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My real life comes back in fits and starts. In a burst of old laughter, carried on the breeze as we walk the beach path home, my damp underwear leaving shadows on my clothes. In the voices of people who aren’t here as I scrub myself clean in the shower, people whose faces I can’t quite picture. Not yet.
Images flit behind my eyes, peppering me like shrapnel as I help Mac chop veggies for a stir fry dinner.
A beat up camper van.
Bowls of bean chili, served steaming hot from a huge vat.
Stage lights.
“You okay, Cocoa?” He watches me like a hawk, still so worried after my ‘turn’ in the marina, but I don’t tell him about the pieces of my memory coming back. Don’t tell him these clues, because once I do, we’ll be hurtling toward the finish line.
Will he be glad to see me go? Relieved to have his solitude back?
Or will his heart break, just like mine?
“Hey.” Mac’s hands grip my shoulders, steadying me on his kitchen tiles. His left hand smells like chopped onion, and oil hisses in the pan. “Cocoa. Anyone home?”
Oh, I’m home alright. This cottage by the sea, with the stoic harbor master—this is home.
And I’m about to be evicted.
The kiss is desperate. My last stand. Mac grunts with surprise as I rock up onto my tip toes, flinging my arms around his neck. I kiss him hard, the kitchen spinning around us.
His mouth is bristly, but his lips are soft behind the beard—and when he groans and surrenders, when he holds me tight and kisses me back, my heart shudders and cracks.
I wasn’t sure. Not one hundred percent certain. Even after all the lingering glances and the shy, stolen touches, even after seeing that freaking bulge, I wasn’t sure he wanted this too.
But now Mac’s labored breaths fill the kitchen, and when he shoves me against the counter, he forgets to be gentle. He’s too wound up, too overcome. He curses and twists the stove off.
“Mac.”
His tongue pushes into my mouth—my new favorite way for him to shut me up. I moan and suck on it, clinging to his shirt like a harsh wind might whip me away.
He’s got me pinned, his muscled bulk pressing me against the counter. I feel himeverywhere—his heart thudding beneath his clothes, the rigid length trapped in his jeans, his strained breaths, the fingers twisting in my hair until my scalp stings.
Everywhere.
And I’ve been a ghost of myself—maybe for the last few weeks, more likely for my whole life—but I’m solid now. I’m a bundle of raw nerves.
My hair will smell like onion, I think dimly.
Don’t care. If it means I walk away from this with proof that this kiss is real, not just another fever dream, I don’t mind at all. Mac can smear my chest with raw garlic paste for all I care.
A denim-clad thigh presses between my legs. My feet shuffle wider apart, and my moans turn hoarse.
Need him harder, need his hands, need bare skin. Right now.
Need his teeth on my nipple.
Need the harbor masterinsideme.
“Slow… slow down.” Mac tears his mouth away, lips slick and eyes wild. His whole body is taut, vibrating with tension, and even as he speaks, his hips rock me against the counter. “We need to slow this down. It’s too much, too soon.”
Toomuch?
Toosoon?
Hard disagree.
