Page 79 of Beautiful Place By the Sea

I hesitate. I want nothing more than to hop into his truck and see where the evening goes, but I would also hate for him to get stuck in the storm. If I leave now, I should be able to get back to Beach Haven before I get drenched. Probably.

“I don’t want to keep you out any longer than you need to be,” I reply.

My eyes must be telling a different story, because Oliver doesn’t seem convinced. “You said it yourself the other day—it’s a short trip. We’re not even as far away as Maisie’s.” He reaches for my hand, which turns over automatically as he laces his fingers through mine. “Let me drive you.”

Between the bruise I noticed on my temple when I looked in the mirror earlier and the maniacal grin I’m pretty sure is on my face now, I must be a real sight. “Okay,” I agree, unable to stop beaming at him.

He smirks. “You’re much easier to please than I expected.”

“Hey!” I bump him with my hip in feigned frustration. “Rude.”

“Sorry,” he says gently, dragging his lips across my cheek. My stomach flips over, under, and over again.

“I don’t think you’re sorry at all,” I joke as he leads me to his pickup.

“Nope.” His lips turn up at the corners. “I’m not.”

“So, let me ask you,” I say as we pull out of the tiny parking lot next to Shoreline. “Why the truck? Something about your tortured artist aesthetic doesn’t quite mesh with the yee-haw archetype.”

“Is that an official literary trope?” he teases.

I nod solemnly. “Oh, absolutely.”

Oliver snorts. “If I had to choose, I’d probably just walk everywhere. Or buy some sort of hybrid. But the truck is my dad’s, and it came at a price I couldn’t refuse.”

“Free?”

“Affirmative.”

If his dad’s on disability, he probably can’t drive anymore. I wonder how long they’ve had this truck. If Oliver’s had to chauffeur his father around since the accident; if he ever had the chance to be free to come and go as he pleased.

“So, what does your dad do while you’re at work?”

A pained expression flashes over his face, but it’s gone before I can interpret it further. “Not a whole lot. Puts away the dishes. Reads. Sits at the window, waiting for me to come home.”

“That last part makes him sound like a dog.”

He grins sardonically. “Yep.”

I laugh, but I’m still feeling guilty that his life has turned out this way. That he feels trapped here, in a place quite literally called “Vacationland.” And most of all, that I misjudged him so horribly. I actually can’t believe what a terrible judge of character I’ve turned out to be.

Before I know what’s happening, Oliver’s pulled into the driveway behind Beach Haven. “See? Super quick trip.”

Just then, a tremendous clap of thunder rattles the windows of the pickup. Instinctively, I grab for Oliver’s hand. “Whoa.”

“I bet that felt good reverberating through your aching head,” Oliver says sarcastically. He doesn’t let go.

“It wasn’t the best,” I admit, though any pain signals were largely ignored in favor of the sensation of his hand in mine. “How’s your face?”

“Eh,” he shrugs. “I’ve had worse.”

“Pick a lot of fights with rival poets?”

“All the time.” He turns off the motor and grabs his keys from the ignition. “Let me walk you to your door.”

I shake my head. “You should stay here, where the sky isn’t trying to kill you.”

Oliver snorts. “I think I’ll survive.”