Chapter Two #2
“Then you’re overdue,” Dawn says, taking the margarita he offers, tipping her chin at him in that old, familiar way. Her gaze slides back to me, already scheming. “Gusty’s later?”
“I could be swayed,” I grin.
Dawn is already halfway through Jack’s cabinets, hunting for chips the way she’s done since middle school.
Our banter falls into familiar grooves, Dawn teasing Jack about squeezing limes like he’s auditioning for a commercial.
Jack firing back about her epic teenage crush on the Gusty’s bartender and how she’d ask him for extra lime slices just for an excuse to talk to him.
And me rolling my eyes and laughing at them both.
Jack leans a little closer whenever I speak, the way he always did, and I don’t miss the way Dawn clocks it, her brows twitching.
Just before ten, we climb into Jack’s golf cart, the wind dismantling my hair as we roll toward the north end of the island.
Gusty’s is perched on the hill above the bay.
It’s beloved for its sand dance floor and the shots served in a shot ski.
Jack parks with one hand stretched on the back of my seat just like he used to.
He probably doesn’t mean anything by it, but I notice.
We’re greeted by locals, seasonal regulars, and tourists who look like they’ve just claimed their new favorite bar.
Dawn disappears to say hello to someone by the bar, while Jack leads me to a table on the patio that catches the breeze off the water.
He sets a Sands beer in front of me and raises his own in a salute.
“To summer,” he says.
I smile and tap my bottle against his. “Summer never disappoints.”
The words leave my mouth and there’s a brief pause, so quick anyone else would miss it. Jack takes a sip of his beer, gaze drifting toward the water before returning to me.
Summer is easy for us. It always has been.
Fall is where things get complicated. I remember one October afternoon, me calling from my old studio in Charleston, paint still drying on my hands, him answering from a yellow cab in New York, horns blaring behind him.
I was trying to tell him about a new piece, and he was checking the time before another meeting.
That was always how it went. Here on Harbour Island, we find each other. Out there, we lose each other.
I glance over my shoulder as I take a sip, and there he is. Notebook Guy.
He’s standing near the pool table, talking to someone but not really watching them. His eyes are on me. And he doesn’t look away. My pulse jumps, and I look down, pretending to smooth my dress. When I glance back, he’s still watching.
Dawn slides back into her seat. “One of the resort owners just confirmed what I’ve been saying. This is going to be Harbour Island’s busiest summer ever.”
Jack leans back. “Should be good for sales at your shop, then.”
Dawn nods with a grin, then turns to me. “You’re around all season, right Luce?”
“Yeah,” I say, brushing a piece of hair from my face. “Through August. I had my painting supplies shipped ahead. I’m hoping they’ll show up on the boat next week.”
“What are you working on?” Dawn asks.
I shake my head. “Nothing. Yet. But I’m thinking about starting on an island-inspired collection…I’m not sure.”
Dawn tilts her head. “Something wild and beachy. You haven’t done that in a long time.”
“Maybe,” I reply, glancing over at the group of girls dancing on the sand.
Jack shifts his beer bottle from one hand to the other. “I’ll be here most of the summer, too. Maybe a couple quick trips back for work if I have to.”
“God, please tell me you’re not going to ghost us again like last year,” Dawn says, leveling a finger at him.
“I was working in London,” he protests.
Dawn narrows her eyes.
“I’m here now,” he insists earnestly, looking over at me.
Dawn lets it slide, steering the conversation to a story about a jewelry shipment gone wrong at her boutique. I nod along, but I’m immediately frustrated by his London comment. Of course he missed being in his favorite place because of work.
My fingers fuss with the label on my beer.
Restless. Distracted. And almost every time I glance toward Notebook Guy, five times now (who’s counting), I catch him glancing back, jolts of eye contact, each one a little sharper than the last. He doesn’t stare, doesn’t leer.
Just watches, like he’s curious. Maybe a little amused.
Jack waves a hand in front of me. “Earth to Lucy.”
I blink hard, heat rising to my cheeks. “Sorry. Think the day’s catching up to me.” I push my chair back, suddenly needing distance. “I’m gonna grab some water.”
At the bar, I order three bottles, palms pressed flat against the counter like it’ll ground me.
By the time I return to our table, I’ve mostly pulled myself together.
Notebook Guy and his friends are finishing up, laughter tapering as they stack their cues.
My pulse ticks faster with every step they take toward the door.
I brace for something, a word, a nod, anything.
But he doesn’t stop. The air shifts as he passes, and just before he’s gone, his eyes find mine with one last look and a subtle nod.