“I’m going,” I say. I hang up the phone and lean forward, almost hugging the wheel. Please, God, please let me make it. I’ll never catch him if I miss the ferry.
“You’ll have to wait for the next one,” the lady in the ticket booth tells me. “This one’s full.”
“What about if I walk on?” I ask. She nods. I buy my ticket and park. The last of the cars are being loaded, which means that I will have to run to make it up the ramp before they block it off. I leave everything in my car, clutching my purse to my chest, and run.
The porter is closing the gate just as I reach the top. “Wait, wait, wait!” I yell. He holds it open for me as I dash past.
“I love you forever,” I say.
I’m on. I’m on. I’m not sure where to go. Would he stay in his car? Wander around the decks? I have twenty minutes to figure this out and I don’t work well under pressure.
I quickly walk past the café where most of the passengers are congregated and onto the main deck. There are a few stragglers outside, holding paper cups of coffee as they blink against the chilly wind. I wind around the left side, pulling my thin sweater closer to my body. The loop around the deck takes four minutes, and, by the time I reach my starting point, my nose is running. This isn’t going to work; I don’t have enough time. He could be anywhere.
I go back inside and take a photo of the Coke machine. I don’t know if he’s turned on his phone, but I hit send, and hope for the best. Kingston is disappearing behind us. I walk out the doors and stand watching the water. I feel defeated, I do. And hopeless. And stupid. And my purse is heavy because I’ve been carrying Kit’s manuscript around for the past few months. I take out the envelope and hold it in my hands for a moment before sliding out the thick stack of papers. I had to let this go, right? Just like the wine cork. If he was on his way back to Florida it was probably to make things right with Della. I hold his book above the water, my knuckles so white they blend with the paper. Then I fling them into the air. For a second it looks as if a cloud of white birds has exploded around the ferry, their thin wings vibrating on the wind. My bottom lip quivers and I grab it between my pointer-finger and thumb holding it still. My body betrays me for Kit Isley, it’s not the first time. I walk back inside, my purse lighter, and my heart heavier, and I sit in a chair facing the Coke machine. I cry.
“Have something to drink. You’ll feel better.” I look up, and an older lady with silver hair is standing over me. Her hair reminds me of Greer. She shushes me and presses six quarters into my palm, then nods toward the vending machine. “The sugar. It will help.”
I don’t want to offend her, so I scoop up my tears and stand. “Thank you,” I say. “That’s really nice.” She watches until I’m at the machine pretending to consider my options. I smile gaily and wave.
When she’s gone I press my forehead against the glass and close my eyes. I’m not even allowed to cry in peace. Blindly, I drop the quarters into the slot, one by one. Dink, dink, dink.
And then two hands appear on either side of my head. My eyes shoot open as a body pins me to the glass. I get chills. I know his smell.
Kit runs his nose along the back of my ear as his arm wraps around my waist. My mouth is open, and my eyes are closed as he circles my wrist with his free hand. It’s all warmth and the smell of woods and pine. He kisses the back of my neck and I drop the rest of the quarters. I hear them hit the floor before he flips me around to face him.
He’s right there. In my face. Forehead to forehead without warning. I’m out of breath as he runs his hands up my arms and cups my face, then pulls me tighter to him. Our lips are touching, but neither of us is moving to a kiss. It feels a little shocking to be pressed right there, against the person you’ve been wanting for so long.
“Don’t ever forget,” he says. “That it was my book, and Coke that brought us back together.”
“Your book?” I ask. He lifts his hand to reveal one crumpled page of his manuscript. “Page forty- nine.” He says. “It floated down from the Heavens and I was lucky enough to catch it before it sank into the Sound.”
“Imagine that,” I say.
“I thought I was hallucinating until I turned on my phone and saw your text.”
“Did you run up here?” I ask.
“Fast as I could.”
Our lips are touching a little as we speak.
“Why aren’t you out of breath?”
He grins. “It’s called working out, Helena.”
I touch his scruffy face, and run my hand along the back of his neck. He kisses me with soft lips and hard passion. And it’s definitely the best kiss of my life. Of my life.
Don’t be upset that you can’t attain constant happiness. It’s the quickest way to feel like a failure in life. If each of our lives represented a page in a book, happiness would be the punctuation. It breaks up the parts that are too long. It closes off some things, divides others. But it’s brief—showing up when it’s needed and filling tired paragraphs with breaks. Being content is a more attainable constant state. To love your fate without being drunk on euphoria. Brave, determined acceptance removed of bitterness. Be gentle with yourself. Embrace the lows so that you can more effectively enjoy the highs. Love the fight. Love it so much, and let it save you when your emotional muscles have become soft. Kit and I have that. Sometimes, so much joy our hearts ache from it. Sometimes, we have sadness when we’re away from Annie or Port Townsend. We feel torn between all the things we love. We fight; we make love. I don’t see Muslim again. And after one phone call, I never speak to him again. I hear plenty about him, and I remember our time. And I wonder if you have space in your heart for more than one person. I think you do.
After that day on the ferry, we move back to Florida. We do it so we can be close to Annie until we figure everything out. We keep the condo in Port Townsend and fly back to visit as often as we can. I buy a navy blue Pottery Barn couch for the condo, and hang one of Greer’s ripple paintings over it. My heart is there, in Port Townsend. We take Annie back with us sometimes, and walk her around town so everyone can fuss. She’s beautiful like her mother, and perceptive like her father. She thinks Greer is a real fairy, and Greer plays the part. Della doesn’t ever forgive me, but that was expected. We were for a season. I don’t ever become good at art. I dabble here and there. I feel good about that. I’m a dabbler. When Kit’s mother becomes ill, I move back to Port Townsend to help her. Kit flies up on weekends, but the time with him never seems like enough. I am stretched, pulled tight. I want to be with Kit and Annie, but I want to be here, too. I am glad for the excuse to be in the place I love.
Eventually, we grow out of the condo and buy a small house in PT. A place where no one can find us. It’s a hidden plot. A side street, down a side street, down a side street. It’s not that we don’t want to be found; we just want to make it difficult.
The house has a wraparound porch. Kit has two chili pepper rocking chairs shipped to us from the goat farm. We set them up on the west side of the house, so we can hear the water from the stream, running over the rocks. Most nights I bring a warm mug of wassail outside, and sip slowly, listening to the creatures of Washington and watching the sun set over the Sound. They are loud, and they make me laugh. It feels like I’m waiting for something, though I’m not sure what. Everything makes me jumpy—noises, shadows, the sound of car tires on gravel.
In early August one year later, my wait comes to an end. Summer licks the sky clean of rain clouds, and the coast blows a hot breath across the Northwest. The weather drives me outside more than usual. I sip wine from an old, chipped mug one afternoon, as a truck bounces down the dirt road at an alarming speed. It hits a ditch, and I think it’s going to careen into my catalpa, when it suddenly veers right and comes to a halt in front of my house. My forehead dents as I lean forward in my rocker. I am not cool in that moment. Instead, I am like an elderly woman in her rocker, pissed that someone almost hit her favorite tree. The door of the truck swings open and black
boots drop into my mud. I stand up, my heart racing, knocking over the mug of wine at my feet. The sun shines in my eyes. Goddamn sun! It doesn’t even belong here. I place a hand across my eyes to shield them and step through the wine, leaving footprints of red on the white paint. I see a face, striking blue eyes, and a lion’s walk. My whole world rocks. It’s been two years, but still, this reaction. I settle back into my chair, lest my knees give. I am too afraid to look, because what the fuck? I can’t survive another dream. Palms sweating, heart at a gallop, he lowers himself into the chair next to mine.
He sits. Like he’s been sitting there all along.
“Hello, Helena.”
“How did you find me?” I ask. He just smiles. “I saw you on the news,” I say. “Got yourself into a lot of trouble.”
“I blame you for that,” he says.
“Oh yeah?”
“You were the one. I could have changed, been better.”
“Just like a narcissist,” I say, “to blame someone else for their choices.”
He laughs.
“You can come with me now…”
I shake my head, though my heart is beating wildly. I almost did last time, didn’t I? Abandon everything and go with him.
He stands up to go, our reunion apparently over. The rocker creaks as it releases him and swings back angrily. He stops at the bottom of the steps that lead to the drive and turns around.
“Do you think they’ll catch me?” he asks.
I stand up and walk to the edge of the porch, wrapping an arm around one of the beams. I look down at him seriously.
“I think they need to.”
“You’re the only one who’s ever told me the truth,” he says, smiling. And then he leaves, the gravel sliding beneath his boots as he climbs back into the truck. “Goodbye, Helena.”
“Who was that?” Kit asks, coming to stand beside me. His hair is ruffled from his nap, and I reach up to smooth it. My heart clenches when I touch him. Every time. It was improbable, but he’s mine.
“That cult leader from the news I told you about. The one I almost ran away with.”
“Shit,” he says. “Should I get the gun?”
“Nah. He came to say something he needed to. Now he’s gone.”
“What did he say?”
“That I was the one.”
“I’m getting the gun.” Kit turns back to the house, but I grab his arm, laughing.
“I’m your one, Kit Isley.”
He leans down to kiss me, but his eyes are on the road where Muslim drove away. He’s not a jealous man, but he’s possessive.
“Do you think they’ll catch him?”
I think about Muslim's elusive, flowing personality. The way he can talk his way into or out of anything, and wrap my arms around Kit.
“No. But someone will.”
“It’s time to get married,” Kit says.
I push away from his chest and scrunch up my nose. “What the...?”
“You’re not dragging this out another year,” he tells me. “Not with that guy trying to recruit you. He’s like a cult leader pin up model.”
I lean back into his chest and close my eyes.
“You’re thinking about pulling out your box of socks,” he says, kissing the top of my head.
“I am. I believe there’s a match for each one and I’m going to find them.”
“All right, baby. I’m going to go cook some fish I caught with my own hands while you touch your socks.”
He disappears back into the house, but a minute later he sends me a text. It's a picture of our bed. Fuck, Love? It says underneath it. I laugh, and take a selfie because I am happy, and this is a weird night. Before I go inside I glance at the road one last time, wondering where Muslim will go from here. A lion on the prowl. I can hear a noise—something distant—a helicopter, maybe?
Ra
ta
ta…
I can say fuck love all I want, but over the last few years, people have shown me such extraordinary love. Love enough to restore some of the parts of me I let slip away. 2015 started rough for me, and then continued to be rough. I would like to thank the people who stood with me, refusing to take “no” for an answer, and taking up both sword and shield to fight for me.
Christine Sams is both strange and wonderful and inexplicably kind, despite the bitter little deliveries life has sent you. Thank you for my house. This book is really for you--you who should have said “Fuck love” a long time ago, yet you continue to believe in the goodness of people. Nights drunk on Benadryl are my favorite. One day we will tell everyone your story. Slytherin!
Jenn Sterling, I won’t lie to you. Except when I do. I love you. Gryffindor!
Lyndsay Matteo, there’s never been a friendship created by a bigger mess. I don’t even know what to say. I feel like we can turn any bullshit into something beautiful. Please fight hard for the things you want. I believe in you. Gryffindor!
Ma and Pa Capshaw, for watching my small people so I could write this book. Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw!
Nina Gomez, every time I call you freaking out about something you laugh at me. Like genuine laughter. I have your laugh memorized, because you laugh at me so often. You approach problems like a prophetic ninja. It’s half faith, half combat. I’ve believed in myself more because of your prophetic ninja laughter and the way you always say, “You’ll be fine. You’re Tarryn Fisher.” Seriously, though. Thank you for my house. And for laughing at me. Slytherin!
Thanks to Jennifer Stiltner for answering all of my questions and volunteering part of your story for this book. Slytherin! (Yes, don’t argue)
Jaime Eee-what-sue-roo, for that late night text that sent me back to Banks. I needed Banks. I needed you. You are an exceptional human, Jaime. I love you. Gryffindor!
Kavika, my tattoo artist and the most self-evolved human I’ve ever met. That conversation about contrast, Kavika! I’m still waiting on your blog. Gryffindor!!
Serena Knautz, lover of my soul. We will never have bad blood, though we will drink the blood of our enemies. Too much? Gryffindor!
Claire, the perfect girl for the job. I love your beautiful heart. Gryffindor!
Madison Seidler, for a truly giving and self sacrificial heart. Thank you for always talking things over with me and fixing my serious punctuation issues. You make me laugh, because you make fun of me; also, you’re insane. Slytherin!
MariPili Menchaca, thank you for the beautiful cover. You were the right person for the job. I think you deserve the most beautiful love. It will come. Ravenclaw!
Jovana, I really, really appreciate you. You always fit me in. I keep expecting you to tell me to go to hell, and you never do. You are so good to me. Ravenclaw!
My unicorn, Amy Holloway, who brought me to the magical town of Port Townsend. I don’t know, if PT is magical because you’re there, or if you’re magical because you’re in PT. But, either way you ain’t no Muggle. My soul loves you so hard, Amy. Ravenclaw!!
Lori, you don’t speak Parseltongue, that’s okay. Tongues! Thank you for warring with me, and dreaming things when I can’t see them clearly. All my life I prayed for someone like you. I can’t sort you, Lori. I think maybe Gryffindor, but you remind me of myself. We’ll leave it to the Sorting Hat.
Do I have to thank Colleen again? God, I’m so sick of thanking Colleen. Shit, she’s so great, you know? Thank you, Colleen. You’ve made a circus out of our friendship. Filthy Muggle.
And finally, Joshua. Who stayed all winter. I love you. Gryffindor!
OTHER BOOKS BY TARRYN
Marrow
Mud Vein
LOVE ME WITH LIES SERIES
The Opportunist
Dirty Red
Thief
NEVER NEVER SERIES
Never Never, Part One
Never Never, Part Two
TARRYN WELCOMES STALKING
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Tarryn Fisher, F*ck Love
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F*ck Love Page 23