Page 72 of Beautiful Place By the Sea

Vessels that are no longer seaworthy.

Its lighthouse a beacon, steadfast in its oath:

Of help, of shelter, of harbor.

Safe harbor.

For the shores are rocky,

And the waves are deep,

And the open ocean brings a host

Of uncertainties.

In the cove, troubles are few.

In the cove, adventures are few.

The hulls of the ships rot at their docks,

Starved for the waves that will set them free.

Safe harbor.

I clear my throat and raise my eyes back to Oliver, who is watching me intently. “This is spectacular.”

His expression relaxes, but almost imperceptibly. “I’m glad you like it.”

I wouldn’t even say I like it. It’s heartbreaking. Completely, utterly heartbreaking. Because as much as one could assume this is just the brainchild of a man raised near the ocean, I know better. This poem is both a love letter, and a warning. To the idea of staying put, of growing roots, but never wings. Of never living life on your terms for fear of the unknown.

I had no idea Oliver felt so trapped.

So I smile gently and tell him he’s truly talented. And Maisie grins, and then says it’s time for dessert. We ooh and ahh over Oliver’s cheesecake, which is without question far better than Maisie let on, and they pretend my pie is even remotely in the same league. Then we retire to the living room with gin (Maisie and me) and tea (Oliver), laughing and talking as if something huge wasn’t laid out here tonight.

Because now I know the truth. Beneath his sarcastic exterior, Oliver is terrified. Terrified, and desperate to leave this town behind and harness agency over his own life. I don’t know what it means that I feel my heart breaking for him.

“Now, Oliver,” Maisie says an hour later, her brown eyes glinting. “I want you to drive Ivy home.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” I start to protest. “I can⁠—”

“It’s after dark, and I won’t have you wandering around by yourself.” She shakes her head rapidly. “You’d be surprised how crazy the drunks in town get.”

Oliver shoots me a furtive glance. “I think we’ve encountered some of those.”

I laugh, thinking of Rachel and her friends. “A ride would be great,” I say, both to pacify Maisie and because the idea of riding home on the bench seat of Oliver’s truck is strangely appealing.

Oliver nods, slipping his pointer finger through his key ring. “No problem. Maisie, thank you so much for dinner.”

“Yes, it was wonderful,” I echo.

She hugs us both, then hustles us toward the door. “I want you to get home before the storm hits.”

Once we’re outside, Oliver opens the passenger-side door and offers me a hand up into his truck.

“Thank you,” I mumble, taking his hand and stepping up. Just like at Harbor Lights, I’m struck by how soft his skin is.

We don’t say much at first as Oliver navigates expertly down Ogunquit’s back roads, carefully avoiding any of the main streets that might be clogged with late-night revelers.