Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 145823 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145823 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
“The man I loved was killed in action almost two years ago, and now I have horrendous anxiety attacks. I moved a thousand miles and cut off everyone I know but my friend Sam and my psychiatrist. Still want to be my friend?”
I looked over at her slowly.
“Absolutely,” she answered without hesitation.
“What’s yours?” I challenged.
“I’m insanely worried that Peter’s career will always come first and I won’t matter in the scheme of life. I also hate coffee and can’t understand why people willingly drink it. Still want to be my friend?”
“Absolutely,” I stole her answer. “The coffee thing was a close call, though.”
Her lips curved, matching mine as the instructor took the little platform set up in front of us.
“Okay, ladies! Welcome to Hawkins Day! Now let’s get our energy flowing and center ourselves. Begin with the mountain pose.” She modeled the pose, standing with her feet wide apart and her hands reaching for the sky.
I copied her, letting myself take in deep breaths of sea air as my whole body stretched to welcome the sun.
After yoga, Christina and I made plans to meet up the next week, and then I chose to step forward into surfing after purchasing a wet suit. Holy crappola, did I suck at that.
“You weren’t that bad,” Jackson assured me as we drove home that evening.
“Are you serious? Were you watching? Goats are more graceful on a surfboard than I am.” I kept my voice low, noting that Fin had passed out in the backseat before we’d even made it out of Waves.
Jackson grinned, and my traitorous heart skittered a few beats.
“See? You know it was bad.”
“I was actually picturing goats on a surfboard.”
“They’d have a better chance of staying on that thing than I did, hooves and all.” I knew I wasn’t athletic, but that had just been embarrassing. There was a definite difference between thin and fit, and I was not fit. Grief had eaten away at my appetite and my muscles.
“You can always get better through practice, if you want. I do happen to know of a nearby beach…”
I rolled my eyes.
“Speaking of beaches, it’s really narrow here.” I changed the subject as we reached a particularly tight strip of 12. “What happens when the storms come?”
“It gets hit. Hard. All of 12 does, really. Hurricanes like Irene and Sandy can cut us off from the mainland for weeks. They have to dig out the roads or rebuild them. We can usually get ferries going, but tides make it difficult.”
“So they just keep rebuilding roads that continually get destroyed by hurricanes? I mean, those were both in the last decade.” Being cut off for weeks? Did I have supplies for that? I’d need to store some food. Maybe get a generator for when the solar panels we’d just installed with the roof didn’t hack it. Oh God, I was going to turn into one of those crazy doomsday preppers.
“Well, yeah, people live here. Love it here. You’re one of us now, so you should appreciate the tenacity of the North Carolina Department of Transportation.”
“It just seems so…futile to keep fighting for something you know won’t last.” Beach erosion was a serious issue—I knew that when I bought the house—and houses here had been known to float away into the Atlantic even without hurricanes. Just living here was a risk.
He glanced my way, and then his hands tightened on the wheel. “Maybe it is futile. Maybe one day we’ll be forced to abandon it. But it’s okay to fight for something you love, to dig it out and build it back up in hopes that this time the foundation will be strong enough to withstand the hurricane. It’s just like what you’re doing with the house.”
“I guess it is.” Fixing a house that could eventually sink into the ocean, fixing a heart that might end up useless anyway. Fixing a friendship that I’d all but ghosted?
“And it’s okay to do all you can and still lose, still get washed away. It sucks, but it’s a far less tragic ending than never having tried.”
The air between us thickened as he glanced my way and then back to the road.
“Yeah, it’s those lost chances that end up hurting the worst,” I said quietly.
“How did the foundation set on the house, by the way?”
“Went without a hitch.” If we didn’t count the stupid weathervane.
He smiled. “Good. That’s good. You can remodel the hell out of just about any house if the foundation is good.”
I looked across the car in the dying sunlight and studied his face. Inches. He’d been a breath away from kissing me on his kitchen counter. Was it possible to want someone when you had nothing to offer but a ton of baggage and a damaged heart? Was I even allowed to want him in any other way besides a neighbor, or maybe a friend? Did it matter?