28. Twenty-eight
Ethan is waiting on the sidewalk in front of the inn, looking in a way I can only describe as hot as hell. He’s in blue jeans and a flannel shirt rolled up on his forearms. Forearms that are apparently my kryptonite because all I can think about is what they would feel like if I reached out and touched one.
His eyes drop from my face to my body in a way that makes me feel like he’s stripped me naked and pinned me to the wall.
I disregard how my body reacts, as if it would very much like if that’s what he would do and roll my eyes as heat swallows my head. “Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?” he says innocently.
“Like you’re trying to give me a stroke with those ridiculous eyes of yours.” I fan myself with my hand. “I’m not one of your toys, Ethan. I’m here because you and Marin pressured me. This isn’t going anywhere.”
“We’ll see about that,” he says, holding out his elbow with a grin.
I eye it like it’s a snake slithering around a forbidden fruit, hesitating.
“I won’t bite. This is a date, remember?”
He takes a step closer to me, his woodsy scent making my brain misfire. “I wouldn’t put it past you to bite on your dates.” I reluctantly slip my arm through his and ignore how it fits like the clicking of two puzzle pieces that interlock perfectly.
“So where are we going?” I ask as we stroll down the street.
The sun hasn’t quite set, but it’s low in the sky, and a cool breeze blows my hair.
“It’s a surprise.” He pulls me closer as we pass people walking in the opposite direction, and my breath catches.
He notices. “Are you nervous?”
“Yes.” I laugh at my own honesty. “I know this isn’t a date date, but I haven’t done anything like this in a long time. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m awkward and not very…”
My voice trails off.
“You are very,” he says, looking at me.
I laugh a disbelieving snort. “You’re relentless.” I say, rolling my eyes once again and looking away.
When we stop, it’s at a park at the edge of the small downtown in front of a wooden sign that sticks in the ground, Bethel Night Market.
Vendors sit at tables under lamps with strands of Edison bulbs wrapped around the trees. The sound of a harmonica, followed by a woman’s raspy voice, floats in the air as people with canvas bags and strollers sip plastic cups of wine and beer.
“Is this where we’re going?” My voice is barely above a whisper as I bring a hand up to my mouth.
He grins. “The night market only happens twice a summer. I thought we could grab food and find some ingredients to create a cocktail. The restaurant is closed on Tuesdays. We’ll have the place to ourselves.” He says it so casually it’s as though he doesn’t realize how perfect this is.
I laugh. “Ethan, this is incredible.”
His response comes in the form of his hand to my back, leading me into the crowd.
We stop at every table and talk about ingredients, both with vendors and each other. I smell every herb and flower I can get my hands on while Ethan makes small talk with the farmers about recipes. We taste baked goods and cheese cubes and sip wine as we walk. We eat donuts from a local bakery and smoked fish from a local river. The folksy bluegrass music playing in the background makes it all feel like a cheesy movie—one I never want to stop watching.
Everyone looks at the man I’m with, especially the women. Not that I blame them. If my mother were here, I have no doubt she’d tell him he was a fine piece of meat and then ask to paint him nude.
“You know, if we turned this into a game where we had to drink every time a woman eye-fucked you when you walked by, we’d be drunk in less than ten minutes,” I say with a smile and sip of my wine.
He scoffs. “That’s ridiculous.”
“That’s what I’m saying,” I tease. “If only these women tried one of your cocktails.”
“Funny,” he deadpans.
Then we’re quiet as we walk, but it isn’t awkward—it’s comfortable. Familiar. Easy.
A group of kids play hide-and-seek around trees in a section of the park while couples lounge on blankets in front of the band.
“This is the first farmers market I’ve been to since before Travis died. I didn’t know how much I missed it until now,” I say while we walk. “Like this part of me has just been hiding in the shadows, waiting for someone to shine a light on it. Thank you, seriously. This is amazing.”
“I’m glad you like it,” he says, bumping his shoulder against mine.
When his hand brushes against mine, the feeling it gives me is all-consuming.
And stupid.
He’s him, I’m me.
I’ll be gone in days, and I’ll never see him again.
If I just move over an inch, I’ll avoid him altogether, but the need to feel his skin against mine is as strong as the pull of the opposite ends of a magnet.
On the third time our knuckles brush, he wraps his fingers around mine, squeezing my hand in his, and says, “Gotcha.”
I press my lips together in a poor attempt to hide the smile that shatters my face and look down at our intertwined fingers before looking up at him.
“Careful, Ethan, people might get the wrong idea.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “And what would that be?”
“That you don’t only go on dates that start at 11:30 at night.”
He laughs under his breath. “Maybe I don’t care if they think that.”
I allow myself three seconds of imagining what that means before shoving the thoughts aside.
At the last table of the market, covered in colorfully painted Maine landscapes on canvases, we stop. Every piece is filled with bright colors and bold strokes. Instead of green trees, they’ve been layered in shades of yellow and pink. They’re stunning.
The artist, Rhonda Donalds as written on the sign, is an older woman with a kind round face. She stands from her chair, smiling, and greets us.
“I love these,” I tell her as I trace the lines of one of the abnormally bright trees. “My mom’s an artist. She also favors bright colors.”
“I always say I paint the world as it ought to be. Maybe your mom would agree,” she says, dark eyes shining in the reflection of the lights.
Then, she walks me around her booth and tells me about each painting. She’s painted everything from busy Maine cities to rocky coastlines near Canada.
We stop in front of a large canvas. “This one is the Androscoggin River. Flows right through the heart of Maine. This river is as much a part of us as it is the state,” she says.
“We were here?” I turn to Ethan, and he nods.
The painting shows the scene we had floated through. Tree-covered mountains are depicted in explosive color, with a river flowing through. Hues of yellows and reds dot the water. It’s both exactly and nothing what it looks like.
“I’ll take it,” I say, surprising myself. “I want to remember my time here just exactly how you have painted it—filled with color and light and unexpected beauty.”
I run a finger along the curve of the river on the canvas.
Ethan clears his throat, but I don’t dare look at him.
It’s absurd, but I buy it anyway.
It’s way too big, and I’m leaving in two days, but part of me knows it’s as much about Ethan as it is the beauty of the painting. Like something important is happening I won’t be able to comprehend until much later.
In the twenty-four hours since I’ve been here, I’m awake. Alive.
Somehow, Ethan’s presence has started dredging up the pieces of who I used to be, who I desperately still want to be, and shoved them to the surface.
“Ready?” I step next to him with a bulging bag of ingredients and a canvas almost half as tall as I am.
He shakes his head. “You look ridiculous.”
“Shockingly, I get that a lot.” My face is fixed with a permanent smile.
He takes the painting from me, interlaces his fingers with mine, and leads me across the park to his empty restaurant.