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Jen
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As I waiton a dockside bench for the Bald Head Island ferry to arrive, the minivan of my dreams pulls up to the terminal’s entrance.
It’s white. A Honda. The back windows are rolled down, revealing a pair of pigtailed toddlers in car seats.
Their dad parks, emerges from the driver’s side, and begins to unpack a small mountain of luggage from the trunk, along with a double stroller. He piles everything on the curb, where porters wait to load it into the huge metal baggage trolleys that will come with us on the twenty-minute ferry crossing to Bald Head.
Mom, meanwhile, unbuckles one toddler, then the other. They giggle when she kisses their cheeks before placing them in the stroller.
Are they here for the weekend? Visiting grandparents, maybe? It’s mid-May, too early for the summer crowd, so someone in their family must be a local.
Whatever the case, I feel like the universe is throwingeverything I’ve ever wanted, but can’t seem to get, right in my face.
Deep down, I know that’s not true. But my heart twists nonetheless. I always thought that I’d have the kids and the cute husband and the dorky car by now. But considering my love life has been more “string of situationships” than “let’s get married and have babies” the past year or two, my minivan dreams seem further away than ever.
I startle at the bellow of a horn as the ferry pulls into the terminal. Even though Dad and my brother, Tuck, and his family all live on Bald Head, I didn’t plan on visiting the island this weekend. Tuck and his new wife, Maren, are busy prepping for the arrival of their new baby. I don’t want to intrude too much on their last little bit of time as a family of three—Tuck has a five-year-old daughter, Katie, who might actually be the love of my life.
But Dad called last night and asked me if I was free today.
“I’m happy to come to Wilmington,” he said. I live there, a small city about half an hour from the ferry terminal here at South Port. “But goes without saying you’re welcome to come to Bald Head too.”
“Everything okay?” I asked.
He evaded the question. “If you have plans?—”
“I don’t.” The depressing truth. I was hoping the guy I’ve been kinda-sorta seeing would reach out, but I haven’t heard a word from him. “And you know, I’d love the excuse to come to the beach. Weather’s supposed to be beautiful.”
So here I am, boarding the ferry at eleven A.M. Usually, I love going to the island. It’s paradise. Quiet, remote, with the most beautiful beaches in the Carolinas. But something about Dad’s call has me on edge.
I’m close to my family, so we visit each other often. It’s not out of the ordinary for Dad to invite me over. But I can tell something is off. He’s been having some weird symptoms lately—stomach aches, bloating—which, for a strong, healthyguy like him who still hits the gym almost every day, has been alarming to say the least.
I grab a seat on the ferry’s top deck. It’s open-air, the sky above pale blue, striped with the thinnest layer of clouds. Tilting my face up to the sun, I watch South Port recede as we head out onto the green-grey water. The Cape Fear River meets with the ocean here. It’s famous for all kinds of wild history. Pirates, shipwrecks.
I love how wild it still feels. This area hasn’t been heavily developed like other parts of the Carolina coast, and I imagine Blackbeard would still feel as comfortable sailing these waters today as he was back in the 1700s.
The air is warm and humid. The earthy smell of salt fills my head.
I’m very much a city girl. I love Wilmington. I have great friends there, and we enjoy the city’s excellent restaurants. Its parks and shopping.
Not gonna lie, though, I may love the ocean more.
A sliver of emerald green comes into view. Bald Head is a tiny island, less than five square miles from end to end, but it packs a punch. The views are dramatic: I can glimpse the marshland on one side of the island, and the quaint shingled buildings of Harbour Village on the other.
And beyond, the dense tangle of the maritime forest where Tuck’s best friend, Abel Miller, lives.
Like it always does, my stomach flips just thinking his name.
And like I always do, I wonder if I’ll run into him. I’ve had a raging crush on Abel for as long as I can remember. Really since we met, back when I was a hormonal pre-teen and he came to live with our family for a while because he wasn’t getting along with his dad.
Abel is that lethal combination of beautiful, broody, and forbidden that calls me. I blame Edward Cullen for starting that trend.
Abel’s been incredibly kind to me over the years. I’d date the man in a heartbeat,ifhe dated at all. I wouldn’t say Abel is a playboy. He’s not flashy like that. He just doesn’t do romance. Never brought home a girlfriend or so much as mentioned a woman’s name in passing. I don’t have the balls to ask him why he’s opposed to relationships, but I’m pretty sure it has something to do with his rough upbringing.
