Page 12 of Fall Love

She’s going to look at me as her enemy, which is too bad because we were once lovers.

Just once.

CHAPTER 5

[Tate]

Three days after finishing that oil change and transmission flush, Neve Snowe is still on my mind. We didn’t talk much after I completed work on Aunt Charma’s SUV. My aunt made herself at home, cozied up in the waiting room with her mug of pumpkin-scented coffee, chatting away with Neve about something that had Neve occasionally laughing. I couldn’t hear the sound, but strangely, I felt it. A rumble in my gut that made me smile.

I hadn’t planned to stay in Lovewell Landing for long, but my cousins convinced me to stay through the weekend. Monday is Labor Day, the official end of summer. Plus, Lumi Snowe will be returning on Tuesday. Although I’m here for business, it didn’t take much to twist my arm into adding a few extra days to my visit.

On a run through Lovewell Landing, I’m reminded of how much I loved this place as a kid and how long I’ve been away from it. Coming back at the end of December last year had been out of necessity. Mental sanity and a wounded heart. I hadn’t been looking for a rebound. That wasn’t what Neve had been. I’d simply been trying to prove to myself I was ready to get back out there. Only after Neve, I hadn’t gotten any farther than I’d already been.

Single. Alone. Waiting.

Whenever I returned to Lovewell Landing, I always felt a sense of urgency. Like something was around a corner, just out of reach, but maybe, just maybe, waiting for me as well.

The sensation was always present when I was a hormonal teen. Now in my forties, perhaps it’s just sentiment that recalls the feeling. Call me idealistic or romantic. The comments have been said before.

But as I race through town, feet hitting the pavement of the narrow sidewalk, every place I pass is full of nostalgia. The ice cream parlor. The coffee shop. The historic docks.

Jogging through the center of town, I veer off toward the lighthouse, a steep climb uphill, but a perfect run along a wooded lane before breaking onto a peninsula of land that juts into the bay. The wind is stronger here. The smell of salt in the air mingles with a subtle stench of lobster and fish. I sprint faster, as if attempting to outrun the heavy breeze trying to knock me down.

With over sixty-five lighthouses in Maine, the state is unofficially called The Lighthouse State.

Lovewell Landing does not disappoint lighthouse enthusiasts.

Near the lighthouse is a grassy space where a preserved Cape Cod-style house stands near the tower for nautical light. The space is operated by the Historical Society. A worn path, possibly established by walkers and runners alike, outlines the property.

I run around the historic site, circling back to the main entrance and park area, when I see a woman sitting on a bench. Several benches are set up near the rocky cliffs facing the water. Each bench has a narrow bronze plaque commemorating who donated it, along with a statement. Some are in memory of someone. Some are more sentimental.

I narrow my eyes to read them more clearly and stumble over my feet at the one closest to the lone woman sitting by herself.

Here sat Sarah, waiting on John, who set out to sea, wishing you’d come back to me.

When I stop completely, hands on my waist as I try to catch my breath while my heart still thunders, I glance at the woman, wondering if she is like Sarah, waiting on her John to return.

Then I realize the woman is Neve.

Her short hair might be pinned back, but it blows forward. The curls are riotous, like the soft waves deeper out in the ocean. Against the rocky cliff wall, the crash is harsher, more distinct in sound, almost angry, like the pinched look on Neve’s face.

“Rosie?” I tease, hesitating as I come closer to her.

Her body is slouched, shoulders hunched forward, while her arms rest over her belly. At hearing the nickname, or maybe simply my approach on the pea-gravel path, she slowly turns her head. Then she shifts, sitting up straighter, turning her face back toward the ocean and swiping her cheeks.

“Hey.” I rush to close the distance between us. “Mind if I sit?”

She shifts without hesitation, sliding to the side to make space, but I realize as I sit down that the bench was never really meant for two people who aren’t already comfortable with each other. I settle next to her anyway, misjudging the tight space, and my knee brushes hers. It’s brief, accidental, the kind of contact that shouldn’t register, but it does. Enough that I don’t move away. She doesn’t either.

Instead, she shifts again. A slight fidget like she’s trying to adjust to the awkwardness between us rather than the space itself. Or get herself into a more comfortable position.

I am aware of her in a way I wasn’t when I walked over. The warmth of her side against mine. The faint, clean scent of her clothes. The ripple of her loose black pants in the breeze. She’s also wearing an oversized T-shirt that softens her shape in a way I shouldn’t be noticing. Flip-flops on her feet, toes slightly swollen like she’s been on them too long. Her toenails are painted a bright Halloween orange.

The sight of that color pulls a small, unguarded smile out of me before I can stop it.

“Hey,” she quietly states, recrossing her arms and glaring out at the water. Her eyes narrow in the brilliant sunshine. “You’re still here?”

Her voice remains quiet. Her question low and confused.