Chapter Eighteen
WHEN I SAW THE STORM ROLLING IN YESTERDAY, I KNEW IT WAS the perfect excuse to see her again. Once I confirmed Allie and Drew were down for game night, I texted the group and waited like an idiot until Dinah replied that she and Lucy were “coming in hot off the beach.”
This summer has been the one good thing in the longest two years of my life.
Just being near Lucy again. Even that feels like more than I deserve.
I’ve been keeping myself on the tightest leash possible.
No showing up at her door with coffee, no late-night check-ins.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to shove my hands in my pockets to keep from reaching for her.
And the irony isn’t lost on me that for a guy trying so hard to give her space, I somehow keep ending up in her yard with a toolbox.
I’ve fixed the beach gate, pressure washed Milly’s front porch, unclogged her sink, filled the Jolly with gas, put air in the tires, weeded the front yard.
She doesn’t need the help, but doing something, anything, makes me feel like I still get to show up for Lucy, even from a distance.
When she told me she needed space, I should’ve dropped everything and flown to Charleston. Screw the meeting, screw the boss. Even in the moment, I knew I was blowing it.
So this summer, I’m doing it right. Or trying to.
And yeah, if I’m honest, this would all be simpler if Noah wasn’t in the picture. He seems like a solid guy, the kind I’d watch a game with under any other circumstances. Which somehow makes it worse, because I understand exactly why she likes him.
I know I can’t undo the moment I didn’t show up for her.
I wasn’t going to try for a second chance, because I know I don’t deserve it.
I just wanted to show up for Lucy in small, steady ways.
But now that she’s back in my life, I’m going to fight for her.
I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure she never has to doubt me again.
By seven-thirty a.m., I’m on the beach before everyone else, setting up bins and sorting gloves for the annual cleanup.
My parents are on babysitting duty, so the reigns fell to me.
The sun’s already bright, the breeze sharp with salt, and every time I bend down the sand shifts under my feet.
It should keep me busy. Distracted. Focused.
It doesn’t.
Lucy arrives with Dawn and Sloane, all morning sunshine and bare legs and that faded blue T-shirt that she stole from me years ago. She tucks her hair behind her ears, and somehow that simple movement knocks the wind out of my lungs. It’s unfair how effortless she is just standing there.
“All right, where do we put this?” Thomas calls, holding up a tangled chunk of rope.
“The green bin,” I say, pointing.
Before I can take even two steps toward Lucy, Allie waves me over to help untangle a net. Then Dawn needs more bags. Then Dinah asks where to dump a broken crate. A volunteer loses a glove. Someone else needs scissors. Another needs zip ties.
Every damn person on this beach needs something from me, except the one person I want to walk toward.
I catch snippets of her laughter drifting down the beach. Soft and real. It hits me straight in the chest.
Finally, after being yanked in twelve directions, I get a clear path. She’s fifteen feet away, bent over tying a trash bag, sunlight catching the loose wisps of hair around her face. She looks happy. Light. Untouchable.
Lucy glances over and smiles at me, her face softening as I smile back and take a step toward her. But then she straightens, pauses, and pulls out her phone. Her forehead furrows as she looks at her screen.
She types something fast, thumbs moving with certainty, then stares down at the screen, waiting. My stomach drops.
I force myself to look away and pull out my phone, pretending I have something to do besides fall apart in the middle of a beach cleanup.
Passcode: 1118. Her birthday. I should change it, but I never will.
By the time I look back up, Lucy is walking in the opposite direction with the others, phone still in hand, moving away from me like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
Two teenagers step in front of me, looking like they’ve been dragged here under protest. “Uh, where does this go?” one asks, dangling a wad of fishing line.
I point vaguely toward a bin without really seeing it.
She’s walking away. And I’m standing here holding a trash bag like an idiot who already knows how this ends.
But I can’t lose her again.