As if I didn’t need another sign of our impending split, today we’re putting the finishing touches on the house his parents bought for him. What once was a 1920s abhorrent fishing cottage is now a pretty groovy, modern lake house anyone with sense and style would kill to live in. Not that we’ve done much living here. We still spend every night in my bed.
Stevie Wonder accompanies me on the radio while I deep clean the kitchen. Every so often, banging and cursing come from the bathroom, where Knox is repairing a leaky toilet—the very last thing he has to fix on the place before he can call it complete. As I’m not one to wield a screwdriver, I opted to clean while he did the down-and-dirty work.
Halfway through “Superstitious,” my mouth starts watering and sweat breaks out on my brow. Not in a holy-shit-Knox-just-walked-out-in-nothing-but-his-toolbelt kinda way. More of the oh-my-gosh-get-to-the-sink-before-you-barf-all-over-the-kitchen type.
I barely make it to the sink before my body rids itself of last night’s dinner and this morning’s coffee.
And just in time for the man of my affections to call out for me.
When I don’t answer, Knox wanders out of the bathroom and rushes to my side when he spots me pressed up against the kitchen sink.
“Babe, what the hell? You okay?”
With a shaky hand, I twist the knob on the sink and rinse my mouth with water. “I’m fine.”
“You’re pale as hell and sweatin’ like crazy. What happened in the five minutes it took me to take apart the toilet?”
My stomach roils and I curse myself for eating so much of that crayfish last night. “Could be a combination of the heat and the fumes from the cleaning supplies. But I’m thinking last night’s dinner choice wasn’t the best idea.”
Knox chuckles as his hand runs circles on my back. “Told you you should’ve opted for the brisket.” He grabs a cloth from a drawer next to the sink, dampens it, and presses it against my face. The coolness brings instant relief. “Go home. I’ll finish up here then run and grab you some soup and ginger ale. We can spend the night lounging in your bed, watching movies. After all the work we put in today, I’m beat anyway.”
“Are you sure? We’re so close to being done.”
“Babe, fixing that toilet’s the last big thing to do. Now, it’s just cleanin’ everything up and giving the kitchen and bathroom a good wipe-down. It won’t take me all that long. Plus,” he teases, “wouldn’t be very logical to go cleaning and then havin’ you throw up right behind me.”
The acid in my stomach burns at the thought. “You’re probably right about that. Okay, I’ll go home and rest until you get home. Don’t take long.”
He gives me a small pat on the ass. “I’ll be there before you know it.”
The shrill sound of the phone ringing breaks my concentration. Figuring it’s Amelia letting me know she’s back at the house, I snatch up the handle and hold the receiver to my ear.
“Feelin’ better, babe?”
There’s a pause and then a throat clearing. “Um, dear, it’s me. Mom.”
Thank Christ I didn’t say anything else. “Hey, Mom. I was just about to head out. What’s up?”
Another pause. “I don’t want you to panic…”
“Shouldn’t lead with that, then. Everything okay?”
“Your father’s had a heart attack.”
The receiver slips from my hand, crashing onto the tile floor. I hear Mom calling my name as I struggle to retrieve it.
“Is he okay?” I ask.
“Yes, the doctors believe he’s going to be fine. But he’s going to have to take some time off work to recover…”
Cold dread twists in my chest. Not just for my dad. Selfishly, it’s for me.
Well before I’m ready, my summer with Amelia is at an end. The tightness in my chest makes it difficult to breathe, and I wonder how in the hell I’m going to say goodbye.
I push the thought from my mind. My family needs me and I have to focus on that. “I’ll pack my things and hit the road as soon as I can.”
“No, Knox. Don’t do that. You can leave Crystal Cove in the morning.”
“Mom—”
“It’d be late by the time you got here and there are severe thunderstorm warnings all over Tennessee tonight. Dad’s resting, so there’s nothing that can’t wait for tomorrow.” She pauses yet again. “Clay told me about your…friend. I imagine you’ll want some time to, uh, wrap that up as well.”
I wonder how much Clay told Mom about Amelia, because from her tone, it’s apparent she knows something.
Amelia.
Hell.
It hits me again like one of those cartoon anvils, that our summer is ending, far sooner than we expected. Wanted. I’m fucking crushed.
I’ve never been more torn in my life. I have to leave. How can I go?
It’s a battle I can’t wage right now.
“All right. I won’t argue. Sure you’ll be okay?”
“You’re sweet to ask, honey. I’ll be fine. Your brother and Maria are here. We’ll probably head to the house to eat and sleep. We’ll come back to the hospital in the morning.”
“I’ll leave at sunup and meet y’all at the hospital.”
“Sounds good. See you then. Love you, honey.”
“Love you, too, Mom.” I place the receiver back on the cradle, my chest heavy.
I dart my gaze around the kitchen and memories flood through me. Pressing Amelia up against the new countertops we installed together, insisting we christen them. Laying her out across the dining table she helped me pick out—a table I’ll never be able to look at without picturing her hair fanned out while I devoured her. Her on her knees on the tile, sucking me dry.
This house project isn’t just mine. It’s hers. I just don’t know how to make that permanent. I thought I had more time.
I walk through each room of the place, packing up my stuff so I can leave straight from Amelia’s tomorrow.
The thought hits me like a gut-punch.
Leave.
Even though I knew this day would come, we should still have a few more weeks.
A few more weeks to reel her in. Get her comfortable with maybe exploring the idea of extending our fling beyond the summer. Of transforming our fling into something more…permanent.
Instead, I have one last night. One last night to be with her, and I hope with all my might I can leave a lasting impression that will make her want more. Of this. Of me.
One. Last. Night.
Until it’s all over.
When I get to Amelia’s an hour later, she’s curled up on the couch, watching What A Way To Go! She lifts up from a pillow when she hears me lob the keys onto the kitchen table.
“You know, if you’d grow a beard, you’d definitely look like Paul,” she says, gesturing towards the television, where a bearded Paul Newman speaks French while chomping on a carrot. “He’s so dreamy.”
“Are you saying I need a beard to be dreamy?” I tease.
She pauses the video home system and then strolls into the kitchen, slinging her arms around my neck and grinning up at me. “You’re absolutely dreamy. I’m just saying that, with a little facial hair, you could be Paul-Newman-almost-showing-his-goods-on-film kinda dreamy. It also makes me wish we had a bathtub we could both fit in.”