This Summer Will Be Different(68)
“And yours?”
“Beth. Not as exciting as Edgar.”
“Lucy Beth Ashby.” He cocks a brow. “Sounds very exciting.”
“Ha. If you could go anywhere in the world? Just one place.”
He stares out at the water. “Australia. I’ve heard so much from Miles, and I’d like to see it for myself.” His voice has gone soft. When his gaze returns to mine, it looks . . . I’m not sure. Sad? Hesitant?
“It’s a very long flight,” I say.
“It is. Maybe you could keep me company. We could go together one day, stand on a different beach, facing the Pacific.”
“One day.” I like that—the idea of a future with Felix in it. “Can I ask something more personal?”
Felix turns his attention to me. “Okay.”
“I’ve heard Bridget’s version of your breakup with Joy, but not yours. And I’m curious.”
He slides an oyster between his lips and chews it slowly. “Is there anything specific you want to know?” he says after a minute.
“Whatever you’re comfortable sharing.”
“You probably know most of the story.” He rubs the back of his neck. I can feel his reluctance, sense that wound hasn’t healed completely. “I was fifteen when we started dating. Joy was sixteen. But we had known each other most of our lives. By the time I was twelve, my crush was fully realized. The way Joy played hockey . . .” He drifts off, shaking his head as if he’s still amazed.
“In some ways,” Felix goes on, “I think that was our problem. When Joy and I started dating, it was very serious very fast. The way it progressed felt like an inevitability rather than a choice—we followed the path we thought we were supposed to. She went away to university and I stayed here. We spent our weekends visiting each other when we could, and we both missed out on other things. I’m not saying we didn’t love each other. We did.” He shrugged. “But we grew up.”
“But the breakup was hard.”
“Harder than hard. My mom and dad were in on the proposal. Joy’s parents, too. The four of them organized this big party for all our friends and family, and I got down on my knee in front of everyone. Joy burst into tears. I thought they were happy ones. She said yes, and then broke up with me not long after. It was shocking . . . and so painful.”
He looks lost in the memory, the lingering hurt.
“I’m so sorry.”
Felix sets his hand on my knee. “It’s okay. There’s nothing there anymore. Joy is seeing someone, and . . .” He kisses me once. “Maybe I am, too.”
He lets that sit there.
Maybe. Maybe it could work.
“What is it that you’re looking for?” I ask. “From this. From us.”
Felix sets his plate down, then takes mine from my hands and puts it on the coffee table. He leans over me, bracketing my head with his arms.
One kiss. “This.”
Then another.
“But not just this?”
He shakes his head, moves his mouth to my ear. “No. More than this.”
I tilt my head to the side as his lips find my chest. “I think I need to go slow,” I say. And I definitely need to tell Bridget. “I’m not good at this. I’m not good at more.”
Felix lifts his head, bringing his eyes to mine. Steady. “I am.”
* * *
? ? ?
We spend the rest of the evening on the couch in the TV room under a blanket. I’m wearing one of Felix’s sweatshirts, black with a hood and white drawstrings, and nothing else aside from my prettiest pair of underwear and a thick pair of socks. He’s in sweats. I am addicted to Felix in sweats. I am addicted to Felix in everything.
Felix has put The Great British Baking Show on, but we’re not really watching. We’re smiling at each other, kissing, twisting our fingers together.
It feels as if we’re playing, testing what a relationship could be like, but I’m so at home. So comfortable.
It’s like we’ve had a thousand nights like this one.
I lift the blanket to my nose, take a deep whiff. I want to remember everything about this moment.
“What’s with you and the blankets?”
“Ugh. They’re just the best. The wool is so soft. The color.” This one is a lemony yellow. “I love how they smell like this place.”
“They’re made on the island,” he says, pointing to the tag at the edge of the blanket. macausland’s woollen mills. “Up in Bloomfield. I can take you there tomorrow if you want.”
“Yes. Really?”
“Sure. I’ve never seen someone so excited by a blanket.”
“I’m going to need you to roll around in it so it can soak up the full Felix scent.”
He laughs. “Excuse me?”
“I’m hooked on it,” I tell him. “I could bottle it and make a fortune.”
“You,” he says, “are an odd woman, but I’ll happily roll around on your blanket.”
“Good man.”
We kiss, we whisper, we hold hands.
“I can’t decide if I like you better with or without the beard,” I say, narrowing one eye. “You’re almost too hot like this.” Felix smiles, and I touch his dimple. “But I feel like the beard makes your eyes stand out even more.”