Nana leans in, marking one of my boards for me when thefirst number is announced. “It’s okay to want more. Just make sure you know what you want more of. Some things have shitty returns, and it might be too late to go after what you really want.”
“What if I don’t know?”
“You’ll figure it out, Jack. You always do.”
Two hours later, I’m hunting for a house tucked away on a side street off Main. Fog’s rolled in thick from the harbor, and the drizzle turns the early October night damn near black.
The small gray beach cottage has bright-white shutters and window boxes overflowing with dark-burgundy vines and little ghost cutouts poking out on top. A cluster of rubber bats flies across the salmon-pink front door, and there on the step, a pumpkin with a pink bow on its stem, just like the ones outside the Salty Romantic.
My jacket’s damp, cap pulled low to shield my glasses from the rain. The hot pizza box stings one palm, while the Slurpee clutched in my other hand is freezing. I’m cleared to drive, but my headache’s bad enough that I’d rather walk back to Ethan’s later. It’s only a few minutes away anyway.
I knock on Izzy’s door. No answer. Then, through the sidelight, there’s a quick flash of pink before it disappears.
“I just saw you.” I try to fight back my smile. “I know you’re there, Izzy.”
“Go away,” she calls from the other side of the door.
“Is this how you treat all your boyfriends?” That word tastes strange on my tongue. I haven’t had a girlfriend for a year or two now. It’s much easier to keep everything casual with my schedule.
Though that’s not completely true.
The door swings open. My gaze lands on her pink, fuzzy strawberry socks, then the quilted robe cinched tight at her waist. Her blue eyes glare at me, but I catch the small tremble at the corner of her mouth as if she’s mortified to be discovered looking this way.
I try not to let anything play out across my face, try not to let my gaze linger. But there’s something so soft and vulnerable about her.
Izzy crosses her arms. “You didn’t mention anything about stopping by when you texted earlier.”
“Needed to see if you’d reply.”
She gives me a tight nod, swinging the door back and forth an inch or two, as if she’s arguing with herself about whether she’ll let me in. “First my shop, now my house…”
I lift the pizza box a little higher, the smell of cheese and grease heavy in the air between us. Then, I shove the Slurpee toward her, breaking out the dimples. “I’m prepared to bribe you if necessary. But you better hurry up and grab this because it’s fucking freezing.”
Izzy surveys my hand before carefully extracting the icy drink.
“Does this work normally?” She spins and gestures for me to follow her inside. At least she doesn’t slam the door in my face.
For a moment, I’m struck by the way her long black hair swishes against the small of her back, half tied up in a pink satin bow. I shouldn’t be imagining what her hair would feel like wrapped around my fingers, or how perfectly my palm would fit against that spot at the base of her spine.
I shake it off, or try to, and step inside.
Her cottage is warm and smells like books and something sweet. Vanilla maybe. My glasses fog as the heat hits, blurring the coziness of her living room. It takes a few blinks before I can see a knitted blanket bunched up next to the opened paperbackand a wineglass of iced coffee on the ottoman in front of the couch.
Everything is pink and pretty and perfectly put together, but that all feels like a fragile illusion that might break if I’m not careful.
“Here.” She grabs the pizza from me and sets it on a table tucked behind a low bookcase dividing the living room from the kitchen. The vintage tablecloth is dotted with bright strawberries and what looks like… signatures. It’s embroidered with dates and little notes to Izzy. Memories of nights I know nothing about.
“What are you doing here, Jack?”
My attention snaps back to her, well, partially. I’ve never seen pink kitchen cabinets before. They match the bookshelves at her bookstore, that same bubblegum pink.
I rub my hands together, rocking back on the heels of my boots. Not sure why my stomach feels all bubbly like I drank too much milk or something. “We’ve got to come up with a convincing story.” I walk over to the table and point to the box. “I brought pizza.”
“Yeah, I see that.” A small, rough chuckle.
Outside, rain taps softly against the windows, and the already gloomy night is black now. October in New England has teeth.
“We agreed to threepublicdates.”
