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Jack’s palm finds my abdomen. He rests his hand over the crest of my hip. “You’re thinking about flying, aren’t you?”
“That, and other things.”
“Don’t.”
“Jack…”
“We’ve got a whole evening left.”
“Yeah, but—” I can’t get the words out. It would hurt too much, to try to force them through the ache in my chest and throat.
“Hazel, what if—what if it didn’t end?”
“I’ve thought about moving here, too,” I say, my eyes pinned to those far-off clouds. “But it’s not really practical. I mean, the cost of living here is so high, and?—”
“No, not Hawaii. I mean… I mean us.” He keeps that warm, heavy, strong hand on my hip. When he props his head up in his hands, I feel his eyes peering down at me.
I meet his gaze. “I thought this was our escape,” I say. The butterflies I got used to feeling early in the week kick up in a flurry. “I thought we were forgetting everything and enjoying the moment.”
I’ve felt as though my life has been on hold this week.
Like I’ve existed in some bubble.
Whenever those pesky thoughts from off the island knocked on my inner doors, I turned them away.
I did manage to email Buzzy Digital Marketing's founder to say I could meet with him upon my return home. That was the last work-related thing I did before sinking into the magic that’s been my life for the last four days.
Jack took care of that work call with Chad, who was so happy to be making progress with the sale of his house that he dropped all his complaints about the Shopper Shark email sequence.
That issue was fixed, just as Jack predicted. Watching his way of working has been eye-opening. I’m learning from his out-of-the-box thinking and easy, relaxed way of relating to people.
We’ve both slipped into this dream-like vacation world. Neither of us has talked about the future.
“We did forget everything,” he agrees. “Forgetting’s temporary, though. Sooner or later, you remember things.”
“Yeah, like my mother, who is counting down the days until she meets Matt Monroe.”
It’s easier to talk about my mother’s desires than my own. I’ll have to fess up to her eventually or stage a break-up with the fictitious Matt. That seems easy compared to the other issue looming.
When I get back to New Hampshire, I’ll be alone again.
“Hazel, what if you told her the truth?” he asks.
My gears grind along, clicking over the nitty-gritties of it. “Yeah, I should. I know I should. I’m thinking of letting it ride for a few weeks, at least until some of the yucky weather eases up. Maybe I’ll tell her I made up Matt sometime in March…”
“No, I mean the truth about us. Don’t just tell her Matt isn’t real. Tell her about me.”
My pulse ratchets up. My heart trembles. I’ve been so careful not to let my mind go here—to this exact subject he’s broaching now.
“What would I tell her?”
“Tell her we hit it off. Instant friendship.”
My mood dips.
This conversation scares me more than the thought of standing on that beat-up board, riding his dirt bike, or anything else.
So, ‘we hit it off.’ We struck up a ‘friendship.’
