Page 36 of Oops I Fell For The Electrician Next Door

The plumber arrives before I can answer. I spend the next hour helping the last Fletchers load vehicles while Kelsey handles Cabin Three. Grandma Ruth is among the final group to leave. She sits in the passenger seat of Suzanne’s minivan beneath the same quilt she wore beside the fire.

When I carry her small suitcase to the van, she points one thin finger toward Kelsey, who is standing near the office with a clipboard.

“That young woman watches everything leave,” she tells me.

I look at Kelsey. Every time a vehicle passes beneath the Eight Pines sign, her gaze follows it.

“It’s her job,” I say.

Grandma Ruth makes an impatient sound. “I have been alive ninety-one years. Don’t explain women to me.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“If you’re coming back, make sure she sees you do it.”

Before I can ask what else she noticed, Suzanne closes the passenger door. Grandma Ruth waves through the glass as the van pulls away.

Kelsey and I stand together until the last family disappears up the road. The sudden silence feels larger than the crowd did. Six cabin doors stand open for cleaning, abandoned toys wait near the firepit, and the lake stretches beneath a cloudless blue sky.

“Successful reunion,” I say.

“No injuries, no property damage, and only one overloaded circuit. I am putting it in the victory column.”

We walk to Cabin Seven. My duffel is packed on the bed, but for the first time it is not the only thing I own in the room. Kelsey brought over one of her travel mugs this morning. Her hair clip lies beside the sink. A pair of her sandals waits near the door because she kicked them off here sometime yesterday and forgot to retrieve them. I like every piece of her that has crossed the lawn.

“Your company checkout is today,” she says. “I’ll email you a new rental agreement beginning tomorrow. Monthly rate, thirty-day notice, utilities included.”

“Full price.”

“Yes, full price.”

“Even with the shower disability?”

“Especially with the shower disability. Water conservation is expensive.”

I laugh and lift my bag. Kelsey follows me to the truck, but when I put the duffel behind the seat, the fear she is trying to hide becomes visible.

I close the door and face her. “This isn’t me leaving.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“I’m working on it.”

I take her face between my hands. I planned to wait. Five days is too soon by every sensible measure, and she has only begun to trust that my choices belong to me. But there is nothing sensible about driving away while she wonders whether I will return without telling her the truth.

“I love you, Kelsey.”

Her breath catches. She does not pull away, but she does not answer either.

“You don’t have to say it back,” I tell her. “You don’t owe me the same words on the same schedule. I want you to know what I am driving back to.”

“Marc ...”

“I have spent years packing before I learned the shape of a place. I know the shape of this one. I know the sound you make when a guest calls after ten, the way you check every porch light before bed, and the exact look you give me when I forget to ask before touching something that belongs to you. I don’t know everything yet. I love what I know, and I want the rest.”

Her eyes fill. “That is a lot to leave me with for two days.”