Four Years Later
I’M GONNA BE sick.
I hover over the sink, seeing Macon through the window. He paces around the garage, working on my Bronco, and it seems like maybe I should wait to talk to him. He’s already fixing my car for free. I’d hate to ask for more.
A slap lands on my ass, and I yelp, spinning around. Dex squeals, Cheetos crumbs all over his mouth, and then he runs away.
“Dex!” I growl as he disappears out of the Jaeger’s kitchen.
No manners, and why should he? I’ve only spent more time with him the last four years than his aunt. He’s absorbed nothing that I’ve tried to teach him.
I dust his crumbs off my jeans and blow out a breath, smoothing down my hair. I’m more nervous to speak to Macon than I am to Liv.
I take a couple of more deep breaths, and swipe the corners of my mouth, tidying up my lipstick, and head into the garage.
“Turn it up,” Macon calls out.
Army sits on the stool at the work table and reaches over, turning up the radio. Some Type O Negative song plays, and I hover at the doorway for a minute before I force myself down the steps.
“I’m not done yet,” Macon says to me.
He bends over the hood, twisting a wrench, and I stand on the other side, shifting on my feet.
Can I speak to you in private?
No, don’t say that. Adding occasion to this will just piss him off.
So Liv and I…like since we’re moving into the old lighthouse…I was like…wondering if…
Ugh. Why am I stuttering? After four years, I’m no more comfortable around this man than I ever was. Direct works best, but I feel like if I open my mouth and don’t prepare myself, I’ll puke.
I open my mouth and then close it, my skin vibrating, and a light sweat dampening it.
“Are you okay?” I hear someone ask.
I look up, seeing Macon frozen under the hood and watching me.
“Um, yeah. Why?”
He starts working again. “You look like you have something to say.”
I swallow a few times to wet my throat, but I realize I’m wringing my fingers, and I stop immediately.
“I…um…” I can’t catch my breath.
He stops again and looks up, and I sense that Army has stopped what he’s doing, as well, watching.
Just say it. Jesus.
I suck in a breath. “I would like to marry your sister.”
He stands there, and he doesn’t even look like he has a heartbeat as he stares at me.
My stomach roils, and I cough to stop myself from throwing up.
I mean, is he surprised? Liv and I have been together since high school. We’ve weathered separation, doubt, a few fights, uncertain futures, and where our careers would take us. She even left Dartmouth for a week and came home because we couldn’t stand to be apart anymore.
Until I convinced her to go back, that is.
We just bought the lighthouse, and now we’re renovating it. He knows we’re in this forever.
“And you want me to what?” he asks. “Ask her if she likes you, but just don’t tell her you like her unless I know she likes you first or something?”
Such an asshole. “I’m asking for your blessing.”
“My permission, you mean?” he corrects, amusement lighting up his expression.
I clench my jaw, my stomach all right now, but my anger rises to take its place.
He laughs, glancing to Army and then back to me. “She doesn’t come with goats or land or anything. We’re poor people, Clay. I mean, you could probably get us to pay you to take her off our hands.”
Army chuckles, and I cock a brow, losing my patience. “Macon…”
“I don’t know, we might be able to stuff her arms with six packs of Bud or something,” he offers as her dowry. “Would that do?”
Army cackles louder.
Asshole! I tense up. “Would you shut up?” I bark at Macon. “This was supposed to be a beautiful moment, dammit.”
I mean, excuse me for living. He’s a southern man. I thought the gesture of asking for his sister’s hand in marriage would be appreciated.
Fuck it. I’ll just take her, then. “Are you going to create a stink if I marry your sister?” I growl.
He and Army finish laughing at the irony of an independent woman like myself, a successful business owner, asking for a man’s permission for anything.
He calms down, sets down his tool, and walks around the Bronco to me. A thoughtfulness hits his eyes. “Be good to her?”
I square my shoulders.
“Be faithful and supportive,” he tells me. “It was the only thing my father could do for my mother. It kept her alive.”
I drop my eyes for a moment, knowing the mental illness that killed Trysta Jaeger years before she actually died. One of the hardest things to learn with my brother was that you couldn’t always take away the pain of those you loved. Just be there.
“At the end of the day, that trust is all you need,” Macon says.
I nod, a little surprised by the tears in my eyes.
He turns and heads back to the car. “If you fail her,” he calls over his shoulder. “I feed you to the gators.”
Army laughs, but I don’t as I leave the garage and grip the ring in my pocket.
Macon doesn’t make idle threats.
Macon sucks.
Olivia
I’m cooking tonight. She doesn’t know, so I hope she doesn’t have anything planned, but I’m sure she doesn’t. She’s been so busy at work, and it’s kind of a double-edged sword to know what to think or feel when a funeral home is busy.
I mean, yeah, she’s able to support us as I wait for royalty checks from indie films and invest everything else I have in my first theater production at a playhouse in Miami next summer, but it also means people suffered, losing loved ones. I’m glad she’s doing well, though. The community trusts her, and Wind House has done well, taking her on as a partner.
I round the corner of the small market, searching for that wine she likes, but I see Mr. Collins standing in front of some canned goods, and I stop.
I take a step back, debating on trying to escape before he sees me.
But he twists his mouth to the side, looking unsure, and I don’t leave.
We get along and all, but we’re not usually alone together, either. Clay is better with the small talk.
“You look lost,” I say.
He jerks his eyes over to me, and then he chuckles, kind of laughing at himself. “I’m cooking dinner tonight,” he says. “For someone.” He looks back at his choices and then shakes his head. “I should just order takeout and act like I cooked it.”
Cooking for someone . Same as me.
I move to his side. “How about a…charcuterie board.” I reach over to the cheeses in the oblong cooler behind him, pulling a wedge of brie, some aged cheddar, and smoked gouda. “It’s easy and it looks really cultured and fancy, so I think you’ll pass with it. You can eat it outside or in front of a fire…”
He smiles and takes the stuff. “Anything low on carbs,” he murmurs his approval.
Yeah.
I pull him over to the produce, grabbing some crackers and French bread on the way. “Some tomatoes, grapes, cherries…” I dump the stuff into his basket. “Hit the deli and pick up some meats, and then some wine, and you should be good.”
He stares at his loot, looking impressed.
“It’s a really easy way to look like you know what you’re doing, and no cooking involved,” I tell him.
“Thanks.” But then a worried look crosses his face, and he looks around. “Oh, I need a board, right? I don’t have one.”
“Gigi does.”
His gaze darts to mine, and I swear he looks like it was some big secret, and no one knew he’s been dating his ex-wife.
Speechless for a moment, he finally just breathes out a laugh. “We were trying to keep it on the down-low,” he says. “Does Clay know?”
“Everyone knows.”
He rolls his eyes. “Awesome.”
And I laugh. I can understand. The divorce was hard on them. Clay saw the home her brother grew up in become unrecognizable.
But it wasn’t solely Mr. Collins’s fault either. Loss, abandonment, cheating…a lot of things happened to break up their marriage, but it didn’t break up their family. Gigi sold the house, bought a lovely cottage on the beach, and found herself. Clay’s closer to her parents apart than she was when they were together.
And now, after years, maybe he can make his ex-wife fall in love with him again. He’s certainly up for the challenge, because it will be one. She’s different now.
They were trying to keep it quiet, though. They didn’t want to get Clay’s hopes up until they knew it would last.
“This is a great idea,” he tells me, gesturing to the food. “Thank you, honey.”
“Anytime.”
I head over to the wine, picking up the sauv blanc and hoping the refrigerator in our little house has decided to work today, so it’ll be chilled by the time she gets home. I check my phone for a call, just in case Macon doesn’t finish with her car and I need to pick her up.
I drive to our home, loving to cross the tracks and loving that she’s on the wrong side of them with me now, St. Carmen’s little princess, a full-fledged swamp rat. I speed down the dirt road in an old Jeep I picked up a couple of years ago, my Ninja at Macon’s house.
The sea permeates the air, and I grab the groceries out of the back, tipping my head and looking up at the lighthouse. One of the many things on our list—and as funds allow—is to get the light functional again.
But first, dinner.
I open the old windows in the kitchen, spreading them wide and letting in the September air as I switch on the music and start making the gumbo.
I feel the dust on the floor grind under my shoes, and no matter how much we clean, there always seems to be more dirt. The lightkeeper’s house is a shithole, but it’s our shithole, and it’s better than any mansion across the tracks. The old wooden beams above me smell like years of hurricanes and wind, and everything here is ours. Our stove, our table, our food, our bed.
The fireplace works, and if it ever gets so cold enough that I can’t keep her warm, then a fire will.
We’re going to have so much fun renovating this place and making every inch of it ours. Of course, we have to keep a certain aesthetic to maintain the historical landmark status, but that’s no problem. We only want to make it comfortable and enhance what’s already here.
I cut the stems of the flowers I bought at the market, and stick them in a vase with water, placing it at the center of the table, and I spot headlights outside, just as the sun starts to set.
In a moment, the front door closes, and I feel arms slide around my waist.
“I have to talk to you,” she whispers in my ear.
I damn near shiver, tilting my head into her breath more.
“Let me set this to simmer,” I tell her. “Then we can ‘talk’.”
I know what she wants.
She reaches over to my side, flipping open the old tin box I found this morning.
She holds up the old snapshot. “Archie?”
“Yeah.” I nod, wiping off my hands. “Found it under a floorboard.”
She sifts through the box, looking at pictures of the previous inhabitants. The corgi, Archie, and his human, the old lightkeeper.
“It’s him.” She smiles, finding the picture of the man in a torn, cable-knit sweater and a beard.
“He looks just like I pictured,” I say. “An old sea dog.”
She searches through the pics in the box, looking again. “No girl, though.”
I come around her and kiss her ear. “Someone was taking the pictures of him.”
Her eyes light up, the mystery safe and sound that just maybe this cottage was a hideaway for two other lovers before us.
I hug her tight, determined to keep the tradition going.
I turn down the temp on the stove, and she takes my hand, but instead of leading me upstairs, she takes me outside.
“What are we doing?” I ask.
She remains silent, leading me over the dunes and down to the beach. I don’t ask questions and don’t ask permission when I sink to the sand and pull her down between my legs, holding her as we both look out to the endless horizon.
“So, what did you want to talk about?” I ask.
“Your car’s extended warranty.”
I bury my face in her neck, unable to not laugh. “Brat.”
“Beautiful,” she calls me, instead.
“Trouble,” I counter.
“My pearl.”
“Hellion,” I bite out in her ear.
She turns her head, whispering, “Sunshine.”
“Pain in my ass.”
I smile and kiss her. I kiss her for a long time, the wind in our hair as the last light leaves us.
“Do you love me?” I ask against her lips.
She meets my eyes. “So much, I’ll hurt if you don’t marry me.”
And before I know what’s happening, she’s slipping something on my ring finger, her gaze never leaving mine.
My heart stops a beat, and I can’t speak, everything inside me swelling so big, my body can’t contain it.
What?
I mean, yes. I…
I slam my mouth down on hers, trying to get the words out, but my voice is in my stomach, my heart is in my throat, and my head is somewhere twenty feet above my body.
God, I love her. I was ready to ask her, but she beat me to it.
“Mmmmm, wait,” she tells me, pulling away and taking out her phone. “Before you say yes, I just want to make sure… We can do this when we get married, right?”
But I growl, pulling her phone—and whatever kinky sexual position she wants to try now away—as she giggles and I roll over on top of her.
“Handful,” I grit out over her mouth right before I kiss her madly. “Hellion. Pain in my ass. Trouble.”
“You’re never going to get rid of me, you keep talking sweet like that.”
And I dive in, biting her neck and making her squeal.
