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I’m no longer laughing. I turn and Maren is staring a hole through my head.
“The club?”
“Yeah.” Not really. But she’s not ready for the truth yet. “Ready?”
She nods, expression solemn. “Grandpa, thank you for being my support, my cheerleader, my friend and confidant. Thank you for buying my first tennis racket. Thank you for always believing in me. But most of all, thank you for loving me. I’m sorry…” Tears stream down her face and her chin trembles. She bears down. My beautiful, tough Nordic goddess. “I’m sorry for not being there when you left this place…hope you forgive me. Say hi to Grandma and I’ll miss you forever.”
Maren stands and walks over to the shoreline. And as the sun finally disappears, she opens the urn and lets Rowdy ride the wind.
* * *
Maren
After we said goodbye to my grandfather, we set up camp. Noah started a fire while I opened the pop-up tent and set out the folding chairs, the mood subdued, both of us quiet.
“Crystal cornered me at the library,” I throw out. It sits like a stinky dead fish between us, fouling up the air. I glance sideways and watch him rummaging in his bag. “She wanted to apologize.”
Glancing up from the food he’s taking out of the bag, the careful look Noah casts at me is almost comically. “Yeah?” he says noncommittally and hands me a sandwich and a cold bottle of water. “Did she?”
“If you want to call it that,” I grumble and bite into the sandwich. “Holy crap, this is delicious. Did you make this?”
He nods, one side of his sexy mouth kicking up. Then it drops and caution takes over. “What did she say to you?”
“A lot. She loved reminding me that I used to follow you around like a pathetic puppy––her words.”
Now he looks mad. He blinks and goes back to staring at his food. The vein in the middle of his forehead makes an appearance. “I’ll talk to her.”
Panic stirs in my gut. I don’t want him anywhere near her.
In the silence he glances up again and reads my expression. “Maren, don’t. I should’ve said I’ll tell her to stay the fuck away from you. She should never have said that.”
“I saw you guys talking at the fair.”
“No––what you saw was her trying to talk to me while I was doing a piss-poor job of avoiding her.”
I want to believe that, I really do, but can I?
“She said you…cried after.”
As if he didn’t hear me, he places his trash in a garbage bag, then mine. He won’t look at me.
“Did you hear me?”
“I heard you.”
He still won’t look at me. “And?”
“And I think some things are best left in the past.”
“I want to talk about it.” I watch the dying embers of the fire, crackling as it peters out for good. My gaze lifts and runs right into his, smoldering like the dying fire.
“No.”
“Well, I do.”
“Well, I don’t.”
“Why not?!”
“Because nothing good will come of it!” He stands abruptly, rubs his face. “Fuuck!” He storms into the tent. Then he storms back out. “You can’t stay out here by yourself. Come inside.”
“Why won’t you talk to me? You used to tell me everything.” He faces me then. The turmoil is obvious, lurking right below the surface of his calm expression. “We both know how the story ends…if anyone should be upset it’s me and yet I want to talk about it.”
“I can’t talk about this…I’m sorry.”
* * *
Five minutes later I step inside the tiny tent with the shadow of our argument preceding me. And as if that isn’t uncomfortable enough, I happen to walk in the exact moment he’s undressing, stripping his shirt off. No surprise, I’ve always had the worst timing.
While he pulls the shirt over his head, my eyes stray, taking in every detail of the body of the man he’s become, so different from the boy in my memories. Where he only had a few tattoos before, his chest is now covered with the story of his life, the ink marking every milestone, every tragedy…my name. I keep staring at it, torn between delight and despair.
Heat races up my neck.
There’s not enough room in this tent for me, him, and all the unspent lust between us. Something’s going to give soon. I just hope I’m not making a huge mistake when it finally does.
The shirt drops and he catches me looking. I don’t even bother to feign innocence. “You have so many more.” The last time I saw his bare chest, he had just finished the skull and cross in memory of his parents.
I step closer and his breath stalls. It’s the smallest of movements, his chest puffed out, throat conspicuously still. Except I notice. I notice because noticing him is all I’ve ever done.
Slowly, I raise my hand and trace each cursive letter written above his heart that spells my name. We’ve been touching all day and it feels so, so right it scares me. He flinches at first, as if my touch burns, but then he leans into it.
