18. Emory
EMORY
The doughnuts are done. The glaze is setting in glossy silence.
Mrs. Kravitz is perched at the table by the window, narrating the moral decline of the new couple renting the old Barnwell house. “… clearly not married because no married couple keeps up that level of stamina on a weeknight.”
I’m half listening. Half scrolling.
A headline stops my thumb midair.
Meteor shower peaks tonight. Best visibility after midnight.
Midnight. The lighthouse.
The noise of Mrs. Kravitz and Granny fades. Or maybe my brain just leaves my body for a second.
Years ago, Jake and I snuck out after midnight and climbed the spiral steps in sock feet because shoes echoed.
We lay on our backs at the top, shoulders touching, staring at streaks of light split the sky open.
He told me if you watched one long enough, you could wish on it twice.
We pinky promised we’d forever watch meteor showers together.
We pinky promised a lot of things at sixteen. Forever was a casual word back then.
“Emory.” Granny waves a powdered hand in front of my face. “How’s zoo-zoo land this time of year?”
“I’m not ignoring you,” I say, sliding my phone into my apron pocket. “I’m just not listening to you.”
Mrs. Kravitz narrows her eyes. “What are you planning?”
“Nothing,” I say quickly.
Everything.
I untie my apron and grab my bkr.
“Where’re you going?” Granny asks.
“I’ll be back.”
I nearly miss the door handle at Tall Tales because apparently my coordination has clocked out early.
Get ahold of yourself, Emory. It’s space rocks. Not a proposal.
The bell over the door jingles as I step inside. The whole shop looks up in unison. Mr. Humphrey peers around a bookshelf with a disapproving hmph.
Walt looks at me over his glasses. “Evening.”
“I need a card,” I blurt, skipping hello entirely.
He doesn’t blink. “Romantic, formal, casual or confrontational?”
How do you categorize inviting your best friend to climb a lighthouse at midnight and maybe change everything?
“Romantic,” I whisper.
He nods toward the nonfiction aisle. “By the window.”
Of course it is. Romance lives in natural light and judgment.
I find a thick cream card with a navy border. Simple. Serious. No cartoon penguins in tuxedos to hide behind. I stare at the blank center until my hand starts tapping the pen against it as if I’ve forgotten how writing works.
Midnight.
Top of the lighthouse.
Meteor shower.
Don’t break the pinky promise.
X, Mo
I stare at the signature. He’s the only one who calls me that. Has since we were kids. Since before I knew names could feel like something soft and specific and entirely yours.
I don’t read it again.
I seal the envelope before I can talk myself out of it.
Outside, I cut across the loop toward The Knuckle, walking fast because hesitation is my favorite sport and I’m trying desperately to retire.
As I step onto the bridge, the screen door of Jake’s boathouse slams. I lean just far enough over the railing to see him and Hank walking up the dock.
I duck back immediately.
If I see him right now, I will absolutely lose my nerve. I’ll smile too wide and say something normal like nice evening and then flee back to Holey Moley and spend the rest of my life wondering what would’ve happened if I hadn’t.
I slip inside The Knuckle and find Bethany behind the bar. “For Jake,” I say, sliding the envelope toward her.
Her eyes flick to my face, then to the envelope, then back to me. “Should I be excited or concerned?”
“Yes.” And I leave before she can ask another question.
She starts to say something anyway. I don’t stick around to hear it.
The hours between sunset and midnight take forever.
I try to read. I reread the same paragraph five times and absorb none of it. I lie down, sit back up, check my phone, don’t check my phone. I make coffee I don’t want and drink half of it standing at the window, watching The Knuckle like some kind of stalker lunatic.
By eleven thirty, I give up pretending I’m calm and start hauling supplies.
The lighthouse sits on its rock outcropping at the edge of the jetty.
The path is rougher than it used to be, parts of it washed away after a hurricane.
I make my way across carefully in the dark, two totes over one shoulder, cooler over the other, sea spray and overly enthusiastic waves doing their best to take me out.
The spiral stairs are narrower than I remember. Or maybe I’m just wider. And this climb. This climb is longer than it used to be, I’m sure of it. By step forty-two, my lungs protest, my thighs are burning, and I have to stop and catch my breath.
I briefly consider dying here and letting the town speculate. Mrs. Kravitz would absolutely tell everyone I tripped over my own longing.
I make it to the top and step into open air. The sky is ginormous from up here, stars scattered across it in every direction. The ocean crashing against the rocks below sounds different from up here.
I spread blankets, arrange pillows, set the cooler by the railing. I open a box of doughnut holes because I’m nothing if not consistent.
If this goes badly, at least I’ll have doughnut holes.
A candle in a jar is bravely holding on in the breeze. I cup my hand around it until the flame takes hold.
Then I sit.
And wait.
The quiet up here is doing me no favors.
What if he doesn’t come? What if Bethany forgot to give him the card? What if he read it and thought, We’re not sixteen anymore, Mo? What if—
Metal creaks. Footsteps.
Jake appears at the top of the stairs, not even winded. A small telescope in one hand. A blanket tucked under his arm like he planned to stay awhile.
He stops when he sees everything. The blankets. The candle.
Me.
“Mo.” Soft. Almost disbelieving.
“We’ve missed a few,” I say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere closer to hopeful. “You owe me one.”
His mouth curves, and I can see his dimple even in this dim light. “I do.”
He steps forward and lowers himself onto the blanket beside me.
The wind off the water is cooler than I expected. Without a word, he drapes his blanket over both of us, tucking it around my shoulders first before settling it over his own.
I forget how to do anything for a second.
A strand of hair blows across my mouth. He reaches for it and then hesitates—that pause he’s always had that is entirely him—then tucks it gently behind my ear. His fingers linger just long enough to make the energy shift.
We both feel it. I know we do.
A streak of white cuts across the sky.
“There,” I whisper.
“I saw it.”
“Make a wish.”
He turns toward me instead of looking up. “Already did.”
Our hands rest on the blanket between us. Inches apart. His pinky brushes mine. It could be accidental.
He doesn’t pull away. Neither do I.
I turn my hand over and lace my fingers through his. His thumb moves slowly across the back of my hand.
Another meteor streaks overhead. Then another.
“Do you remember the first time we did this?” he asks.
“I remember you tripped halfway up the stairs and blamed it on a ghost.”
“There was a ghost.”
“You screamed like there was.”
“I did not scream.”
“Jake.”
He nudges my shoulder, and I laugh, the sound softening as it fades. He’s giving me space again. He always does. He’s been giving me space for ten years.
I’m so tired of taking it.
“I want this,” I say.
The words don’t tremble. I do, a little. But not enough to run.
His jaw tightens, just once. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Mo.” His voice is careful. “I’m not rushing you.”
“I know.” The fear is still in me. It probably always will. But wanting him isn’t the mistake.
Pretending I don’t is.
I’m choosing differently this time. I lean in. The first brush of my mouth against his is so soft, it’s barely there.
He goes still. Completely still. For one awful moment, I think I’ve misread everything. Then his hand slides into my hair. His thumb presses lightly at the base of my neck, and that one small touch lands everywhere.
He kisses me back.
Slowly, still giving me room to change my mind.
I don’t.
It somehow makes me want him more. I grab a fistful of his shirt and pull him closer. His breath catches, and that sound—small, rough, completely Jake—nearly does me in. His mouth shifts against mine, deeper now, and I feel it everywhere.
Another meteor streaks across the sky above us, then another.
I’m kissing Jake Wheeler on the top of a lighthouse under a falling sky, and the wildest part is how much more I want.
His forehead comes to rest against mine. We stay like that, close, breathing the same air, the candle flickering beside us.
“You’re here,” he says.
“I’m here.”
“Don’t disappear on me,” he says quietly.
I lace my fingers through his again and squeeze. “I’m not planning to.”
This isn’t sixteen-year-old us making a pinky promise because forever sounded romantic.
This feels different. Terrifyingly adult. And somehow better.
Like we didn’t start something new.
We found the place we stopped.
Above us, the sky keeps showing off. Light after light after light.
He doesn’t let go.
And this time—
Neither do I.