Sol doesn’t say anything right away, just reaches for her drink, her fingers tracing the rim of the glass like she’s giving me space to breathe. There’s no pity in her expression, only quiet understanding, and somehow that feels even more intimate.
She clears her throat lightly. “Is that the sunscreen dealer?”
The corner of my mouth lifts. “Yep.” I laugh softly, swirling the condensation on my glass with my thumb. “She’d love you. Probably start planning vacations with matching outfits immediately.”
The words are out before I can catch them. Too easy and familiar and I know it’s a mistake before even looking at her reaction.
Sol blinks, surprised, like she’s not sure what to do with being imagined in my family’s orbit, even as a joke. She tips her head and smiles, but there’s hesitation in it. “That sounds nice.”
“Yeah,” I saw quickly, forcing a chuckle, rubbing the back of my neck. “She’s a menace, but she’s great.”
I drain the rest of my drink just to have something to do. The wine’s warm, and suddenly so is my face. What the hell am I doing, pulling her into a version of my life that doesn’t exist? She’s leaving. This is supposed to be simple.
Across the table, she looks away, tracing the rim of her glass with one finger, and the moment—whatever that almost was—slips quietly between us.
I clear my throat, trying to make it light again. “Anyway. You’d have to survive my mom’s cooking first. That’s the real test.”
She smiles, but her eyes linger on me a little too long, and I can feel the shift. The realization that this stopped being just fun somewhere between last night and this exact moment.
When the plates are cleared, we walk out to the beach. The sun has long slipped behind the horizon, but the air is still thick and warm. The light catches her skin in a way that makes her glow, and for a split second, I imagine what this would look like if it weren’t a vacation thing. Two people who get to do this whenever they want.
It’s the most dangerous thought I’ve had in a while, and I know I’m letting my futuristic, hopeful self romanticize something that is absolutely not.
I want to reach for her hand but stop halfway, my fingers twitching like they’re second-guessing me.
“What’s got you smiling like that, Sunshine?”
Sol blinks and touches her lips with the tips of her fingers, just barely so, like she can’t believe the words that came out of my mouth. She laughs, and I swear I can feel it under my skin.
“I…” The sound of waves swells and fades around us and she stops walking where the water barely reaches our toes. “This is probably the wildest thing I’ve done in my life.”
She says it to the water, without looking at me. There’s a slight shift of her lips, and I’m hoping that means she doesn’t regret this. “Yeah?”
“I mean, moving to the United States was already pretty wild. I’m from a tiny town so my parents definitely thought I was rebelling.”
I smile, picturing it. I want to say something, anything, but all that comes out is, “And now?”
She shrugs, still looking at the ocean. “And now they think I’m crazy for staying. They wanted me to move back after the divorce, but I couldn’t.”
Her voice doesn’t crack, but something in it softens, like she’s not used to talking about this out loud.
“I didn’t want to start over somewhere I already knew too well and where everyone knew my secrets, you know? It’s easier to reinvent yourself when no one’s watching.”
I nod, even though she’s not looking at me. “Yeah. I get that.”
“Do you?”
“Sure.” I kick at the sand, watching it crumple under my foot. “I grew up in Connecticut and New York was never too far, but when I moved there after grad school, I thought it would be temporary. I’m still there and still figuring it out. Even though I travel so much, I consider it home.”
She finally glances at me, eyes narrowed. “Do you like it?”
“The figuring out part?” I huff a laugh. “Not really. It’s wildly uncomfortable. But I think I’m good at pretending.”
That earns me a small smile from her, and it feels like winning even though this is not a game or a competition.
The water laps closer, catching her ankle, and she steps back when she feels waves at her feet. I can’t stop staring.
She turns slightly, facing me now, arms crossed against her chest. “So, what happens after this, New Yorker?”
