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“I did. It feels good to be clean.”
“It sure sounded like you were very busy in there getting clean.” She says this with a small grin, and her cheeks start to flush.
So, she heard me after all. Probably because the second time I jerked off I had the water off and I moaned as I came. Luckily, I didn’t say her name as I did. I think.
“Listening in, Angel?” I walk towards the bed. “Next time I won’t try to be quiet for you. I’ll ask you to join me.”
“In your dreams, Steel,” she says.
“Oh, you’d be shocked by the content of my dreams.”
“I’m not that easy to shock.”
“That’s what I like so much about you, Ange. Always cool.” If only she knew how much she surprised me on a daily basis. How I felt my axis tipping closer and closer to her the more time we spend together.
That mask slips over her face though, and I kick myself for saying she was always cool.
“But I know,” I start to say, scrambling to fix it. “I know how much effort being that composed takes. And you don’t have to be like that around me if you don’t want to. You can scream. And cry. Vent to me like you did earlier.”
“Thanks.” She doesn’t meet my eyes as she says it, but what I’m realizing about Angela is that she’s not good at accepting softness, or kindness. Not from me, not anymore. But if she says thanks, then she means it. And her eyes are crinkling around the edges like she’s keeping a smile in.
“Food?” I ask, holding my hand out to her.
“You read my mind.”
She gets off the bed without taking my hand, but as we walk towards the door, I feel her reach out and brush my fingers with her own. Once, twice, and then her touch is gone.
But it keeps a lightness in my step all the way down the stairs, out the front door of the general store, and across the street to Shaky Jane’s.
17
ANGELA
When we stepinto Shaky Jane’s we’re greeted by the smell of fried fish and a hodgepodge of antique fishing gear strung from the ceiling and decorating each of the small booths. From wooden buoys strung on thick ropes, to old lobster pots, and what look to be hand carved model boats, Shaky Jane’s is pure old-timey Maine. There’s even a harpoon hanging over the bar.
I instantly fall in love with it.
I might not have been born in Maine, and I might not have fishermen for forefathers, but I can’t help but feel at home in this place. It reminds me of Harborview, which is the place that has always felt the most like home, no matter how long I tried to run from it, and from the man standing next to me. I avoided moving back to Harborview for years, missing my home, all because I was scared of him.
“It’s perfect,” he says at the same time as I say, “I love it.”
He turns to me and beams, and damn it, I feel myself beam back, smile scrunching my cheeks up to my eyes, my teeth surely showing.
And I’m too tired of fighting it. Fighting off how much he makes me smile. How good it feels between us. I’m only awoman after all, not a superhero. I’m only capable of so much. And I can’t resist smiley, twinkly eyed Carter.
A woman approaches us from the bar.
“You must be the hikers,” she says. Her voice is rough, like she smokes a pack a day, and she’s wearing a flannel shirt rolled up to her elbows. Her arms are tattooed and I glimpse an anchor and a whale. She’s not much older than us though, probably only thirty-five.
“And you must be Jane,” Carter says.
“Nope,” is all she says, without elaborating.
“Anyways,” I say after an awkward pause. “Can we sit? Are you serving?”
“Yep. Serving until 8:00 p.m.”
Well, I guess she’s not one for many words. Seems like my type of woman.
