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She leans her head back and sighs. Sarah looks content, and if I’ve had anything to do with the blissed-out mood she’s been in lately, I’m grateful.
She’s been in contact with Grace, talking on the phone once a week, and she usually calls me after to relay their conversations and to process it all.
It’s a lot. She’s balancing her mother’s feelings on one side and her desire to connect with Grace on the other. Mr. Hamilton has been a steady presence through it all. He’s good and he’s patient with both Sarah and with his wife. I decided within a week of coming back from our grand adventure that he is, in fact, a good dude.
He went to bat for me at their club, and after securing my settlement and getting my uncle a raise, the club turned around and rescinded their membership.
I don’t know about Sarah’s mother, but I’m pretty sure her father was relieved, if not thrilled. The only problem was Shadow. Kicking the Hamiltons out meant the horse couldn’t stay, but like my Aunt Maeve is always saying,When God closes a door he opens a window.
And Mr. Hamilton? His kind of money can open doors, windows, the Hoover Dam…
He’s decided to fund a program that helps disabled children and adults by exposing them to riding, or just interacting with gentle horses. I’d never heard of equine therapy before, but it sounds really interesting. It’s just in the planning phase now, but he’s been talking to my uncle about taking over the stable operations once the charity is up and running.
Shadow, in the meantime, will board near campus, so Sarah can ride him, feed him carrots, and talk to her horse on the regular.
Campus.
She’s leaving. The clock is ticking. I know this but I put it out of my mind. Worry is wasted time in my book, and I’m not looking to waste one minute of the time we’ve got left together.
Sarah has mentioned that she’ll be close by a few times—actually showed me her GPS so I could see for myself that she’ll only be aquick one hour and forty-seven minute drive away,but aside from that, we’ve both done a good job of avoiding the topic.
I tell myself that I’ll be busy, too. I’ll be working at a car dealership in town, doing oil changes and changing brakes, I suppose, so that will keep me occupied after classes. Sock away money, get a perfect GPA while I’m in community college, research the universities I plan on applying to—I don’t talk much about my goals, but I’ve got a long list of them.
I’ve been channeling Sarah’s mantra:Know it and you’ll own it.It’ssomething she learned from one of those high-paid consultants her father’s company hired to lead a seminar. She has me visualizing the actual moment when I open the acceptance letter to the university of my choosing, complete with my scholarship offer. She instructs me to not only see myself walking to class on this beautiful campus, but to feel it.You have to feel it with every cell in your being,she coaches as I sit across from her, meditating with my eyes closed. Does this voodoo manifesting stuff even work? I don’t know but I’m willing to try.
I donottell Sarah that I also visualize her coming to visit me on this picturesque, leafy-green campus. That I see her, clear as day, walking towards me with a big smile on her face and her arms open wide to receive the crushing hug I’m about to give her.
Know it and you’ll own it.
Driving with her hand resting in mine, I send up a silent prayer, asking for the one thing I truly want. I want to own Sarah, heart and soul, the same way she owns me.
“We’re here!”
Sarah booked a campsite down by Cape May, right on the beach. She told me it’s costing us a hundred dollars each, which sounds crazy—camping should be free, am I right?—but when I see our set up, I get the feeling that she shaved more than a few dollars off my share.
“What kind of campsite is this? Are the Kardashians in the neighboring tent?”
“It’s called a yurt.” She can’t even say the word with a straight face. “and this, my friend, is calledglamping.”
“I’m familiar with that asinine term.” And while I have to admit that our private little site, complete with a fire pit, is pretty great, I’m slightly conflicted.
She reads my expression and says, “Liam, there were no spots at Lake Absegami, or basically anywhere else. I never knew people reserve spots so far in advance. And this,” she holds her hands out to her sides as she does a full three-sixty, “is great. They’ve got bikes we can use to ride into town, paddle boards, a—”
“A coffee machine. Who has a damn coffee machine set-up on a campsite complete with organic coffee pods and almond milk?”
“They also have half and half if you’re a purist.”
Biting into a giant chocolate-chip cookie from our welcome basket, I moan because it’s maybe the best I’ve ever tasted. “I guess I’ll survive.”
“Come on,” she says as she’s stripping down, “the forecast is calling for clouds and drizzle tomorrow, so let’s swim before the sun goes down.”
I don’t answer, dumbstruck from the sight of her in her suit. I come to as she takes off running down the beach and then diving in without checking to see if the water is cold, if it’s rough, or if it’s filled with the red jellyfish we dread every August. She just goes, and I follow.
Coming up for air, she looks so damn happy it’s infectious. “Come here,” I tell her as I drag her in close. “You wore my favorite.” I slide my hand up her leg and under the fabric to cup her ass. “That was nice of you.”
“This old thing?” Her voice is breathy before I even make contact, and when we’re pressed together close, she shivers, then whispers, “Wait until you see my sleepwear.”
“In my experience, campers sleep fully clothed to protect themselves from bugs and wild animals.”
