Chapter 11
Marina
It’s a good thing those people pulled the boat off Gil and me. If they hadn’t, I think I’d still be kissing him—
Not that we exactly stopped. Even out of the water, his body was slick and cool, like the spring water itself. I ached to dive back in, figuratively and literally.
Now, however, I’m back in my cabin, and I’m assuming Gil is back in his.
My phone is shockingly still functional. I have the Otter Box Grams got me for Christmas to thank for that. But my journal—my poor, sweet journal! The entire book is waterlogged. I’ve only just finished hanging each page to dry with twine and clothespins after making an emergency trip to the store.
Luckily, though the pages are smudged and crinkled, they survived. With a little work, I think I can re-bind them into the original notebook.
Gil said he had an errand to run but would be back by sunset—which is exactly when he’ll meet me here. We’ll take another stroll and explore more of Camp Mangrove. It doesn’t even matter what we do; I just like being with him.
This is crazy—too much, too soon, too good. Still, I rifle through my suitcase, trying to find something a little more impressive than the cotton joggers and loose, long-sleeved tops I brought to protect me from the sun.
When I prepared for this trip, I grossly under packed for all the changes of clothes I’d need. My memories really undersold how damp literally everything is here.
I end up in the boho sundress that’s only a little (a lot) wrinkled from being in the bottom of my suitcase.
Searching through my stuff, I decide to pair it with my mom’s old fringe vest, which over the past few years I’ve finally grown into.
I then run my fingers through my tangled hair until the strands of bubblegum hang in damp waves.
My phone buzzes, undoubtedly with another Coco and Baxter update. I click answer, balancing it between my ear and my shoulder while I continue to work on drying out the notebook.
“Alright, so what’s going on with these critters? Is it a love triangle or are they all—”
“What are you talking about?” A sharp voice cuts me off, and my spine goes rigid.
Aunt Andrea doesn’t usually call. Texts? Sometimes, sure, if I’m folding shirts incorrectly. Or, once in a while, there’s a rare attempt to mediate things between Jenna and me, but a phone call?
“Hey,” I say sheepishly, as if she can sense from my voice that I’m states away. “Is there an emergency?”
“You tell me.” Her words are clipped and as dry as ever.
“I hear that you told Jenna you suddenly can’t take her shifts for the rest of this weekend.
To my understanding, she asked you a week ago, did she not?
Honestly, to throw a fit like this because I won’t let you freeload anymore?
Don’t even think if you get settled anywhere else you can take her piano. ”
Our piano.
“She can keep it.”
“That was never in question,” Aunt Andrea huffs. “It was a gift from her father, after all.”
To both of us.
But correcting her won’t change anything.
The day Uncle Orson rolled the giant thing in through the double doors will live in my memory forever.
We were both about four years old, not even tall enough to reach all the keys.
For the rest of the night, the two of us sat on the bench together and banged on the keys, singing and making up songs.
But beyond that day, Jenna was always more interested in the dress up box, dolls, and games I would have loved to join her in but was never welcomed.
So, while she played in her room, I played the piano. I’ve never had formal lessons, but Uncle Orson taught me the basics when he was home from touring. Over the years, Grams has teased that the grand piano is the only reason I put up with living at Aunt Andrea’s house for so long.
She’s not entirely wrong.
“I’m calling to make sure we won’t have any more drama next week, will we? I would hate to fire a family member.” Aunt Andrea’s voice is low. I can vividly picture the way she looks, her lips tight and eyes narrowed.
No, but she’d kick one out of her house.
“I’m not trying to cause any drama,” I say, wondering if it’s even worth defending myself. “Really, I’m not. See you on Tuesday.”
“On time—please,” she adds, and it’s the “please” that makes my stomach drop. “It’s really the least you could do for us, don’t you think?”
The question hangs in the air, and I can’t bear to answer. Without her, I wouldn’t have had a home all these years.
I swallow.
“Bye, Aunt Andrea,” I say, my voice coated in guilt. What would she say if she knew I was standing in the very place she banned me from returning to?
The call ends before I can find out.
I reach for a spare notebook from my suitcase and set up my keyboard before I begin to write.
I start out by journaling the way I would have as a kid: no judgment, no complexity, just feeling until the page is filled.
Soon, it’s covered with doodles and notes about Gil, drenching my new crush in old nostalgia.
“Something in the water shines like a burst of sunlight. So for now, on the shore, just sway and hold me tight,” I sing, hitting the notes, unsure of where half of the words tumble from or if they’re any good.
Still, I’d rather be writing and rusty than have an empty page, so I keep going, writing and singing until the sun has dipped below the trees, and the sound of rain mixes with each key I stroke.
“Eyes low in the water, it’s all in my head, and every time we kiss, I wake up in my bed. Oh, it was just some dreaming; oh, something strange and new, wrapped up in a blanket and wishing it was you.”
“Encore!” a voice calls.
All at once I leap from the couch, heat rising to my cheeks. Gil leans on the window frame from outside, completely unfazed by the heavy sheets of rain bouncing off him.
I rush to the door, thinking he’ll be eager to get inside where it’s dry, but he takes his time, placing a plastic bag on the counter.
I recognize the logo from one of the shops off the boardwalk. “Managed to keep the food dry,” he says in lieu of a more formal greeting. It feels like the way you’d say hello to someone you live with after a long day of work—not a second date with someone you barely know.
Gil steps into the living room, dipping his tall frame to avoid knocking into the drying notebook pages. Dim light shines through the pages, casting an off-white glow like Christmas lights around the small space. “I love what you’ve done with the place.”
“You mean your cabin wasn’t covered in old diary entries?” I gasp, holding my hand to my heart. “I thought it was a common feature.”
“I’ll have to write to management,” he says, squinting his wide-set eyes at the pages. No, no, he cannot read these!
“Please just don’t tease me, alright?” I beg, suddenly aware that my innermost child to pre-teen angst is on full display around the room.
“Don’t know if I could if I wanted to, darlin’.” He continues to scrutinize the pages. “Your handwriting might be worse than mine.” With each step across the room, he leaves puddles on the floor.
Darlin’.
He says it so effortlessly, and I’m warm and safe, wrapped up in the endearment. I want to hear it again, but I can’t exactly ask, can I?
His searching eyes find mine, and he stops in his tracks.
“Wow…” he breathes, tentatively cupping my hand in his, Gil guides me into a spin. Once we’re face to face, I fixate on the rise and fall of his Adams apple as he brazenly drinks me in.
“Ah.” I pause, looking down at myself. Despite my ink-spotted hands, I’m comparatively overdressed when compared to his tourist t-shirt and shorts.
“Too much?” I ask. “I sort of ran out of casual things to wear and I—”
“You’re perfect, remember? Don’t change a darn thing.”
My skin itches, as if rebelling against the compliment. He’s closer now, so close I wonder if he might kiss me again. His lips look so soft, water drips from his sandy blonde hair down his face in perfect droplets, and I want to—
“You should change into something dry.” I pull my gaze away from his body.
“Any suggestions?” he says with a smirk. “Because the only other outfit I have is the one I was born in, and I think it’s a little early for that.”
I gulp.
It’s not that I want to rush into things—except I do.
I really, really do.
Instead, I look at my suitcase. The only thing in there that might fit him is an oversized silk robe—that I’m pretty sure belongs to Grams. She must have snuck it into my bag.
“How do you feel about the color green?” I ask half-jokingly before retrieving it. I toss it in his direction, and it slaps against his chest before he catches it. Gil doesn’t skip a beat, heading to the bathroom to change.
When he reemerges, I realize what a colossal mistake I’ve made. Not only does green suit him, but the thin fabric clings to his damp skin.
Yes.
A thin poly-silk robe is 100% sluttier than if Gil were standing in the living room stark-naked.
Sure, his limbs are a little too long, and I can’t peg what it is about him that’s so off.
Still, that doesn’t change the way the robe pools around him like liquid.
Green is his color. I stiffen, using all my resolve not to run my fingers down the curve from his neck to his shoulder.
Instead, I make polite conversation and clear my things away enough for the two of us to have dinner.
“Sorry it’s nothing fancy,” he says, but I’ll take chips and sandwiches any day. “Was hoping the sour cream and onion were still your favorite.”
“They are.” Though I don’t remember telling him that.
Along with the simple dinner, he puts a bottle of wine on the table.
“Oh, I don’t really drink,” I say, eyeing the bottle. “If you want to that’s fine, but it’s just never been for me.”