This Summer Will Be Different(34)

He’s already out the sliding door by the time I turn around.

“I think he swiped the bottle of rye,” Zach says.

I look out the window and watch Felix make his way to the water until he disappears.

Twenty minutes later, when he still hasn’t returned and Zach is arranging the living room for bed, I throw on my cardigan and grab the nearest warm thing, a blanket from the steamer trunk, and head into the night.

The beach is empty, but the sky is full of stars, a glittering cloak of diamonds over a shimmering black sea. I walk along the shore. The air is thick, but it’s cooler than I expected, and I fold my arms against the chill.

I’m thinking of turning around, but then I see him in the distance, his white T-shirt glowing under the moon. As I get near, Felix takes a sip from the bottle, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and without looking at me, says, “Hey.” His voice is ragged.

“You still have four limbs,” I say.

He huffs out a dry laugh. “Barely.”

When I edge closer, I can see that his jaw is rigid. He takes another drink.

“Here.” I hand him the blanket. “It’s cold out.”

He takes it from me, but instead of wrapping it around his shoulders, he passes me the bottle of rye and lays the blanket on the sand, straightening it until he’s satisfied with the edges.

He’s kneeling on one side, looking up at me. We watch each other, unblinking, and then Felix holds out a hand. Time hangs suspended as I stand before him, staring at his palm. My pulse ricochets, faster, then faster still.

“Sit down, Lucy.” His voice is rough, worn from arguing with Bridget. I know how much effort it takes to go into battle against her.

With hesitance, I take his hand in mine, and when his fingertips fall on my wrist, I’m certain he can feel my heartbeat. It’s a heavy, ceaseless thud.

He tugs me a step closer.

“I think we can handle sharing a blanket,” he says.

So I sit, knees drawn up, next to Felix.

We look out at the inky gulf in silence, the bottle between us. Felix is warm beside me, and the cool air doesn’t feel so chilly anymore. The breeze feels like whispered sweet nothings against my cheek.

Eventually Felix holds the whiskey out to me. I meet his sideways gaze as I reach for it and take a sip. When I hand it back to him, he does the same. It feels strangely intimate.

“Did you get anywhere with Bridget?” I ask after we’ve passed the whiskey back and forth a few more times.

Felix doesn’t answer for such an expansive stretch that I wonder if I articulated the question. “She really was homesick,” he says finally.

“You must have been talking for almost an hour. What about the text from Miles? She didn’t give you anything more?”

There’s enough light that I can see his eyes moving around my face, catching on my nose, my lips. “She’s worried about you.”

“She’s always worried about me.”

He shakes his head. “No. I don’t think she’s ever worried about you much until now.”

“Well, right back at her,” I say.

Felix takes another sip, then says, “Do I need to worry about you?”

It catches me off guard. Does he want to worry about me? Do I need to be worried about?

“After that fight with Bridget, I should ask you the same thing,” I say. “What were you two arguing about?”

Felix stares at me for a moment before answering. “Her secret keeping.”

I reach for the bottle and take a drink, though I already feel the rye buzzing in my limbs.

“Tell me how you’re doing,” Felix says.

I peer at him. “I’m fine.”

“Lucy.” His gaze travels my face, and I feel like he’s drinking me up. “Really tell me. Tell me what’s happening at the store. Tell me about Farah and what poetry she’s working on. Tell me about flowers.” He sounds a little desperate, and his words run together.

“Felix Clark, are you drunk?” I don’t even think I’ve seen him tipsy before—he holds his liquor well.

“Maybe a little,” he says with a half smile that’s definitely intoxicated. “But I also want to know, Lucy. Talk to me.”

I study the beautiful planes of his face, the way the moon refracts off his cheekbones and hides in the hollows below, and even though I know talking to Felix could get me into more trouble than pressing my lips to his, I say, “Farah’s writing elegies.”

The dimple fires. “Poems about the dead.”

“Yeah, but I think they’re kind of sexy. I’ve heard her reciting lines about unyielding flesh and honeyed nectar.”

Felix lies back on the blanket, hands under his head, biceps popping. “What else?”

“Hmm.” I lie beside him, and we stare up at the stars. “I think she’s sick of me. I’ve been spending a lot of time either at the store or doing event installs.”

“How much time?”

“All of it.”

He tilts his head to me. “Do you still love it?”

I gaze at the galaxy, and my throat goes tight. It’s both the question and the moment—being here, in my favorite place, with one of my favorite people. I wish I didn’t like him so much.