Page 102 of Beautiful Place By the Sea

After our afternoon on the boat fades to evening, Oliver and I stop for ice cream so I can get a blueberry pie cone of my own. He orders one, too. “What is life without this ice cream, Ivy?” he jokes.

“Are you ripping off George Harrison lyrics right now?” I shove him playfully with my hip.

He smiles guiltily. “All artists borrow from one another.”

“Do you fancy yourself a Beatle?” I tease.

“What can I say; you set my lyricism in motion.”

For a response that sweet, I can’t think of a clever retort. So I just insert myself between Oliver and his ice cream cone and kiss him, as if my lips can channel the ever-growing warmth in my chest straight into his. As if I can make him understand how much this means to me.

Then, we grab a six-pack from the convenience store at the top of Shore Road. We disobey the strongly worded sign banning alcohol from the beach and sit directly in the sand with our feet in the water, sipping hard lemonade and watching the sun set over the horizon.

“I love it here,” I tell him, swirling my fingers through a frothy wave that swooshed higher on the beach than I’d expected.

“It loves you,” Oliver replies, reaching for my hand. Before I can take it, he cups a handful of water and splashes me right in the face.

“Are you serious?” Setting my bottle down, I round on him. He’s laughing manically, like splashing me just now was the highlight of his life.

“You’re already all wet,” he reasons, catching my wrists where I’m trying to splash him back. He lets gravity push us backward until he’s lying down and I’m leaning over him, our arms still locked together.

I take in his blue eyes, still bright even in the twilight; the hair curling against his forehead in the evening humidity. The smile playing on his lips; a smile just for me. I’m pretty sure I’ve never wanted anything so badly in my entire life as to make him look this happy.

There are those words again, threatening to force their way out of my throat. I silence them by leaning down and fixing Oliver with the world’s sloppiest kiss, courtesy of the two hard lemonades I’ve downed since we got to the beach. Time slides away then, becoming merely a suggestion of a thing. Instead, it’s just Oliver and me, caught in an infinite moment here on the wet beach sand, surrounded by the deepening sky.

It’s not until a disapproving “ahem” sounds from behind us that we’re ejected from paradise. I look up to see an elderly couple out for a stroll, arms linked, glaring down at us like our makeout session is the most offensive thing they’ve ever seen. After reading Eleanor’s diary, I have a pretty good idea what the elderly might have been up to in their youth, so I don’t let their disgust get to me. I do sit up, though, shooting the couple a polite smile and grabbing Oliver’s hand. “Come on,” I say. “Let’s get back to Beach Haven.”

We run up the sand like this is some sort of delightful movie montage. The second we’re inside the house, he’s pressing me up against the back of the door, parting my lips with his tongue, and sending me back to that faraway place only Oliver seems capable of taking me.

A second “ahem,” this one significantly more amused, disrupts us a minute later.

“I didn’t want to intrude,” Laurel says, smirking at us, her purse slung over her shoulder.

“Then why did you?” I narrow my eyes petulantly.

“Sorry,” she replies. “I’m going out. You’re blocking the door.”

Oliver pulls me to the side. “Sorry.”

“No worries.” Laurel skirts around us and turns the knob.

“Wait a second.” I reach for her wrist. “Who are you meeting right now? Isn’t it, like, nine o’clock?” It occurs to me I have absolutely no clue what time it is. The day flew by in a wholly otherworldly way.

This is now the second time in a week I’ve seen Laurel embarrassed. “Porter?” She says it like it’s a question.

“Laurel! What about Nick?”

Oliver’s eyebrows go up. “Who’s Nick?”

Laurel shakes her head. “It’s a long story.”

“Is it, though?” I tease.

“Look, Porter’s been asking me to hang out,” she rushes. “I’m just meeting him for a drink, and I’ll tell him about Nick. We can just be friends.”

I nod slowly. “You can.”

Laurel rolls her eyes. “That’s all we’re going to be, at least for now. Why don’t you worry about your own…escapades.” She looks furtively at Oliver, then back at me. “I refilled the toiletry bag.”