by Kelly Rimmer
When I open my eyes one more time to glance down at her, I see that she’s shifted her head to face me. Just as my eyelids open, hers slam closed.
Curious.
She’s not protesting this turn of events, but it’s telling that neither one of us is willing to draw attention to the elephant in the room. Maybe it’s unsurprising that we want to sleep together tonight, even if we’re not quite willing to admit it aloud.
After all that we shared, it turns out it’s just too hard to go to bed alone.
Part Three
Sunday
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Paul
I WAKE TO find my face and throat are covered in a blanket of Isabel’s unruly curls. She’s lying across my chest, her face buried in my neck, one of her arms stretched across my waist.
Miracles of miracles, it’s well past dawn—I can’t even remember the last time I slept this late. As I run a mental check along my body to see if the night crowded on the sofa has thrown anything out of alignment, I’m surprised to find I don’t just feel fine, I feel fucking fantastic.
Yesterday was one of the most exhausting days of my entire life, but this morning I’m shocked by how energized I feel. After all of those months where my world felt alien and chaotic, it’s actually incredible to wake to find things feel settled.
I’m still getting divorced on Wednesday. I’ve still lost my wife. But maybe I can deal with that a whole lot better now that the discord between Isabel and me has been resolved. It still hurts that our marriage ended, and if last night proved anything, it’s surely that an open, honest conversation between us at any point during that last year might just have been enough to prevent all of the heartache. But even though that conversation came far too late, it’s finally happened, and maybe that chat really did settle something ugly inside me.
This morning, I’m certain in the knowledge that my grief this year wasn’t just about losing my marriage, it was also about losing her. Now that there’s a way forward where we might just manage to reestablish some kind of friendship connection, I feel...better. Closer to whole than I have for the longest time.
I gently shift the cloud of hair away from my face, and Isabel mumbles something in her sleep and rolls toward the back of the sofa.
I think quickly, and as she moves, I slide out from under her without waking her up. Before I walk away, I pause to stare down at her. Resisting the urge to press an affectionate kiss against her forehead, I instead tuck the blanket back up over her shoulder, then stretch my arms over my head as I walk toward the stairs.
This day feels ripe with possibilities. It’s the dawn of a whole new era for me and Isabel—the start of the chapter of our lives where we’re just friends, but maybe even good friends, because after last night, I genuinely believe that’s a possibility. Does Isabel have plans? If she doesn’t, will she want to spend the day with me? What would two friends do with a Sunday like this at Greenport?
By the time I emerge from my shower, I can smell coffee on the air. I jog down the stairs, a spring in my step, and find Isabel in the kitchen with two steaming cups on the bench before her. She’s holding a carton of half-and-half and looks a bit sheepish.
“Did you run out to the store for me?” I ask her.
She laughs under her breath and shakes her head as she finishes pouring the cream into my cup, then extends it toward me. “I bought it for you on Friday,” she informs me.
I raise an eyebrow at her and ask cautiously, “Did you open the carton on Friday, too? If so, should I check it for spit?”
“I think it was just habit, but now that we’re friends, I’m glad I could make you a nice cup of coffee.” Her eyes dart away from mine, and she asks, “Did you sleep well?”
“I think we both fell asleep halfway through that last movie,” I half lie. I’m not overthinking our mutual desire to sleep together. At the time, cuddling up with her just felt natural and right—it doesn’t mean I want her back. It doesn’t mean she wants me back. It just means we’ve now walked a pretty intense path together, and it turns out there’s a natural intimacy that comes from that.
“Yeah,” she says, and she gives me a quiet smile. “The sofa is surprisingly comfortable to sleep on.”
“Do you have plans today?”
“No?”
I was about to suggest we try the bikes again, maybe pack a picnic and go for a longer ride, but Isabel and I were always moving. She likes to be active, but it’s almost a compulsion for her sometimes, and it’s difficult for her to just stop and relax. I guess I’m the same, although my frenetic activity is usually work, not exercise. But today, all I want to do is to be in the moment with her.
“Can I organize a surprise for you?” I ask her, and she raises her eyebrows at me.
“You’ve been surprising me all weekend, so I guess that would be fitting,” she says, with a carefree laugh.
I can’t remember the last time I saw her laugh like that, and I feel an odd twinge in the vicinity of my chest as I recognize that the easygoing version of the Isabel still exists. I shake the sensation off and force myself to smile at her.
“Give me an hour?” I ask.
“How should I dress?”
“Do you have a swimsuit?”
“I think there’s one in the closet...”
“And a book?”
“I have many very heavy, unfinished books in this house,” she says wryly, but then she quirks an eyebrow. “What exactly are you thinking?”
I wink at her, then take my coffee back toward the stairs, tossing over my shoulder, “See you in an hour.”
* * *
Jess: Throw me a freaking bone, Paul. Are you two okay out there?
Marcus: Hey there, buddy. Just checking in.
Jake: Have you heard of the John Muir Trail? Was thinking of hiking it at the start of July. Would take about three weeks. You in?
My phone is still on Do Not Disturb, but the lock screen is full of emails and text messages. I unlock it and quickly clear the email notifications, then bash out some replies to the texts.
Jess, the punishment you face for meddling is that I’m not going to tell you how successful or unsuccessful your meddling has been.
Hi, Marcus. We’ve talked a lot and sorted some shit out. No need for that shark-infested moat after all, I think we might actually emerge from this weekend on friendly terms again.
Hey, Jake. Let me know the details and dates and I’ll check my schedule tomorrow when I’m back in the office. I’ll call you during the week, I’ve had the most amazing weekend.
I spend the next half hour making calls to some local vendors, then I slide the cell into a backpack so I can bring it along. I don’t intend to actually use it, but I also don’t want to be without it in case anything goes awry during the adventure I have planned for the day.
When I return downstairs, Isabel is stretched out on the sofa again, this time, reading a biography. Her hair is damp and hanging loose over the armrest, already coiling up into the ringlets. She’s not wearing any makeup. I can see the strap of her red halter-neck bikini around her neck, but the rest of it is covered by the loose T-shirt and yoga pants she’s wearing over top. She looks relaxed, happy and calm and she has never, ever been more beautiful to me.
God, I wish I could tell her.
I have to pause and draw in a breath, and forcibly remind myself that she is just a friend. Friends might hang out and spend the day together, but they don’t go around gushing to one another about how beautiful they are. Once upon a time, I’d feel an urge like this and it would be instinct to hold the words in—to let my fear hold me back, worried that I’d fumble the delivery or misread how she’d react.
It’s curious how hard it is not to say those words to her right now. It would almost be easier to just let them out.
Now, though, I hold the words in becau
se we have only just defused the tension in our relationship, and I can’t risk confusing things all over again.
“Ready?” I ask her.
Isabel looks up over the book and as her gaze skims over my body—from my flip-flops to the cap I’ve pulled on—she suddenly bursts out laughing. I raise an eyebrow at her, but her laughter bubbles up further, and I glance down my body, wondering what I’ve done to amuse her so.
“Paul Winton,” she says, when she can draw breath. “Two days ago you and I hated one another with a passion, but you were still wearing your wedding ring and you told me you couldn’t break the habit of wearing it. Today, we’re three days from our divorce, getting along better than we have in years, and you’ve finally taken it off. What gives?”
I look down at my left hand in surprise. Sure enough, I’ve left the ring upstairs on the basin after my shower. That’s not even as surprising as the fact that I have no urge whatsoever to run back upstairs to retrieve it.
“I don’t have to cling to it anymore.” I stare at my bare finger. “I can let go of what was now, because I understand what went wrong, and I know we can make a way forward as friends again.”
Isabel’s laughter fades to a sad smile. She stands and crosses the room, then throws her arms around my waist.
“I feel so good today,” she murmurs.
Yes. You do. Especially when you’re pressed up against me like that.
I plant a gentle, innocent kiss against her hair, then step back, putting some safe distance between our bodies. Will I ever lose the urge to kiss her? Or get past the shock of attraction that hits me when she’s in my arms? Will I ever train myself not to notice little details about her—like right now, when all I can think about is that she’s wearing perfume today; the citrus one she usually wears for workdays.
“What’s on the agenda today, friend?” she asks me with a smile as she rocks back onto her heels.
“We’re going to do something we’ve never done before, at least not together,” I say. She raises her eyebrows at me, and I extend my elbow for her to take it.
“This is intriguing,” she says as we head toward the front door. “But you have to give me some more information. I mean, what haven’t we done before together? Skydiving? Cross-country skiing? Joining a pie-eating competition?”
“Actually, Isabel, we’re going to do something far more radical than all of that.”
“Oh, this is exciting! What exactly do you have in store for me?”
“Well, friend...” I smile, as I push open the front door “...today, you and I are going to be still.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Isabel
“HMM. YOUR NOT-SO-SECRET admirer is going to be very disappointed,” Marie remarks when I call into her café to pick up the food Paul ordered over the phone. She lifts a picnic basket up onto her counter and gives me an amused look.
I feel myself blush. “Darby and I are just friends. And Paul and I are just friends.”
“You used to come here with Paul all of the time. You didn’t look like friends back then.”
I clear my throat, then assure her, “We’re definitely just friends now.”
“Just like you and Darby.”
“Exactly.”
“Yeah, my friends are forever giving me flowers just because and organizing romantic picnics for me,” Marie laughs. “Tell me, where are you having this platonic picnic, huh? The Eiffel Tower? A hotel room strewn with rose petals?”
“I don’t actually know where we’re having the picnic, he’s off organizing that now and it’s a surprise. But I’m pretty sure it will be somewhere very unromantic, because Paul and I really are just friends now, and even when we were together, he wasn’t exactly Mr. Romance.”
Just then, the door to the café opens, and Paul steps inside and gives me a broad smile. “Hey, Marie, thanks for this. Ready, Isabel?”
“Sure am,” I say lightly, and I scoop the picnic basket off the counter.
“Tell me, Paul,” Marie asks. “Where are you two off on this picnic today?”
“I rented a yacht. I thought we’d float around the Basin for a while and relax, maybe go for a swim if the sun comes out later,” Paul says easily, and I stumble a little. He catches my elbow and gives me a concerned look. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” I shoot a glance back at Marie to see she’s laughing smugly.
“You two enjoy yourselves,” she calls after us.
“A yacht?” I repeat once we’re out in the street. “Seriously?”
“It’s a modest yacht.” Paul shrugs. “Technically a sailboat, I think.”
“Do you even know how to drive a boat?” I ask incredulously.
He shakes his head. “Of course I don’t.”
“Great. I know we’re getting along better now, but I don’t think we’re quite ready for a Castaway type situation just yet.”
“Isabel, you wound me,” Paul says, playfully clutching his chest. “It would definitely be more of a Gilligan’s Island type situation. I’m just not sure if I’d be Gilligan himself, or the Professor.” I laugh, and he winks at me. “Fret not, Ginger. The yacht comes with its very own Skipper.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Paul
“THIS IS ABSOLUTE HEAVEN,” Isabel says as she stretches like a cat on the sundeck of the sailboat. It’s now early afternoon, and we’re lying side by side in much the same positions we’ve been in all day—stretched out on sun chairs on the deck of a Beneteau 50 as it floats on the glimmering waters of the Sterling Basin. We’re only a few dozen feet from the shoreline now, at an isolated anchorage. There’s a captain at the helm of the boat, but she’s inside in the cabin, and she’s pretty much remained invisible for most of the day.
Now, it feels a lot like Isabel and I are the only people left in the universe. Other than the sound of the waves lapping on the hull and the gentle breeze as it slips past the boat, the world feels silent and its bliss. Isabel and I have been reading for hours, shifting only to help ourselves from the picnic Marie packed for us.
I’m engrossed in a twisty psychological thriller, and Isabel is still reading that biography. Every now and again, we break from our reading to chat. The book I’m reading is too dark for Isabel’s tastes, but I’ve explained the premise, and she’s developed a theory about the ending. She thinks it was the ex-girlfriend, but I suspect that’s too obvious—I think the murderer was the mother-in-law. I actually read the book Isabel is devouring over there earlier this year, so we’ve had a few chats about that, too.
We did a lot of things during the years we were together, but never before have we shared a day like this. We just weren’t the kind of couple to laze about, but now I’m starting to suspect that was yet another thing I’ve been missing out on.
“Going for a swim soon?” I ask her, and Isabel lowers her book and wrinkles her nose at me.
“It’s too cold,” she points out.
“That never stopped you before,” I laugh softly, thinking of all the times she’d dive into the water from the beach in front of our house and I’d stand back on the deck and shake my head at her. “How many freezing cold spring days did you jump into the water back at the house and try to convince me I should join you because it was invigorating?”
“I’m old and scared now.” She grimaces.
I roll my eyes and set my book aside. “Age is an attitude.”
“Easy for you to say,” she laughs. “You’re two years younger than me.”
“So thirty-four is the age where all of the fun stops? Good to know, I’d best pack a lot of it into the next two years.”
Isabel grins and sets her book aside, then walks gingerly to climb down the ladder that leads to the swim platform. I follow her, kicking off my flip-flops and pulling my T-shirt over my head, because I expect she’s going to leap right in and I figure, since
I goaded her into this, I should at least join her.
Instead, she keeps her clothing over the top of her bikini and sits on the edge of the platform to dangle her feet in the water. I stand beside her, taking in the view and breathing in the salt air on the breeze. The cool breeze. She has a point. It probably is far too cold to swim today.
“Maybe we’re both old and boring. Is the water as cold as it looks?” I ask her, but when I glance down at Isabel, she’s giving me an odd look.
She stands, and I think she’s about to turn and go back up to our sun chairs, but instead, she says with a grin, “Sorry.”
“What for—”
I don’t even manage to finish the question before she gives me a surprisingly fierce push toward the edge of the swim platform. I shriek, and at the last second, manage to reach out and catch her hand. We both tumble into the clear blue depths, but I keep her hand in mine the whole time—mostly so I can make sure she emerges safely. Unfortunately, that means that when we breach the surface of the water, breathless, we’re nose to nose.
There are tiny droplets of water on her skin and on her eyelashes, and she’s laughing even as she splutters, and she’s just so fucking beautiful. I don’t even think as I steady myself with one hand against the swim platform. I just give in to the impulse to pull her close.
Our bodies align naturally, our hips and chests drawn together. I can feel the tight buds of her nipples through two layers of her clothing, just as I’m sure she can feel my body responding, even though the heat from her body is surely the only thing keeping my dick from shriveling up in this freezing fucking water.
We’re moving closer together when she pauses, and lifts her hand to gently, tenderly touch my cheek near my eye. And then she pauses like that, staring at me for so long that I’m starting to get confused.