Page 119 of Beautiful Place By the Sea

He snickers. “I see how it is. Well, even if that’s all I get, this place has free bread, too. Definitely worth it.”

“It’s not actually free if you’re paying for the meal. They work that into the cost.”

“You’re an oracle of economics, Ivy.”

“And you,” I say, poking his shoulder with my pointer finger, “are a huge dork.”

It feels good to be bantering again. Regardless of what happens in a few weeks, this feels right.

Oliver picks me up at Beach Haven at seven o’clock. “It’s just out of town,” he’d explained to me earlier. “A bit too far to walk, given how full of bread we’re going to be when we head home.”

“I think you underestimate my self-control,” I’d told him.

“Huh.” He’d raised his brow. “Because you never seem able to control yourself around me.”

That’s when I’d pursed my lips and pretended to swat him away.

The restaurant is like something out of a fairy tale, with twinkling white lights coiled around exposed wooden beams and floating candles at every table. The bread is incredible; warm and fresh from the oven, with just the right amount of crust. Oliver orders a chicken sorrentino dish, and I pick the penne alla vodka, which has always been my favorite.

“So,” I say, swirling a glass of pinot, “how was your day?”

He snorts. “Oh, you know. It was fine. Pretty busy; reset some displays. My coworker was a little annoying at times, but I’ve learned to just tune her out.”

“Ha!” A laugh erupts from the top of my throat. “You think you’re pretty clever, don’t you?”

“You think I’m pretty clever,” he retorts, grinning.

“This is true,” I shrug.

He takes a sip of his water. He’d insisted that I order the wine I wanted, even though he was abstaining since he’d be driving us home. I study his features in the glow of the string lights: his dark eyelashes, stark above the blue of his irises; his lips, which always seem like they’re hiding a smirk. His shoulders, which have borne the weight of so much; his hands, smooth like his poet’s soul, despite how hard he works.

I can’t hurt him. I just can’t.

He’s been desperate to escape this town since his mother left. And now he’s stuck here, probably forever, looking after his dad. When his father is older and requires more medical attention, Oliver will either have to provide that care himself or hire someone. He’ll need time off work, or more money, depending on which approach he chooses. If I accept Maisie’s offer, I don’t think Oliver will get either.

I still don’t understand why she offered the position to me. Deep down, I’m a little frustrated about it, honestly. That she picked me over him; that she put us in this position in the first place. Why couldn’t she have just given Oliver the job and let me stay on as a clerk? Maybe I could have taken another job in town, waitressing at night, or something, to make ends meet. I could have made it work. But she’d said, “I’m asking you.” And it’s her store. I didn’t feel right questioning her motivations.

My grandparents sacrificed so much for each other—Eleanor, the romantic love she craved. Charlie, a lifetime of love with Simon. At least they lived peacefully together. My parents couldn’t even do that much when things got tough. I just don’t see how Oliver sacrificing his needs so I can stay is going to work out in the long run. It’s not what’s best for either of us.

“What?” He catches me mid-rumination again.

I shake my head. “Nothing.”

His gaze sweeps my face. “Didn’t look like nothing.”

My heart is thumping almost painfully in my chest. I don’t want to ruin this lovely evening. Whatever time we have left together. But he’s clearly seeing right through my attempts at closeting my feelings. It wouldn’t be fair to keep things from him.

I take a deep breath. “I think I have to accept the Springfield job.”

Water flows in at the corners of his eyes, but he blinks it back almost as quickly as it appears. “I understand.”

I nod several times, as if convincing myself that this is for the best. “But it’ll be okay. It’s only two-and-a-half hours from here.” Reaching for his hand, I force another smile. “We can visit each other whenever our days off line up. It will all work out.”

My brain immediately rebuts that suggestion; Oliver works almost every weekend at Shoreline, and the Springfield role is Monday through Friday. But I have to stay positive. “We’ll make it work,” I reiterate, as if bringing the words to life will manifest their reality.

Oliver doesn’t look convinced, either, but he squeezes my hand. “We’ll make it work,” he agrees. His lips tilt in something resembling a smile, but his eyes remain ringed in sorrow.

After dinner, Oliver invites me to spend the night at his house again. Laurel is still licking her wounds, and I’ve been trying to give her as much space as possible.