29. Blaze
Blaze
I stare at the receiver of the phone in the boathouse for a long minute after I get cut off from Shawn, then hang up and try to breathe through the swirling in my stomach. His flying out of the same airport as my parents means nothing. Overall, flying in small aircraft is safe.
But things happen.
Not that it means anything is going to happen to Shawn.
I’m sure he’ll arrive in Connecticut perfectly fine.
What’s more concerning is the fact that he’s gone at all.
I’ve been looking forward to seeing him all day.
It was torture to leave him this morning after the things we shared last night.
We haven’t known each other very long, but all of a sudden, he’s my favorite person after Brooke.
He’s right up there with Misty, in fact, in my estimation.
But I knew this was going to happen, didn’t I? He wasn’t meant to stay forever, just like every other guest. They come, they play in the fresh air, they get a new lease on life, and they go home renewed and better than ever.
Shawn’s exactly the same.
It’s not like I’d move to Connecticut to be with him or anything.
My entire life is here. But he did sort of imply he’d be open to moving here permanently.
Didn’t he? I’m pretty sure that’s what he said.
And even though I didn’t want to get my hopes up, I totally, one hundred percent got my hopes up. Shit.
So he’s gone, and I’m here, and I’m confused because clearly my heart is not on the same page as my head.
But there’s nothing I can do about that now.
All I can do is pretend I’m not worried sick about him flying and focus on my own life, the one I thought I had a handle on before Shawn Camden walked into it.
I wish I hadn’t left Misty to snooze at home today—I could use her for emotional support right about now.
I take care of some paperwork, make a repair to one of the canoe paddles, and detangle a knot in the badminton net. Bonfire night is coming up, so I check on the woodpile. I absolutely do not think about how I’d hoped Shawn would be at my side for the annual tradition.
I’m about to head home and torture myself by turning on the Laurels game when I cross paths with Nolan in the parking lot.
“You heading out?” It’s dinnertime; usually, he’d be at the helm in the kitchen.
“Light load tonight, so May’s handling it. I thought I’d go into town for a beer.”
“Want company?” I ask before I remember that I kind of think the guy’s an asshole.
He looks surprised, and maybe I haven’t been as friendly toward him as I should have been. “Sure. If you want.”
“I’ll drive.” He gets in the cab of my truck wordlessly. Every mile that passes without either of us saying anything makes me regret my impulsive decision to invite myself along even more.
“The lunch delivery went over well today,” Nolan finally says. “Made those guys’ day.”
I’d almost forgotten. Ordering treats for the crew was something I’d been meaning to do. The timing worked out since Shawn left my house this morning empty-handed. We’d both had a hard time getting out of bed. Tonight I’ll be sleeping alone. “Thanks for doing that.”
“I was going to say your boy looks good out there, but then I heard he left in a hurry.”
“News travels fast.”
“I thought he was staying for another couple of weeks.”
“Me too.”
I can feel the pity from across the cab. “Ah. Sorry.”
I guess I should give Nolan props for uncharacteristic sensitivity. “It’s not like that. Something came up. He’ll be back.”
“Okay,” he says as if he doesn’t believe me any more than I do.
“Hey, can I ask you something?” I say as we near Laketon.
“You just did.”
I grit my teeth. “You moved here from…wherever you moved from.” I don’t actually know that much about him, except that he’s a genius in the kitchen. “Was it—I mean, did you regret it?”
I expect him to say something like he’s regretting it at the moment, but he doesn’t take the opening.
“I moved from Boston. It was different there—being a chef was so political. Here, I can just do what I love, which is cook great food. I don’t have to worry about any of the bullshit. So, no, I don’t regret it.”
“Not much social life,” I say, blatantly fishing.
“Not a priority for me,” he says with so much affected boredom I know he’s lying.
“It wasn’t for me either for a long time,” I say, chewing the inside of my cheek. “Pizza place too low class for you?”
Nolan squints and says, “They have decent crust.”
“Well, then.” I slide into a parking spot. It’s six on a Friday and it’s packed, but we’re lucky we only have to wait a few minutes for a table. We agree to split a loaded pizza, and Nolan orders a pitcher of local pale ale.
“What?” he says when I make a questioning sound. “I’m not on duty.”
“Good thing I’m driving,” I say. My phone buzzes and I glance at it quickly, then more carefully.
It’s a text from Shawn. I’ve never gotten a text from him before.
It feels like a strange sort of relationship milestone.
All it says is, “Landed in Hartford.” And I can take a full breath for the first time since I hung up the phone in my office.
“Shawn made it to Hartford.”
Nolan grunts in reply.
“Do you have an issue with him?”
“No. I just think—”
“What?”
The beer arrives, and he pours himself a glass to the brim, then drinks down half of it. “I think,” he says again, “you should be careful getting involved with a guest. But it’s your life.”
I’m shocked he has an opinion about this at all. “Yeah, it is.” I take a sip of my own smaller pour. “It’s not like I make a habit out of it,” I say, feeling an odd need to defend myself. I’ve been at the retreat for years longer than Nolan. Maybe he thinks I pick someone up every other season.
“While you’re taking care of the guests, who’s taking care of you?” Nolan asks. His glass is empty, and the beer must have gone to his head because he’s never said anything like that to me before.
I don’t know what to say. I’d argue that Brooke does, but she’s got her own life now. Marika does, but she’s not actually my mom. My few friends—I’m the papa bear of the group.
Shawn takes care of me, but if he doesn’t come back—
“I’m okay,” I insist.
“Sure you are.”
The pizza comes, and I take a bite, then talk with my mouth full. “You know, you’re not as much of an asshole as I thought you were.”
“Yes, I am,” he says without missing a beat.
“Well, you’re the nicest asshole I know.”
To that, he lifts his slice and says, “Cheers.”