Page 84 of Neap & Spring

“You used to do this in school,” I say instead, trying to keep my voice casual. “Take walks when you were stressed.”

She glances at me, and surprise flashes across her face. “You noticed that?”

“Of course I noticed. You’d disappear for an hour and come back calmer.” I keep my eyes on the water, staring anywhere but her face. “I always wondered where you went.”

I noticed everything about her. She would organized her station with military discipline, every tool exactly where she needed it. I would stare for hours at the way she bit her lip when she was concentrating on a difficult technique. I relished the way she’d laugh at my stupid jokes even when she was exhausted and running on three hours of sleep and too much espresso. I dreamed of the way she’d pull her hair up when she was getting serious about something — the messier the bun, the more focused she was — a pen always stabbed through the center.

I noticed. I always noticed.

“I didn’t think anyone paid attention,” she says more to herself than me.

“I always paid attention.”

The words come out more raw than I meant them to be. Vivienne’s cheeks flush slightly. But she doesn’t look away. She doesn’t deflect or change the subject like I half-expected her to.

She just looks at me with a small smile. And for a second, I can’t breathe.

“I forgot how much I loved this,” she mutters, her voice almost lost in the sound of the waves. “Just walking. Being outside. Not thinking about spreadsheets and projections.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She smiles brightly. “Thank you for suggesting this. This is just what I needed.”

“Anytime.”

I mean it. I’d do this every day if she wanted. I’d walk with her until my feet hurt. And talk with her until my voice gave out. I’d be with her in whatever way she’d let me.

Which is dangerous thinking. That is the kind of thinking that gets you hurt. But I can’t seem to stop.

Even though I just told myself I need to remember that she broke me into a million pieces without explanation.

But fuck, I’ve always been drawn to Vivienne in a way that made no sense. And I guess no matter the circumstances, I always will be.

Our hands brush as we walk. Knuckles touching, bare skin against bare skin for a fraction of a second. But my breath catches anyway then stops completely.

And neither of us pulls away.

The contact lingers. Or maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe I’m so aware of every inch of space between us that even the absence of touch feels electrifying.

We walk in silence for a while. The easy kind where you don’t need to fill the space with words and only works when you’re comfortable with someone and you trust them enough to just exist beside you without performing. The sun is starting to sink lower now, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange, turning the water liquid gold.

Eventually we end up sitting in the sand without discussing it. Just a natural stopping point where the beach curves and there’s a smooth stretch of sand facing the water. We sit close enough that our shoulders touch, our hips almost aligned, with our legs stretched out in front of us.

This is too close. I should move and put some space between us. I need to put some protective walls around my already wounded heart before she has a chance to break it again.

But I don’t move.

I don’t think I could make myself move even if I wanted to.

“I could get used to this,” Vivienne says, pulling her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them.

“The beach?”

“All of it. The town. The ocean. The —” She gestures vaguely at everything around us. “The pace of it. Everything feels slower here. Simpler. It’s really wonderful.”

“You say that now. But wait until winter when it rains for three months straight and you can’t see the sun for weeks.”

“Still sounds better than New York in winter.”