When We Had Forever

Before

BEFORE

The day I met Michael, I hit him in the face with a pie.

It’s a breezy Sunday in June, and downtown Seagrove bustles in a way I rarely see. In the summer, our quaint seaside enclave attracts its fair share of visitors, but a typical weekend sees tourists strolling past the muted green-and-red shopfronts at leisure, coming from or going to the beach in no particular hurry.

Today, though, Seagrove hums with life. The animal shelter I’ve volunteered at for the past three summers has organized a fundraising carnival, complete with vendors hawking sweet-smelling funnel cakes and booths offering massive stuffed animals to anyone who can land a wooden ring around the neck of a bottle. Laughter mingles with the bright cries of gulls. Peaked canvas tents rub shoulders, each one crowned with a jaunty yellow flag that flutters in the breeze.

The liveliness of the day takes the edge off my guilt. It’s almost like Seagrove has arranged this send-off for me. Like in its mind, I’m not making a gigantic mistake, even if everyone else seems to think so.

And by everyone else , I mean my best friend, Kate. She strolls along beside me, turning heads in a fluttering floral sundress that showcases the stunning length of her legs. Buttery hair cascades down her back, and with her oversize sunglasses and sun-kissed skin, she looks like an incognito celebrity summering at the seaside while hoping no one will notice.

Everyone notices.

Not that Kate notices them back. She just measures out bites of funnel cake, as if tearing her guilty indulgence into tiny pieces will somehow vaporize half its calories.

“So.” She pops a tidbit into her mouth. “Am I ever going to see you again? I mean, I know we always said we’d move away after college, but I thought that meant to Seattle. I didn’t think you’d get on an airplane and ditch me completely.”

I swipe her next morsel of cake for myself. Something that’s thickening my arteries with a single bite has no right to taste so delicious, but the sugary greasiness makes me groan.

“Rude,” Kate says.

“I’m not ditching you.” I suck my fingertips clean. “And I’m not getting on an airplane for another month. You know you’re welcome to come hang out with me in Seattle ’til then. The house I’m staying in has two bedrooms.”

“That old lady’s house, you mean? The one who just died?”

I give her a significant look. “If by old lady , you mean my great-aunt Rosalie, then yes.”

Kate sniffs. “Oh, come on. She was ninety-three. That definitely counts as an old lady.”

I sigh, but know better than to expect delicacy. Kate’s about as delicate as a herd of stampeding buffalo. And to be fair, I only met my great-aunt Rosalie once. I don’t remember much more than her shouting orders at me to make fried-bologna sandwiches so she wouldn’t miss the faith healers on TV.

“It’s a house,” I say with a shrug. “And it wouldn’t cost you anything.”

Kate’s nose crinkles. “Didn’t she have like, eighty cats?”

“I’m pretty sure it was three.”

“Whatever. It probably stinks in there. Besides, what would I do while you’re busy listing her stuff on eBay all day?”

“Um...the usual Kate things? Make salads? Do absurd amounts of cardio?”

“Okay, that is halfway tempting.” She drums her fingers against her chin. “But what about when you jet off to Greece next month?”

That oh-so-casual question ripples through me, building toward either excitement or terror—I can’t tell which. “Then you could wave goodbye to me at the airport?”

“Gee.” Kate’s tone goes flat. “Wave to my best friend while she leaves me behind. Sounds awesome.”

I wince. “I told you, I won’t be in Athens forever. Just long enough to break a few hearts and get a really great tan. Then it’s back home to do real life.”

I don’t add that if I had my way, I’d hopscotch around the world for a year or three or ten. There’s no point in saying so, because there’s no way in hell my mother won’t force me to come home. It doesn’t even matter that I’m twenty-two. Protective is essentially her middle name. Or maybe Petrified.

Corrine Petrified Sutton. It does have a certain ring.

And honestly, I’m no less terrified myself. I’m still working up the courage to tell her I’m going abroad. I figure once I do, I’ll have three months of freedom, maybe four, if my courage and my bank account hold out that long.

“Why Athens, anyway?” Kate says. “It’s not like you speak Greek.”

“Why not Athens? Give me one good reason. Besides the fact that I’m a stupid American who only speaks English.”

“I don’t know, maybe because it’s five thousand miles away?”

“Six thousand, actually. If you count from here.”

My best friend gives me the look . The Katelyn Archer special. Those ridiculous sunglasses hide half her face, but I can visualize her enormous brown eyes crinkling, the upward hitch of each brow, and feel her ice-cold stink eye.

She thinks I’ve lost my mind.

I drag my flip-flop over a crack in the sidewalk. Second to my mother’s inevitable horror, this is the biggest downside to moving to a country I’ve only seen in pictures—the fact that my best friend feels betrayed by it. In high school, Kate and I promised we’d get an apartment in a glittering city someday and spend our nights in too-loud clubs, teasing boys and getting drunk enough to take taxis home. We’d stay up until 3:00 a.m. on work nights, eat whatever we wanted, and throw impromptu dance parties with nothing but the two of us and a giant bowl of kettle corn. We wouldn’t just live together, we’d live . Together.

At least that’s how I envisioned it. Maybe Kate planned on persuading me to color-code my wardrobe— Why wouldn’t you? It takes all the guesswork out —and sedately watching the nightly news while enjoying a single Ferrero Rocher chocolate for dessert.

But we would’ve worked it out. We still can. It’s not like I’m leaving forever.

“At least explain how you picked freaking Greece.” Kate adjusts her sunglasses. “And do not say you threw a dart at a map.”

I mask my chuckle by pretending the funnel cake went down wrong, but in reality, that’s exactly how I settled on Athens—in the most clichéd and illogical way I could think of.

It felt so wrong that it felt right.

Saying that would only piss Kate off, though, and I’d rather keep her happy, partly because I love her, and partly because I’m a selfish jerk who still needs to beg for a ride to Seattle tomorrow—a six-hour round trip I’m sure she has no interest in making.

I don’t exactly have a choice, though. My car conveniently picked today to die in a gush of black smoke and metallic screeching, and in less than twenty-four hours, I have to meet with Rosalie’s grandson. The month-long job of selling off my great-aunt’s estate will earn me the last twenty-five hundred dollars I need for my plane ticket.

I can’t, under any circumstances, screw that up.

Kate eyes my theatrical coughing with skepticism. “You know I’m only grumpy ’cause I’m gonna miss you, right?”

“I’ll miss you, too,” I say honestly. “And please don’t hate me, but is there any way you could take me to Seattle tomorrow? I have to meet my cousin Patrick at eleven, but my car died.”

Kate sighs and tosses her remaining cake into a nearby trash barrel, then dusts her hands as if offended by the residual calories clinging to her skin. “Can’t one of your parents take you?”

“It’s Monday. They’re working.”

“Okay. So not only are you ditching me, you want me to aid and abide you, too?”

I pause. “Aid and abet?”

“Whatever. I’m not the writer. You know what I mean.”

“I can pay you.” I don’t hide my pleading tone. I’ll have to recalibrate my budget, but only a catastrophe of the highest magnitude could stop me from showing up for that job tomorrow. “Gas money, plus enough for your time. And some extra, just because I feel like crap for having to ask. Really, really desperate crap.”

Kate props her hands on her hips. “Mina. Come on. I don’t want your money. I know how hard you worked to save it. Can’t you just...I don’t know. Cheer me up. Make me laugh. Hit that guy in the face, actually, and I’ll do it.”

My brow knits. I have no idea what she’s talking about until she points to a guy in a nearby booth. Pie crust and creamy goo slather his face and sage-green button-up.

Like everyone else, he’s staring. Unlike everyone else, it’s not at Kate. He’s looking at me.

Something sparks inside my chest. Which is ridiculous, because I can’t even tell what this person looks like. I can only say that his saturated hair resembles dark straw, and his eyes are a color I’ve never seen before. I don’t know what to call them, but they remind me of the ocean. Not here, where the water is broody and sullen, but somewhere tropical. Someplace where coconuts thud into welcoming white sand.

And he has a body to die for. Even the layers of whipped cream can’t disguise the fact that he probably spends a lot of time picking up weights and putting them back down again.

“I’ll definitely hit that guy in the face,” I murmur. “I think I’d hit him in all kinds of places.”

“Ew.” Kate doesn’t bother to lower her voice. “He’s probably a troll, underneath all that.”

The guy grins, and I think, I didn’t know trolls came equipped with such perfect smiles .

Someone says my name. I glance around to find Darlene, my former supervisor from the shelter, standing behind a table that offers an array of whipped-cream pies.

I return her grandmotherly smile. White-haired but spry, Darlene wears glasses as thick as old-timey Coke bottles, bakes apple pies from scratch, and develops an uncanny ability to swear like a sailor after a single drink.

Briefly, I mourn the fact that I don’t have any alcohol to offer her. At least that would lift Kate’s mood. There’s nothing quite like hearing a seventy-five-year-old woman dispatch the f-word with gusto.

“Mina, dear,” Darlene says. “It’s good to see you. And congratulations on your graduation.”

“Thanks.” My gaze wanders back to Mr. Pie Slop and his tropical eyes. He’s put his flawless teeth away and settled for watching me intently.

I watch him right back. If he’s affiliated with the shelter, I should recognize him, but we’ve definitely never met. “How much to throw a pie? And who’s your willing victim here?”

Darlene pushes her Plexiglas lenses up. “Five dollars gets you three pies. And this is Michael...erm...Drake?” She says his name like she’s not sure. Like she’s only just met him.

“Michael Drake.” I roll the name around on my tongue, then slip Darlene a five. “What do I get if I hit him?”

“Nothing. It’s just to help the animals,” Darlene says.

In the same moment, Michael says, “Pure, sadistic gratification.”

Despite the day’s balm, I shiver. His voice skims down my spine, making me think of aged bourbon and expensive leather and curling blue cigar smoke. It sounds older than the rest of him, though it’s hard to pin down his age with all that glop coating his face.

Regardless, his answer tells me he’s smart, maybe even well-read, though the second part seems optimistic, considering he’d have to sandwich any book time in between all those biceps curls.

“Michael Drake.” When I repeat his name, something flashes in his eyes. “Where’d you come from? I thought I knew everyone in this town.”

“You probably do,” he says. “I’m just visiting. For work.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Nobody comes to Seagrove to work. Only to get away from it.”

He chuckles. “Fair enough. I’m here on a corporate retreat. Most of my company’s down from Seattle for the weekend. Maybe you’ve heard of us. Forsythe & Winter?”

“Oh, yeah.” Kate pores over the pies. “Some fancy architecture firm or something, right? Here, Mina. This one looks the messiest.”

I accept her offering, which indeed looks capable of inflicting maximum splatter. Whipped cream slops over the pan, leaving sticky white gobs on my red shirt. “If you’re just visiting, what’re you doing in the pie-throwing booth?”

Michael shrugs. A few dollops slide from his shoulders onto the grass. “One of my coworkers was supposed to come, but he got sick and sent me instead. He’s from here originally, actually. Ben Gallagher.”

My mind races down the hallways of memory in pursuit of that name. Ben Gallagher, yes. Except I always knew him as Benny. He was two years ahead of me in school, at least until his sophomore year, when his parents got divorced and his mom moved them to Seattle.

I haven’t seen Benny in years and had no idea he’d ended up working for a high-end architecture firm. I do know his dad still lives here in Seagrove and happens to be Darlene’s nephew.

“Huh,” I say, as connecting threads stitch together in my mind. “Small world.”

“Not really.” Michael’s attention remains on me. “It was Ben’s idea to do the retreat here. He talks about this place all the time. Still swears he’s going to move back someday.”

I ponder that. I can’t imagine escaping this Podunk town and then returning willingly , but to each their own, I guess. “Well, Benny must’ve made you a pretty amazing offer to convince you to have pies thrown at you all day.”

“Nah. He asked, and it sounded like fun. So here I am.”

“You thought getting doused in whipped cream sounded like fun?”

“Does it not?”

Predictably, Kate grimaces and smooths her perfectly ironed sundress. Meanwhile, I fight a smile. Getting coated in pie doesn’t seem like fun , exactly, but it does seem like the kind of thing someone who’s already living life out loud—instead of just planning to start next month—would do.

I don’t want to give this stranger too much unearned credit, though, so I aim my pie while lobbing another question. “So you’re...what, some kind of architecture nerd?” At the very least, I want to see if poking fun will make him stop staring.

It doesn’t. He grins. “Yeah, I probably qualify as ‘some kind of nerd.’ But you don’t get to say that like you aren’t one, too. Takes one to know one, writer girl.”

His comment lands just as I throw, and my pie goes splattering off into the grass. “Wait. How’d you know I was a writer?”

“Your friend said so.” His glance flickers toward Kate. Barely. Then back to me.

I flush, realizing he must have been listening to our earlier conversation. Attentively.

“And it’s a good thing you’ve got brains,” he continues, “because judging by that throw, a career in baseball’s off the table.”

He softens the jab with another non-troll-like smile. I slit my eyes in response, warming to Kate’s challenge as she places a second pie in my hand.

I’ve insulted Michael Drake, and now he’s insulted me back, and not only do I desperately want to win a ride tomorrow, but I’d really love to nail this guy in the face. Just for the pure, sadistic gratification.

“Keep talking.” I heft the pan. “You’ll regret it once I’ve gotten whipped cream up your nose. And if you actually knew anything about nerds, you’d know better than to taunt one. We’re secretly dangerous.”

“Oh, god. That’s right. Never mock a nerd.” His eyes widen. “Is it too late to beg for mercy?”

“Beg all you want. My heart is a cold one.” I toss.

“Guess I’ll just have to move, then.” He steps neatly from my missile’s path, leaving another forlorn tin glinting on the ground.

“Hey! You cheated!”

“I absolutely did,” he says, without a trace of shame. “How else can I make sure you lose your bet?”

Off to the side, Darlene frowns.

I grab my final pie. “Why on earth would you want me to lose my bet?”

Michael considers me with eyes that words like turquoise and aquamarine don’t do justice to. A rabid urge to know what he’s seeing rises up. Why fixate on a black-haired, blue-eyed pixie who so often goes unnoticed?

“I want you to lose,” he says, “so I can take you to Seattle myself. I’m headed home tomorrow. It wouldn’t be any trouble.”

My breath hitches. I can’t believe he would just come out with that, like he invites strangers on road trips every day.

Darlene’s frown deepens. “Now, young man, I know you’re Benny’s friend, but—”

Kate steamrolls right over that, her tone shrill. “Excuse you, you weirdo! Mina’s not going anywhere with you. She doesn’t even know you.”

No, I don’t. But strangely, there’s something about this guy’s confidence and sea-bright eyes that makes me want to.

“I’d consider it,” I say, trying to stifle my rising flush, “except that this next pie’s going to hit you in the face. Which means Kate’s taking me.”

“Damn right I am.” She sounds horrified that I’m even having this conversation. “No way are you getting in a car with this guy, Mina. He could be a serial killer. He’s probably trying to get you alone so he can make you his next victim.”

A dry note sneaks into Michael’s smoke-and-bourbon voice. “That’s actually not what I’m going for. At all.”

I combat the heat blossoming in my cheeks by spinning my pie. Amazingly, I end up looking like an expert, even if I do splatter whipped cream against my neck. “Maybe so,” I tell Kate. “But how can he be sure I’m not a serial killer, too? A better one?”

“What? What’re you even talking about?” Kate gibes. “You’re a girl.”

“Are you saying women can’t be serial killers?” Michael says. “Because I find that very sexist.”

I smother a giggle. “Yeah, Kate. How sexist.”

She pushes her sunglasses onto her head and gives me an unimpeded version of the look , one that tells me she’s not at all pleased that this tourist and I have somehow ganged up on her. “Don’t be stupid. Just pie this guy hard enough to shut him up and let’s go. I’m taking you to Seattle tomorrow. I’ll take you to freaking Canada if you want. Just don’t go anywhere with this creep.”

I flash a smile of surrender. “Okay, okay. You’re the bestest friend ever.”

“Obviously,” she says, peevish. But her frown eases.

I turn back to Michael. “And you. Don’t you dare dodge this time.”

“No, ma’am. I’d never disobey a direct order from a nerd.” He mock salutes me. “But just so you know, I’m leaving at eight tomorrow. From Seaside House. Just...don’t come if you have nefarious intentions. A guy can never be too careful, these days.”

Darlene makes a sound of protest. “I don’t think your mother would like you getting in a car with someone you just met, Mina.”

“Definitely not,” I murmur, in what amounts to the understatement of the century. My mother would handcuff me to the bed if she thought I was even contemplating catching a ride with some muscle-bound Seattle architect I’ve known for five minutes.

Lucky for her, I’m not the sort of person who’d do that.

Then again, I’m not the sort of person who’d move to another country on a whim, either.

My brow furrows as I weigh my options. Briefly, I consider telling Kate she’s off the hook for the ride, but I have no desire to deal with the nuclear fallout that would prompt.

“Mina?” she ventures. “I don’t even care if you hit him anymore. He obviously just wants attention.”

Michael Drake doesn’t refute that. He just holds my gaze, waiting to see what I’ll do.

With a rueful smile at my own cowardice, I say, “I think you’re right,” and throw the pie.

This time, it’s a bull’s-eye.