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I’m going to glut myself on love. I’m going to swipe my finger through its rich vanilla icing, devour its velvety-crumb cake, and lick the chocolate ganache from my lips. I’m going to relish every bit of loving, because there’s nothing to be afraid of.
McCormick can’t leave me—he isn’t real.
He can’t hurt me—he isn’t real.
I can feast on love again without any of the pain that accompanies it.
I can explore all the flavors of our kiss. I can dive in and relish every taste, every feeling.
I like how McCormick looks at me.
I like how he kisses me.
I like how I feel when I’m near him.
And then, when I’ve had enough, I can leave this dream world. I can close it up, not having lost, only having loved. I can shut the box tight and never look back.
My mum was right. This watch is showing me my dream. I want to be able to love without ever having to fear loss.
McCormick isn’t real. He only feels real.
Maybe it’s a bit like training wheels. I can learn to ride a bike again, learn to love again. And when I’m confident, I can discard the training wheels and ride on my own.
I smile, thinking of Mila learning to ride her bike. She was wobbly and scared. Her pink handlebar streamers flew behind her as she pedaled hard. She kept her training wheels on longer than she needed them, but then one day she woke up and decided it was time to set them aside.
Perhaps that’s how this will be.
One day I’ll decide that I can set the watch and McCormick and this island aside.
But until then I’m going to ride.
I smile. The evening breeze is cooler now that the sun is down, and gray-blue clouds skitter across the star-studded sky. There’s a night perfume in the air, a soft floral scent that mixes with the barbecue chicken and grilled fish and the potatoes roasting in the hot coals of the beach fire.
The constellations are different here than in Geneva. The stars are brighter, flashing white and blue and red. That’s Mars and Venus and even Jupiter. The sky isn’t like this in Switzerland, and not in Greece or New York or Beijing. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a night sky like this.
There aren’t any city lights to smother the stars. There are only the cottages winking sleepily and the fire, sparking and glowing blue and orange in the sand, sending up little fireflies that wink out before they reach the sky.
It’s a beautiful night and a beautiful party. There are sixty-five people here—the entire population of the island. And they’re all drinking and laughing and dancing and congratulating me on fifteen years of marriage.
Junie is entertaining Sean, playing peek-a-boo with a palm leaf. A group of five kids, ages four to eleven, runs past, waving fizzing white sparklers in the air. Amy sits cross-legged on the beach reading a book by the fire, ignoring everyone. The three old women dole out huge slices of coconut rum cake—a last-minute, much bemoaned substitute to the chocolate box cake.
Across the yard, at the outdoor grills, McCormick catches my grin and his mouth spreads into an answering smile. He says something to the man next to him, his eyes on me. Then he hands the man the metal spatula he was holding and strides across the grass.
I drag in a breath of salt-smoked air and my heart taps out a quick beat.
The speakers blast music, drowning out the waves and the chickens and muting the laughter and conversations.
I watch McCormick cut through the dark, his gaze on my smile.
I wonder what happens when I leave here. I wonder what happens to him. I suppose he ceases to exist.
McCormick passes a group of men drinking beer under the marquee. They all shout at him, lifting their beers. He waves back. Robert’s with them. I’ve ignored him all night, only catching bits of conversation—fishing, hurricane season, off-island trips—and he’s ignored me too.
Hopefully it stays that way.
Finally McCormick reaches me.
There’s a tautness between us, a rubber band stretched tight, waiting to snap. The closer he comes the stronger the feeling is.
