Page 39 of You Met Me There

Luke sits beside me, our arms barely touching. His skin is a shade darker than mine, even though I’m quite tan myself, and his messy hair points up in contrasting angles. As he stretches out his legs, his shorts ride up just a little, showing a funny tan line where he doesn’t get much sun on his upper thighs. I resist the urge to rest my hand there.

“I think that’s a great idea,” he agrees. “The place is already set up perfectly for tourists, but if Cam is having trouble renting it out in the winter, then maybe we can help them figure out a few ways to get people interested.”

I frown. “Did he say what his photos look like on the listing?”

“No.”

“Let’s see if we can find it.” I open the search engine on my laptop and search the address.

It isn’t hard to find, and for the next few minutes, we scour through rental cabins in Maple Lake, Pennsylvania, coming up with a plethora of ideas on what seems to be working for other landlords.

“The photos don’t do it justice,” I say, raising my hands to motion around the room.

Luke shakes his head, his arm reaching across me to click through the images on the screen. “They really don’t. I mean, they’re okay, but they could be better. The lighting could be brighter, and the space looks smaller in the pictures than it really is.”

“Do you think they’d be offended if we want to take new pictures for them?”

He looks at me, and his lips are so close I smell his salty, spicy cologne. “I don’t think so. You should ask. They wanted tips on how to get winter bookings. I think new photos on the listing, as well as adding some photos on the walls for local tourist traps—maybe ones geared toward winter activities—would be useful.”

My teeth bite down on the tip of my thumbnail, and Luke gently pulls my hand away from my mouth.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. Concern dances in his eyes, and it makes me almost forget that we got here by my childish act of rebellion.

In hindsight, running away was so juvenile. It’s like I’ve never really grown up, which makes my chest tighten at how stupid that sounds.

“I don’t know,” I say. He links his fingers through mine until we fit together the way we always have, his hand just a little bit bigger than mine but lean enough that my hand doesn’t feel stretched to let him in.

I watch him as I speak. “I don’t really know how to act with my family. They don’t really know me—the me that I am now. I’m not eighteen anymore. And I don’t know them either. My mom and dad have been to so many places, my dad is retired, they have relationships with Jules and Cam and the boys that I’ll never have. Juliet is a mother, and I—” My heart pounds and I shut my mouth.

“And you’re not,” he finishes for me.

Just to have something to do with my free hand, I close the laptop and set it on the coffee table.

“We have to talk about it, Natalie.”

Sitting back on the couch, I nod. “I know.”

“You hold a lot of bitterness toward me because I haven’t wanted kids, but I think you should be very careful to not direct any of that bitterness toward Juliet.”

I look up to where he’s waiting for my reply. My eyes narrow. “I don’t. I’m not.” A strained breath rasps out of me. “I don’t hold bitterness toward her. I don’t resent her. I just … wish I had been here for everything she’s experienced. I wasn’t here for her engagement or her wedding. I missed both of the boys’ births. I didn’t even know I was an aunt until I got here a few days ago. I missed so much. If anything, I’m bitter toward myself.”

His hand pulls mine into his lap, and he slides the fingers of his other hand up and down the inside of my arm. He knows it calms me. It’s what he did when I started having panic attacks after I left home.

“The past is the past, Nat. I know it affects a lot, but you can’t go back in time and change how you did things. It happened the way it did, and now all we can do is move forward. We’re here for the summer.” He tilts his head to catch my eyes. “You’ll have months to reconnect. To make amends. Whatever you need to do, now is your chance.”

I force a smile for him. “Should we talk about our own issues, too, or is my family drama enough for one night?”

It’s his turn to frown. “First, I don’t want us to call them issues. Others might call it that, but for us it’s a bump in the road. Okay?”

He waits until I nod, still holding my hand firmly in his. He continues to slide his fingertips over the sensitive skin on my inner arm, which distracts me from his words, focusing my attention instead on the warmth of his touch.

“I know you want kids,” he murmurs. “And you know I don’t want kids. But it’s not just for the reasons you think.”

“And what do I think are your reasons?”

“You think I don’t want kids because I’m afraid to be a dad. That I’m afraid to have the responsibility.”

“And because you don’t think the world is safe for them.” I lift my chin. “Right? You’ve made all of this clear before. Many times.” The start of this conversation is hitting a nerve, and I do my best to school my reaction.