To tell him or not to tell him?
That is the question.
In the summer of 2005, I met two boys: Jason King and Adam Donovan. One, a cocky, king-of-the-world jock. The other, a loner with a bleeding heart. I fell in love with both of them, in my own way. An innocent love—something not meant to last, maybe, but something meant to burn hot and bright for a summer so that when I’m ninety and on my death bed, I can smile to myself and think, Well, at least I’ll always have the summer of 2005.
We became glued at the hip. We called ourselves “the Three Muskrats,” after an incident with a furry beast at the back of a boat. And that summer, I lost my virginity with Jason buried inside me and Donovan petting my hair, coaxing me to previously unknown heights of pleasure with his words. It’s a moment I’ll cherish forever—and one I’ll never forget.
It was also the night I got pregnant with Otto.
I don’t regret anything that happened that night. I do regret the way I handled it. Eighteen, naïve, and scared out of my mind, I’d gone to Jason’s father for help. Leonard King was (and still is) the most powerful man on Hannsett Island, plus the richest. I wasn’t thinking about any of that at the time, though. I was just thinking, Jason’s dad is a doctor. He’ll know what to do.
But bullies don’t fall far from the tree. Mr. King proceeded to harass me and tried to bribe me into getting an abortion. So I did the only thing I could think of to do.
I ran. Far. All the way to England.
I’ve stayed hidden for over a decade, but now that I’m back at Hannsett, I have some decisions to make.
I can’t avoid Jason forever. So I’m going to go to dinner. I’m going to do this the way I do everything these days: logically, weighing the pros and cons. It’s been forever ago since we saw each other. I have no idea what kind of man he is now. I have to see it for myself. Assess the situation. And then decide how—and when—to tell him that he has a son.
A sick son. A son who needs his help.
And, all the while, try to do so while keeping my heart in check.
Because the real, honest truth is that seeing Donovan yesterday opened up a floodgate of emotions I didn’t know I still had inside of me.
Nostalgia. Affection. And—yes—desire. The desire for someone living, pulsing between my legs, instead of my go-to silicone friends.
Which is probably why I spend way too long getting ready.
Otto and I packed minimally for our trip over. Depending on how my meeting with Mr. King went, we could either be staying for a few days or a few months. I change my clothes three times before I leave the house.
First option: a navy pantsuit, to show that I’ve grown up and I’m a professional.
Second option: a purple dress with black thigh-highs to show I’m still as fun as I ever was.
Seeing Donovan yesterday was a stark reminder of just how long it had been. He’s changed so much. Have I changed?
I check a lot of the same boxes: black Irish with thick, dark hair, green eyes, a small nose, and a round face. My eyebrows are a little too intense, but I’ve always liked that about them. I’ve lost some of my baby face and replaced it with single-mom-face—ever prevalent dark edges underneath my eyes, worry marks at my forehead.
Not quite the devil-may-care, precocious teenager they once knew. I can’t help but hope they like this grown-up version of Kenzi, too.
I go with my third and final option: the best of both worlds, a fitted pair of black pants with a tie around the middle, a loose button-up, and a faux leather jacket for warmth.
I tie my hair back into a ponytail, apply my makeup, and reapply deodorant because my pits are sweating.
It’s just the muskrats, I try to tell myself. So why is my heart jumping rope in my chest?
“I’m heading out,” I announce as I descend the staircase, tossing my purse over my shoulder.
I don’t get a response, so I glance around. “Pearl? Otto?”
She’s left a note on the round kitchen table: Went out for pizza. Don’t call! Xoxo.
I can’t help but smile. I leave, locking the door quietly behind me.
The cold is bone-freezing and chaps my lips. I hug my jacket tighter and slip into the rental car.
Donovan lives on the northern end of the island, and I have to wind down Main Street to get to him. From one end of the island to the other takes less than fifteen minutes, and that’s only because I’m obeying the under-twenty-miles-an-hour speed limit. His house stands alone on top of a sand dune, overlooking the beach.
The sunset looks beautiful, streaking golden-amber hues across the sky and ocean.
I get out of the car and take a second to admire it, even as the cold nips at me.
You don’t get views like this in London.
There’s a stone footpath that leads to Donovan’s house, a modern structure built with a sharp triangle slant and wooden slats across the sides. Tufts of dune grass sprout up from the sand. I’m halfway up the path when the door flings open.
A man steps out and lifts his arms wide. “Kenzi fucking Stratton!” he bellows.
He cuts the distance between us with his long-legged leaps and then swoops me up in a bone-crushing bear hug. He smells like chlorine, body spray, and minty aftershave. I close my eyes and inhale. He smells like Jason.
It hits me like a fucking curveball to the chest and knocks all the breath out of me. Probably doesn’t help that his hugs are boa-constrictor tight.
“Hey, big guy.” I gasp for air and pat his shoulder, like I’m tapping out at a wrestling match.
He grabs my shoulders and yanks me back with no apparent awareness of his own strength so he can look at me—really look at me. The biggest, cheesiest grin plasters across his face, and his blue eyes sparkle.
“Christ, you’re a sight for sore eyes,” he says. “You look great.”
Jason is an eye-contact kind of guy. Not a lot of those left—men who aren’t afraid to look a woman straight in the eyes when he speaks.
He makes it look natural. I’d forgotten how good it feels to be seen—everyone I’d worked with had their eyes on their phones or their computers and only looked up when you said, “Hey, take a look at this.”
Something else I wasn’t prepared for, though I don’t know why—those are Otto’s eyes staring at me. It knocks me off my center of gravity.
I squeeze his arms to ground myself. “You’re not so bad-looking yourself,” I tease.
“Come on in—Donovan! Look what I found!”
Jason ushers me in, and I hold up a bottle of wine. “Here. Couldn’t come empty-handed.”
Jason takes it and reads the label. “Check you out, classing this joint up. I love it. You wanna crack this baby open?”
“Yeah, go ahead.”
I unwrap my scarf from my neck and shimmy out of my jacket. Jason takes those as well (a gentleman, who’d have thought?), and as he hangs them up, I survey the place.
It’s…shockingly nice.
I don’t know what I was expecting. A frat house? Something about two boys living together screams empty beer bottles, strange stains, and movie posters tacked into the walls.
This is a far cry.
White paint, a wooden designer coffee table, an entire wall of exposed brick. A shelf devoted to a record player and a wall of records. Post-modern art on the walls and an ivy plant in the corner.
Donovan always was a bit of an old soul.
I smell sizzling onions and garlic. Donovan is cooking, but he spares a second to glance up at me and gives me a nod. “Hey.”
We’ve already had our heartfelt hellos, apparently—I’m old hat now. I take a seat on one of the barstools and lean onto my elbows. “That smells delicious. What’re you making?”
“Stir-fry. Hope you’re hungry.”
“I am now.”
