Page 19 of Plotting Summer

“Thanks.” I quickly slide the groceries into the back. My arms feel like they might float right off my body with their newfound freedom, so I wrap them around my midsection to keep any involuntary movements to a minimum. “The thing that keeps the door open is apparently broken.”

“Apparently.” Still propping the door, Tristan gives one of his heart-stopping smiles. I nearly convince myself to look away, but I don’t. Doing so is like the equivalent of glancing away from the last moments of a sunset when the sun finally dips beneath the horizon. Ooh! I’ll have to remember that line—it’s perfectly cheesy and something my readers will eat up. “Can I ask what your plan was?”

I give a tight laugh, not sure how exactly to handle his teasing. “Let’s just say I’m not confident I possess the acrobatic abilities or the strength to have pulled it off, so it was a good thing you saw me.”

He chuckles.

We stand for another few breath cycles in awkward silence before I begin phase one of my exit strategy and take a step toward the driver’s side. “Well, I’m going to be late for dinner, so I’d better go.” I throw a thumb over my shoulder like I’m a career hitchhiker. “But thanks for coming to my rescue. Again.”

He closes the trunk and gives that look of his—the one where his brow furrows slightly and his eyes crinkle at the corners. The one that means he doesn’t quite understand. Specific to this moment: he clearly can’t figure out why I’m so desperate to leave. For the third time today. But I’m counting it as a good thing because if he knew, he’d be the one bolting. And, if the article I just read is correct, I'm guessing that's exactly what he'll be doing in the near future.

I turn my back so I don’t have to further witness the hurt I’m causing him—even if it’s a teeny tiny, miniscule wound for him—and begin to search my pockets for the keys. Except they aren’t there.

“Looking for these?” he says, walking toward me and dangling the Suburban keys in front of him. “You left them in the lock.”

What’s wrong with me? I haven’t felt this scatter-brained in … I don’t know how long. “It’s crazy how important those things are for driving.”

“So it would seem.” He gives a half smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and hands them to me. “Maybe I’ll see you later.”

I clutch the keys, letting them dig into my palm to counter my desire to lessen his disappointment. “Maybe.”

He only makes it a few feet before he pauses and faces me again. His hands are tucked in his pockets, and those sea-green eyes are locked on me. “Are you avoiding me, Capri?”

“Me?” I ask, pointing to myself while shaking my head excessively. “No.” I’m usually super opposed to flat-out lying as I’m more of a partial truth girl when it’s necessary, but I have no choice here.

“You are,” he says matter-of-factly. He shifts and runs a hand through his hair, and I’m glad he doesn’t know how entirely affected I am by that one little action. It’s thankfully less potent than a truth-serum, but only just. “Does it have to do with the boat ride we took right before I left for college? Where I⁠—”

“Nope,” I blurt, stopping him from finishing whatever he was going to say. “That was so long ago. Like a really, really long time ago.” Yes, I still daydream about it from time to time—at least the fictional version of how it might have gone had my feelings been reciprocated—but that’s not my point. Any mention of The Incident needs to remain firmly in the past where it belongs.

He doesn’t look completely convinced by my insistence. “Then what is it?”

I shrug. It’s the best I can do considering the situation.

“If it’s something I’ve done⁠—”

“It’s not. I mean, it’s not only you I’m avoiding.” Crap. I didn’t intend to say that. I shake my head, thinking how to fix this. “It’s everyone on Sunset Harbor … other than my family. And Jane.” Why do I think I can actually fix anything by continuing to speak? I have a track record that strongly suggests otherwise. “Besides, so much has changed the last little while, it doesn’t quite feel like home anymore.”

He studies me for a second, as though he’s trying to determine how best to respond. “I get that.”

That’s not the response I’m expecting. “You do?”

“Except for a few quick visits, I’ve been avoiding coming back since Bridget called off our engagement. Until a few months ago, that is.”

I fidget with the keys in my hand. “I was sorry to hear about that.”

“Don’t be. Her dreams were always too big for our little island.” I don’t miss that he calls it our island, though I know he doesn’t mean it the way I want him to. The way I absolutely, positively shouldn’t want him to. “I suppose I worried that all my memories with her—the reminders of the life we were supposed to have—would drown me if I came back.”

“But they haven’t?”

“Oh, they completely have.” The broad smile that lights his face contradicts his heartbreaking admission, and he gestures toward the store with a lifted hand. “It’s been three months, and I still do my grocery shopping here to avoid running into Bridget’s family. Honestly, outside of work, I avoid most people on Sunset Harbor these days if I can help it. It’s like people don’t know how to act around me anymore or what to say.” His eyes lock on mine again. “It’s not their fault, but it still sucks.”

The ensuing silence presses on me. I swallow, dropping my gaze to the keys I’m still fidgeting with. I can’t return openness for openness. No matter how grateful I am for Tristan’s attempt to relate to me.

In my periphery, he draws a step closer. “And I didn’t say all of that so you’ll feel obligated to tell me anything. I don’t need to know your reasons for avoiding Sunset Harbor.”

Timidly, I lift my gaze to his. “Thanks. And thanks for telling me … all of that. It’s helpful to know I’m not the only one trekking all the way to the mainland grocery store.”

“What can I say?” He lifts his hands at his sides. “If you ever want someone to commiserate with, I’m your guy.” I laugh until I see Tristan’s gaze go distant. His expression turns thoughtful and he gives a short, “Hmm.”