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“Please,” I beg, fumbling with his shirt buttons. Because what if we don’t get another chance? What if my memory comes all the way back and Mac finds out and then it’sgoodbye, Cocoa? What if this is all I’ll ever get? “Please, I’ll be good. I’ll be so good for you.”
Please let me make you love me.
Mac frowns, and I know then that I’ve said the wrong thing. He steps back, the wall of heat leaving my body, and I’m left slumped and shivering against the counter. The kitchen clock ticks on the wall, suddenly so loud.
My pulse throbs between my legs. God. Itaches. And I’m so slippery down there, so swollen and slick, that I wince as I shuffle my feet back together.
Shame fills my throat like bile.
Wait, thatisbile.
“Cocoa?” Mac looks horrified as I shove past, sprinting through the cottage for his bathroom, but I don’t have time to smooth his ruffled feathers. My stomach’s flipped over, and my mouth is sour, and I barely have time to slam the bathroom door shut and lock it before falling to my knees by the toilet bowl. My gut heaves.
I’ve put this off as long as I can. Tried to push away the images crowding my brain.
And as I lean over the white porcelain, coughing up my lunch, the memories slam into my brain, battering me harder, faster—kid’s birthday parties, gymnastics lessons as a little girl, riding a horse bareback as a teenager, the smell of wood smoke, the roar of crowds, cotton candy melting on my tongue. It all rises up as one.
It’s all I can do to hold on, weeping. I don’t want this.
My old life sweeps me under in a tidal wave.
Six
Mac
Well, I can’t claim to be Mister Experienced in the matter, but a woman running to throw up after your first kiss—that can’t be good. And even worse, Cocoa won’t let me in the bathroom to hold her hair back. I give up knocking after ten long minutes, because I’ve always told myself: if she wants me gone, I’ll go.
The stairs rock beneath me as I head back downstairs. I’ve lived here for decades, but my cottage is suddenly all wrong, with crooked doorways and too-bright paint and sharp new corners of furniture to bounce off. Like walking through a fun-house.
What did I do wrong? Did I push her too fast? Freak her out?
Shekissedme, right? I’m not remembering that wrong, scribbling over the real events with my own wishful thinking. Cocoa started it. Lord knows I’d never have laid a finger on her otherwise.
But maybe it wasn’t what she expected. Or maybe it didn’t feel good for her after all.
For me, it was like the sun coming out from behind the clouds. Like sinking into a hot bath after a long, freezing day at sea, and feeling the prickles spread over my whole body, my nerves coming back to life.
“Shit.”
I’m lost in my own kitchen, staring at our half-made dinner like I’ve never seen a stir fry before. How do I switch the stove on? How do I hold a wooden spoon? My body takes over, fumbling through the motions, while my brain screams in the back of my skull.
What if I scared her off? What if she doesn’t want to stay here anymore?
What if she thinks I expect things from her? That if she doesn’t kiss me like that, I’ll make her leave?
My gut lurches. NowIfeel sick. Have I given that impression? Christ, I’ve tried my hardest to hide this attraction, this constant gnawingneedI feel around Cocoa, but it must’ve peeked through. She’s a smart girl. She must have sensed it.
“Shit,” I say again, flipping the stove off for the second time. I can’t eat like this, not with a hot ball of shame weighing down my gut, and Cocoa probably won’t be able to stomach it either. Guess we’re both on a buttered toast diet tonight.
I pack up the ingredients, methodical and dead inside. Maybe we can salvage this meal tomorrow.
If she’s still here tomorrow. If she ever wants to be near me again.
There’s a high-pitched ringing in my ears.
* * *
My cottage has always been my happy place. It’s quiet, calm, tucked away from the world. The sounds of the waves drift through the open windows, and every wooden beam in the ceiling, every door frame, is crusted with a fine layer of salt, no matter how often I clean.
