Beyond The Waves

Six | The Rain

My cheeks hurt from smiling.

We hadn't seen each other since I found him fixing my dock the other morning. He returned to his regular work schedule, and so had I, meaning I had not left my house in at least a week, and my eyes hurt from staring at my computer screen.

Even though I hadn't seen Weston, I thought about him. He was the only one in this town I could tolerate, and that was saying something. Most of our conversations were superficial. Maybe that was why I enjoyed his company because neither of us had to talk about the one-hundred reasons why everyone else hated us.

Inside our 12,000-square-foot bubble, we were flawless.

I kept it that way by not searching his name, even though my fingers itched to type Weston Turner, APRN, every time I opened a new browser window. I figured if I wanted to get to know him (that was if I wanted to open up too because that was a two-way street), I would do it the right way, not Clifton style.

For now, we'd stay friendly neighbors who occasionally fixed one another docks and attended town meetings together. No distractions.

BY WEDNESDAY EVENING, I was ready to bail on Weston but didn't have his number to call and break the news.

I stood in the middle of my atrocious room, littered with clothes. Nothing matched the occasion, and nothing calmed my nerves. My slow sips of wine—which tasted dryer than a piece of tree bark— turned into a steady gulp, then a second glass.

Today marked the beginning of September, and along came the start of cool evening weather. I settled on a pair of jeans with a short sleeve white tee because I didn't pack much else. I could rummage through my mom's closet, but I was not mentally ready to cross that bridge yet.

Three knocks on my front door sent my head turning. "Shit." He was here. I downed the rest of my drink, grimaced as it washed down my throat, and peeked out of the window to see Weston's car parked in the driveway.

Just like our grocery-store encounter, he wore his work attire, minus the tie and top two buttons. The bags under his eyes were evident but did not take away from his charm. "Hey, you ready to go?" He shoved hands in hidden in his slack pockets.

"You're punctual," I said, glancing at my watch.

"Is that a problem?"

"The three extra minutes from someone late always gives me time to put my shoes on."

"Did you ever stop and think maybe you are the late one?" He looked down at my feet, then past my face at something behind me. "I didn't know we were pre-gaming before this."

I squinted and followed his gaze to the coffee table with the open wine and bottle opener. "Oh, I needed some liquid courage because I don't have any strong sedatives left. Do you prescribe those?"

The corner of his lip raised for a split second, and it took no time for elation to rush through my body, taking shape as a toothy grin on my face. He didn't fully smile, but the tiny ounce of amusement I saw in his expression was enough to satisfy me.

"What time does the meeting start?" he asked.

"At seven. So, that gives us thirty minutes to drive into town, which is usually an eight minutes drive." The tiny amount of alcohol in my veins made me step aside. "You can come in if you'd like and pour a glass of my cheap Cabernet while I put my shoes on."

He kicked his shoes off. "Are we going to be fashionably late?"

"Yes, it won't give anyone a chance to talk to us before the meeting starts."