Mack leans forward on his elbows. He doesn’t say anything until Avery looks at him again. “We can up the ante, Avery. Make these games … adult. Loser gives that massage?”
Avery shakes her head and moves aside the game. “I’m going to bed.”
“What? It’s early.”
Standing, Avery looks over at Mack. “Do you know what we were supposed to do tomorrow?”
“No.”
“I’ll tell you. Take the ferry to Block Island. It’s going to be a perfect summer day and we’d have a nice picnic there, and a bike ride. But now? Well, now I guess we’ll just have another beach day.”
“Come on.” Mack stands and holds out his hand. “Let’s go outside and sit on the Adirondack chairs. We’ll watch the skies; they’re clear tonight. Maybe we’ll spot a shooting star. Listen to the waves. See the lights across the Sound. The boat lights shining on the water?”
“You go,” Avery whispers. “Go get some salt air, Mack. I’m pretty much feeling overwhelmed … by everything. I’m just going to sleep.”
Mack holds that hand extended and waits until she shakes her head and waves him off. So he scoops up the cottage key from the kitchen counter, lifts his sweatshirt off a chairback and walks outside.
Avery walks, too. First to the bedroom, where she puts on a satin shorts pajama set. She walks to the bathroom next and brushes her teeth. When she’s done, she stops in the bathroom doorway and looks toward the bedroom first, then in the other direction. It’s dark in the cottage, with no lights on. So she heads to the living room, stops at the window and moves aside the straight curtain. The moon casts just enough light for her to see Mack sitting in an Adirondack chair. He just sits. Minutes pass when he doesn’t move, not one bit.
Suddenly, Avery lurches. It’s a sob that does it, that wrenches her body. It seems to take hold of her, violently, as more deep sobs surface. They’re so harsh, they have her gasp for air. And that seems to frighten her as she glances outside once more. It’s as if she fears Mack might hear her. Quickly, she looks around until she spots a large pillow on the sofa. Just as quickly, she lunges for it and presses it to her face, obviously trying to quell the sounds rising from her gut, up through her lungs.
Harder, harder, Avery presses her soaking-wet face into that pillow. Her sobs gather all her feelings and fears of the week—that her honeymoon got axed; that her and Mack’s family and friends might’ve been exposed to the virus at their wedding; that she’s feeling so vulnerable with her new husband now; that she’s afraid of the uncertainty brought on by the pandemic.
By everything.
Still sobbing, Avery sits on that sofa in the pitch-black room. Doubled over, she keeps her face pressed into the now-damp pillow. This goes on for minutes—long minutes—until after several shuddering breaths, she swipes at her tear-streaked face.
And gets frantic.
Frantic enough to run back to the bathroom and splash water on her face, over and over again. After patting it dry, she brushes her sandy blonde hair, pinches her cheeks and takes one last shaky breath. Straightening her satin pajama top and retying the drawstring on her satin shorts, she then walks to the kitchen.
And stops.
And looks around.
Until with a slight tremble, her hands reach for shortcake and strawberries and whipped cream and a spoon from the drawer and dish off the shelf. Carrying that laden dessert dish, she walks toward the slider outside, but suddenly veers back to the living room and first flicks on the lamp in the window.
Then, as though every feeling has washed out of her with every sob she’d expelled, she simply walks barefoot outside and crosses the damp, dewy lawn.
“I brought you strawberry shortcake,” Avery says as she gives the plate to Mack. She sits in the dark, too, in the chair beside his. “I just wanted to say goodnight.”
“I’m glad you did.” Mack sets his dessert plate on the wide arm of his chair before reaching for Avery’s hand.
And that’s how they sit. Silent, but holding hands. That lazy moon hanging low over the Sound drops silver light on the water. The air is so damp, you can almost feel the salt of the sea on your skin. Lapping waves down on the beach whisper sweet nothings to fill the silence.
“I left a light on for you.” Avery turns in her chair to see the lamplight in the window. It casts a golden glow against the white curtain. “It’s pretty, the way the light shines on that trellis of beach roses.”
Mack looks back toward the cottage, then resettles in his chair.
“I think it’s comforting,” Avery practically whispers, “seeing that window lit up. Seeing any light shining at night. In the kitchen. Or on a porch.” She turns and sits back in her Adirondack chair. Long Island Sound shimmers in the distance. “On a dark night, especially.”
“Why’s it comforting for you?”
“It’s something my parents always do.” Avery looks over at Mack. His hair is wavy in the sea damp, and she lightly touches a strand. “So to me, a light left on is a sign. It says … you’re welcome here. Or, or if someone walks out during an argument—no matter how late, no matter how mad or how embarrassed—a light must be left on. No matter what.” She pauses then, breathing the salty air. “Oh, it doesn’t mean anything goes,” she says, her voice a little hoarse from her hidden sobs. “It’s all about love, that light. It’s about coming around to each other, I guess.” Again she stops. If it were any lighter outside, or if the moonlight fell on her, Mack might see. Might notice her struggling to quell another sob—a leftover one that she manages to swallow. “Sometimes?” she goes on. “Sometimes that light might tell a person nothing more than please come home. That someone’s waiting for them.”
“It’s a nice thought, Avery.” Mack watches her in the darkness. “Listen, are you cold in your pajamas? Do you want to wear my sweatshirt?”
Avery shakes her head and stands then. She kisses the top of his head, too. “No, Mack. I’m really tired now. So I’m going in.”
“Okay. Love you.”
“Goodnight,” she whispers.
* * *
A half hour later, or maybe two hours—it’s hard to tell in the night’s darkness—Mack walks into their bedroom. Passing the window where Avery left the curtains open, he sits on a chair and takes off his boat shoes. Pale moonlight falls across the wood floor. Mack glances out the window, then walks to the edge of the bed and touches Avery’s hair.
“Avery, are you up?” He sits on the mattress, moves aside her satin pajama top and leaves a kiss on her shoulder. When he does, she shifts from her side and turns onto her back. Her hand reaches through the darkness and rests on his neck. And pulls him close for a deep kiss.
“Mack,” she whispers before sitting up and letting him unbutton her satin top. He lifts it off her shoulders and arms, drawing his fingers along her skin, her sides, her breasts. “Mack,” she whispers again. “I’m so afraid.”
“I know,” he whispers back, kissing her cheek, her closed eyes.
But what seems to surprise him is the way Avery, almost anxiously then, tugs off his sweatshirt—getting a little tangled up in it in the process. But she manages, and gets the rest of his clothes off with more quiet insistence—his tee, his belt and shorts, everything.