Before
BEFORE
For our first dance as a married couple, Michael insists on “Angel” by Aerosmith.
Neither of us knows how to dance, especially to something with such a brisk tempo, but he insists the lyrics remind him of me, so we sway together to Steven Tyler’s melodic wailing. Behind me, my white gown swishes against the country club’s parquet dance floor.
Our friends and family surround us, but their faces blur. I can’t wrench my eyes from the blue-green ones I’ve been gazing into for three years now. As of two hours ago, this man is my husband . The person I’ll spend my life with, for better or for worse, ’til death do us part.
Michael smiles down and my chest constricts. I can’t believe we’re married. Especially because, at times, I didn’t know whether we would make it this far. The scars Grayson inflicted cut deep, enough that we almost didn’t survive those rocky months of aftermath. I’ve had to adjust to a partner who’s more serious. More reserved. Who goes quiet in the face of confrontation, because he’s still in recovery from more than just alcohol.
But once I adapted, I realized Michael’s love never wavered. He just shows it in different ways now, mostly by keeping me flush with everything I could possibly want—three-hundred-dollar running shoes that channel my inner Usain Bolt, a brand-new work computer with every possible accessory, flowers for no reason at all.
He takes care of me. I don’t regret my choice.
I grin, then reach up to run my hands through his hair. He wears it short these days—always tidy, always precise—and gold strands slip through my fingers like satin. “So,” I say. “We’re married.”
“We are.”
“How do you feel?”
“Lucky.” His smile deepens. “How do you feel?”
“Lucky.”
The song reaches its final bars, and Michael swoops me into a dip. I almost shriek, but he manages to support my weight without me having to bring any grace into the mix.
To the delight of the crowd, he plants a kiss on me. People flood the dance floor as another song begins—something with a peppy beat that has everyone throwing their arms into the air.
Michael rights me. “I only know how to slow dance. Do you think anyone’ll mind if I just do this all night?”
I lace my fingers behind his neck. “Don’t tell me you’re regretting not taking those lessons now?”
His mouth slants. “You know I wanted to.”
I nod. I do know. Work has increasingly gobbled larger portions of his time. His high-end custom designs have people clamoring for his attention, and most days, I count myself lucky if he makes it home before seven.
But he works so hard for me. For us. So I do everything I can to support him.
Two guests emerge from the crowd and head our way. I recognize Michael’s coworkers—Sarah, who gives me an exaggerated, open-mouthed wink, and Benny Gallagher, who’s changed remarkably little since we went to school together back in Seagrove. He’s still barrel-chested and ludicrously tall, with a mop of sandy hair, a perpetual sunburn, and a braying laugh that permeates the room.
Privately, I’ll never stop likening him to the Jolly Green Giant after he painted himself green and donned a leaf skirt last Halloween, but of course I’d never say so.
“Congratufuckinglations!” Benny shouts. He plucks two champagne glasses from Sarah’s hands and dangles them in our faces. “Are you two ready to party, or what?”
Michael’s expression goes neutral, his grip tightening at my waist.
Which is my cue. He’s been adamant about keeping his struggles with alcohol private, so I whisk the glasses away with a sheepish smile. “Thanks, Benny, but I’ll fall flat on my face if we drink these now. I can barely stay upright as it is. Later?”
“Right, right. Later!” Benny laughs with enough gusto that I have to wonder how many glasses he’s ingested himself. “Time enough to get wasted after Michael’s big honeymoon surprise!”
Big surprise. A frisson of excitement rockets up my spine, and I shoot a glance at my newly minted husband. He’s remained stubbornly silent on the subject of our honeymoon, but, for the first time in...well, ever , he’s finagled a week-long absence from work.
Which means I’m in for something big. The overnight bag in the Audi outside has been packed accordingly, with my passport tucked safely in a bottom pocket. And if I’ve obsessively googled the best times to visit the Acropolis and what the ferry schedules from Athens to the island of Aegina look like, it’s all in the name of being prepared.
I flash Benny a grin. “Surprise, hmm?” Somehow, I manage to keep my voice at a reasonable pitch. “Tell me more.”
Michael cuts him a warning glance, and Benny mimes locking his mouth and throwing away the key.
Which, unsurprisingly, lasts for all of two nanoseconds. “You’re gonna love it!” he booms, then waggles his eyebrows and tornadoes away with Sarah in tow.
My husband exhales and kisses my temple. “Thank god he didn’t ruin it. And thank you for coming to my rescue. Again.”
“No problem.” I hold up the glasses. “I’ll just go get rid of these. When I come back, you can tell me all about this surprise .”
He chuckles. “Not a chance.”
I weave across the packed dance floor to the bar, where I find Kate lecturing a fuzzy-cheeked bartender on the critical differences between tonic and soda water. He gazes at her with widened eyes, apparently too stunned to make whatever drink she’s ordered.
I nudge her away with an elbow and deposit the champagne flutes in her hands. “Would you stop distracting the poor staff? There’s a half-mile-long line behind you.”
She pouts, then takes an experimental sip. “I wasn’t distracting him. He was fascinated. He was hanging on my every word.”
I laugh. “Yeah, because you look like Gisele Bündchen. Not because he cares about the hidden sugar content of tonic water.”
“Well...” Kate’s expression turns speculative. “Now that you mention it, I did catch him peeking down my cleavage. Which I’m blaming on you. Did you really have to pick something this low-cut?”
I give her a once-over. She looks stunning, in a violet A-line bridesmaid dress I chose specifically with her in mind. “I absolutely did. Because it’s my wedding, and I get to be upstaged by my maid of honor if I want. Now do me a favor and disappear this booze, will you?”
She snorts, then drains an entire flute in one go. “You say that like you’re trying to get rid of a body.”
I shrug. “Just about.”
“The things I do for you.” Kate goes to work on the second drink, then makes a shooing motion. “Now go on. Dance with your shiny new husband.”
I should do exactly that, but I linger. By this time tomorrow, my best friend will be back in Seagrove, and who knows when I’ll see her again. “In a second. It’s just so good to have you here. It’s been way too long.”
“It really has. Let’s never go this long again, okay?” Kate sets her empties on a nearby table and wraps me in a hug. “And thanks for making me part of your special day. And congratulations. And I love you. And have a kick-ass honeymoon, wherever you’re going.”
The grin I bury in her shoulder might actually qualify as shit eating. “Oh, trust me. That’s not going to be a problem.”
Outside the banquet room windows, dusk deepens, turning Lake Washington a rich shade of indigo. On the far shore, the suburbs of Seattle glimmer.
Inside, we dance and eat and cut cake, but Michael glances at his watch with increasing frequency. Shortly after nine, he takes my hand and steers me through the party, bidding our guests good night. My father hugs us. My mother cries. Once everyone is sufficiently thanked, Michael leads me out to the Audi.
When we get on the freeway heading south, toward Sea-Tac, an entire flock of butterflies hatches inside my belly. By unspoken agreement, we haven’t broached the subject of travel since I chose him. We’ve contented ourselves with a life of promotions and paychecks and all the necessary practicalities of adulthood.
But the daydreams have never strayed far from my mind. I’ve kept them near, like lit stars tucked in my back pocket. Old friends I might someday see again.
Michael grips the steering wheel, never straying from his customary ten-and-two. He sneaks a sidelong glance at me. “I’ve never seen you this excited before.”
I giggle. I’m about to make an oblique reference to Europe when my cell phone rings. I fish around in my clutch purse. It’s probably someone we missed on our way out, calling to see us off. But when I free the phone, the screen displays a bizarrely long string of numbers.
I frown. Someone’s calling me from...Mongolia?
“What?” Michael scans my expression. “Who is it?”
“I don’t know. A telemarketer, maybe? It says Mongolia. Are there call centers in Mongolia?”
“Mongolia?” His knuckles tighten around the wheel. “Really?”
I hesitate, momentarily thrown by the brittle edge in his tone. “That’s what it says.”
“Cancel it.”
“Why?”
“Because.” A muscle ticks in his jaw. “We don’t need some salesman ruining our evening.”
I nod and hit the red button, but a moment later, the phone rings again. This time, Michael grimaces and holds out his hand. I pass over the cell for him to answer.
“What?” he says.
I wince. No hello . Just a single word, flat and hostile, and even though I also detest cold calls with the fire of a thousand suns, pity flares when I consider the poor soul on the line. Whoever he is, he’s probably just trying to feed his family. It’s not his fault that we have no need for foreign-sourced prescription drugs or whatever telemarketers are peddling these days.
“Yes,” Michael says, his voice cut from steel.
My frown deepens. Yes? Yes, what? Do we need foreign-sourced prescription drugs?
“Yep. Yes, of course.” He glances over at me and pauses, then grimly announces, “Absolutely not.”
I raise my eyebrows in question.
Telemarketer , he mouths, then turns his attention back to the road. “Are you drunk ?”
The salesman apparently launches into something long-winded, because Michael stays quiet for agonizing moments.
“Look,” he finally says. To my abject astonishment, he actually raises his voice. He hasn’t done that in years. “Right now, you’re interrupting my wedding night, and the last thing—”
I can’t help it—I snatch the phone away. “Sorry,” I say into it. “What my husband means to say is that we’re busy being blissfully happy right now, and will be for the rest of our lives. Please don’t call again.”
I hang up before the telemarketer can respond and give Michael a significant look. “What on earth was that?”
He stares at me, then the phone. “Sorry. I don’t know. I just... I’ve been planning this for a long time. I don’t want anyone interrupting.”
I blow out a breath. “What was he trying to sell you, anyway?”
Michael’s gaze skitters away. “Who knows? He wasn’t making a lot of sense.”
“Did he actually speak English?”
“Yeah. But he sounded...confused.”
“Weird,” I say.
“Very.”
Silence settles in the car. I turn my attention to the window, where reflective highway signs zoom out of the dark. I crane my head as one flies by, then sit up straight, the odd moment forgotten. “Wait. You missed the exit.”
Michael blinks. “No, I didn’t.”
“For Sea-Tac? Yeah. It was a mile ago.”
“What? No. We’re not going to Sea-Tac.”
My breath catches, but I manage to keep my expression composed. Even while every last butterfly in my stomach drops dead midflight.
It’s a hotel.
An exceptionally beautiful hotel, composed of steel and glass and nestled within an old-growth forest halfway between Seattle and Seagrove.
Michael parks in a sparsely filled lot. The place sparkles like a lit jewel amid the shadowed woods. Gilded light streams from a towering array of windows, and in the lobby, a waterfall chandelier cascades from a soaring ceiling.
“Well?” Excitement suffuses Michael’s voice. “What do you think?”
I peer through the windshield. “It’s stunning,” I manage.
Really, it’s more than stunning. It’s a superlative display of crisp, contemporary beauty, all the more striking given the lush backdrop of night-cloaked woods. It’s just not what I expected.
“It’s mine,” he says, pride evident.
“It’s... Wait, what?”
“It’s mine.” Michael makes a thick sound of pleasure. “Well, not mine mine. I don’t own it. But I designed it.”
My hand flutters to my chest as the ice beneath my sternum thaws. “You mean you made this?” I’ve never seen a Michael Drake original in person before.
“I did.”
I take a beat to reassess. The hotel looks like something out of a travel brochure for royalty. I’ve never stayed anywhere like it. I’ve never even set foot near a place like this.
“The best part is, we’re the only guests.” Michael sounds downright gleeful now. “The hotel doesn’t actually open ’til next month, but I negotiated a special condition in my contract. The owners are letting us stay for a week with a full staff on-site. We’ll have a personal chef, two masseuses, a riding instructor, a yoga teacher. Anything you want.”
I falter on an inhale. He must have planned this ages ago. “You did this for me?”
“For my angel? Of course.”
Guilt swamps me with such ferocity that I have to fight the urge to curl up on the floor mat in a fetal position. This is a far cry from Greece, but it clearly represents something intensely personal to Michael, and that’s so much better.
“Let’s go inside, okay?” His eyes glitter. “I’m dying to make an honest woman out of you.”
I turn to him, so mired in shame over my own selfishness that I can only nod.
He pops his door open and skates around the car to do the same with mine. I follow him into the cool evening. The lace hem of my wedding dress snags on the asphalt, but I hardly notice and definitely don’t care.
In the spacious lobby, a bevy of smiling staff lines up in greeting. The porter shows us to our room, where an expanse of pale marble and glass awaits. Sprays of fresh lilies occupy glossy vases in every corner. A mullioned screen affords a view of the bathroom, where a blue-lit Jacuzzi occupies a marble dais. Across from the king-size bed, a slider opens on a private patio, where a hot tub steams gently in the dark.
The place hits the same way our condo once did, only multiplied by a thousand, and I have to forcibly pick my jaw up off the floor.
The porter leaves our luggage. When the door clicks shut, Michael beelines for the outdoor hot tub, loosening his bow tie and shedding his tuxedo on the way. Once naked, he strolls into the steaming water, then turns back and crooks a finger at me.
I stand there and survey him for a moment. I can’t believe I’m married to a man who spoils me like this. I shouldn’t need anything more.
I don’t .
I reach back and tug my zipper down, letting the dress sigh down my body and pool at my feet. Next, I shed my stockings, then my shoes. I wriggle my toes, relishing the return of my circulation.
Michael scans me with hungry eyes. “Come here.” His voice is gravel, making my belly clench.
This, at least, never changes. Whatever voltage flared between us on our kitchen island three years ago has yet to subside. I already know that when we touch, everything else will fade. We’ll speak to each other in our language, the one that no amount of crossed wires can ever diminish.
I step into the tub. Michael welcomes me with eager hands and fervent kisses. The water siphons the aches from my body as I lose myself in the heady intoxication of joined lips.
He hoists me onto the corner of the tub and pushes me back against the smooth wood of the patio. My skin exhales steam into the darkness. Michael makes a drunken sound, then leans over me and closes his eyes.
I follow suit, letting my awareness narrow to a glut of heat and sensation. The lap of steaming water around my ankles, the power of his body surging into mine, the cool expanse of wood beneath my shoulder blades—pleasure crackles through me, drags me to a pinnacle, and flings me off the summit.
It’s fast and ferocious, so very us.
When I float back to earth, my lashes part. Overhead, through the latticework of boughs, a canopy of glittering stars awaits.
“Look,” I whisper, pointing upward.
Michael rests with his cheek pillowed against my chest, but obediently turns his head. “Hmm?”
Déjà vu flits against my consciousness. “The stars.”
“Yeah.” He returns his attention to me. “They’re gorgeous.”
My smile falters. I don’t know why. I don’t know what I expected him to say.
Thankfully, Michael eases us back into the water, dismissing the moment before I can dwell. We float for a while, him content to study the hotel’s geometry, me content to watch him.
He catches me staring. “You like this place?”
“I love it.” I smile.
“I’m glad,” he says. “Because I’ve been thinking. How would you like to live in a house like this? Smaller, obviously, but in the same style?”
I blink. “You mean...sell the condo?”
“Yeah. We could buy some land, build something for ourselves. No more dog barking upstairs at 3:00 a.m. No more standing by the windows to get cell reception. No having to use the treadmill. You could go running in the woods every day, if you wanted.”
“But...land in Seattle is exorbitant. Could we really afford that?”
“I wasn’t thinking about Seattle, actually.” His cadence remains steady, but I have the distinct impression that he’s measuring each word in advance. “I was thinking about Seagrove.”
My breath deserts me. “Seagrove?”
At my tone, Michael hoists his palms out of the water. “I know, I know. But hear me out. Ben Gallagher’s leaving Forsythe & Winter, and he’s asked me to go with him. He wants to start his own firm. He thinks that, with the demographic in Seagrove, we could make a killing. And I think he’s right.”
Seagrove. It should surprise me, but Benny has always said he’d move back. I just never thought he’d ask us to accompany him.
“It’d be good for us, Mina.” Michael searches my face . “It’d take our income to a whole new level. And wouldn’t you like being near Kate again? I mean, you cried when you saw her yesterday.”
It’s true. I did. It had been so long.
“You wouldn’t have to miss her anymore,” he continues. “You could just...hop in your car and go to her house for a visit.”
My heart manages a frail beat. I do miss my best friend, every minute of every day, but I’ve never envisioned myself back home. I left that place for a reason. Maybe I didn’t get quite as far as I intended, but I got out.
“Mina?” Michael prompts. “It’s the kind of opportunity that won’t come again.”
I swallow thickly. “But wouldn’t this just mean you working even longer hours than you already do?”
“At first, maybe. Yes.” A cool note slides into his voice. “But once Ben and I got the firm off the ground, I could back off. A few years from now, I could be working less, not more.”
That stops me short. Longing scorches up my throat. “You mean...we could take vacations together?”
He stills. “ This is a vacation.”
“I know, but...real ones.”
He says nothing, and I grimace. I didn’t mean to insult his generosity.
“Sorry,” I say.
He nods. His expression remains smooth, but the air around him seems to thicken, as if he’s diverting everything inward with such force that it’s sucking the surrounding night along with it.
I bite my lip. Michael never gets angry. Never raises his voice. He just gets quiet, and normally, this marks the point at which I back off. I relent, because there’s a whole continent inside of him that I no longer have access to. I haven’t since That One Time, and I’ve learned to allow him the safety of that retreat.
But this is a big ask. Enough that I can’t just drop it.
Maybe Michael senses as much, because he sighs and drags a hand down his face, leaving droplets clinging to his cheeks. “Look...if I said yes to vacations in a few years, would you say yes to moving?”
I hesitate. A duet of cricket song and swaying branches fills the quiet. The melody finds its way into the innermost sanctum of my heart, where I harbor desires too fragile to survive the light of day.
I could have more time with him. More opportunity to work past these walls, to get back to the people we would have been if Grayson hadn’t driven a fist through everything we’d built.
Here in the dark, in the forest, with my husband at my side, I allow hope to flower. “You know what?” I say. “Yeah. I think I would.”
Michael exhales sharply. “Really?”
I smile. “Really.”
Michael grins, crushes me in a wet hug, and just like that, it’s decided. We’ll travel backward—in time, in geography, to where we first met. To the place where we first struck the spark that ultimately led us here.
And maybe, just maybe, history will repeat itself.