluttered.
Which is why, instead of ruminating about which bedroom I should take, I flop on the couch, flip on the fireplace, and am already snuggled beneath a fleece throw when Noah emerges from the bathroom in his matching outfit.
He should look silly, right? Or at least basic in a random tee and sweats. After all, we are twinning. Instead, he looks top notch. Like he has just toweled off after a refreshing swim.
His hair is still damp and is just long enough to be ruffled.
He is lean, not bulky. Not overly worked out.
But the T-shirt is maybe the slightest bit snug across his chest, which only accentuates his cut arms. And when he reaches up to run the towel over his hair and the stubble on his jaw one last time, his shirt rises to reveal a sliver of firm abs and twin indentations leading down to… places I shouldn’t be thinking about.
I’m thrown back in time to our first real conversation in Ben’s parents’ kitchen again. When he reached for a cereal bowl, and I was distracted by a similar sight.
Only this time it’s way worse. Because they didn’t sell underwear at the store—or at least we didn’t think to look. So, I am painfully aware that there is nothing under his sweats.
I am also commando. And braless.
I pull the blanket up higher.
“So,” I say to stop my brain from spinning and my body from overheating. “Hungry?”
“Starving,” he says. “Which is weird since I feel like I just ate all the goat cheese in Sonoma County a couple of minutes ago.”
I scrunch my nose. “True. But, if you think about it, we haven’t had an actual meal all day.”
“True.”
Noah volunteers to play chef and, as he puts a pot of water on the stove to boil, I busy myself with my phone, entering the Wi-Fi password. I haven’t had legit service all day, so I am suddenly flooded—mostly with texts from Cara.
Cara
How’s it going?
Did you get the oysters?
Did you find the place okay?
I just looked at the radar and I think there’s a storm coming.
There’s definitely a storm coming!
Shit. Are you guys okay? Have you drowned? Killed each other? Did I send you both to your deaths?
Ben says it wouldn’t be my fault. But I think he’s just trying to make me feel better. It’s not working.
Please let me know as soon as you get this.
(It’s not because I’m worried about the oysters—although I am a little bit worried about the oysters.)
Sorry—I know I’m freaking out. I haven’t seen my kids in a few days and I think maybe you’re getting the full force of my mama bear energy.
But still. Please text back. Like SOON.
“I think Cara is worried about us.”