Finally Ours (Harborview #2)

21. Angela

21

ANGELA

Despite the meditation, I toss and turn for a while, unable to fall asleep.

My brain feels like it’s 9:00 a.m. and I just finished my morning coffee. My thoughts play in a never ending loop in my head:

What did the kiss mean? Was it just for fun? Was he trying to get me to forgive him? Was he just kidding around? I wonder why he hasn’t dated anyone recently.

Does he want me? Is that why he hasn’t been sleeping with other women? No. That’s ridiculous.

What do I want? Do I want him to want me? Do I even want him? I don’t. I do. I can’t tell.

What does this mean for when we get back to Harborview? Will we keep hanging out? What happens if he abandons me again? Don’t you mean when? Why would Carter be any different from any other guy?

My brain also plays the whiskey incident on repeat. The feel of his thumb against my lips. The heat of his arms bracketing me. The way his skin felt under my tongue. And also: Carter taking the floor so I could have the bed, Carter giving me his coat, Carter finding us shelter. Carter’s bloody knee under my hands.

Fuck.

I’m so, so screwed.

I roll over, get up out of bed and head to the bathroom. I don’t really have to pee, but I feel jittery, like if I stay in bed one minute longer I’ll explode. I use the bathroom and then take a few deep breaths while standing over the sink. I will my brain to be a bit quieter and try to reassure myself that everything with Carter is fine.

It will all work out once we’re back in Harborview. We’ll go back to not seeing one another very often, and maybe it will hurt less when we do, now that we’re on better terms.

I head back into the bedroom, creeping to the bed as quietly as I can, using my phone for light.

Carter stirs on the couch, and then rolls over. “Everything alright?” he asks in a sleepy voice.

“Yep, just peachy,” I say,

“Getting any sleep?”

“Um, definitely,” I say, but my voice cracks a bit.

“You’re a terrible liar. Get back into bed and we’ll talk.” Carter sits up in bed, and then stands and comes over to where I am.

“No, Carter, it’s fine,” I tell him. But he gently tugs me towards the bed, where he refluffs my pillows for me and then tucks me in.

“If you’re up then so am I, Angel,” he says. “That’s how this goes.”

My heart squeezes at that. I’m reminded of all the guys I dated in college and how easily they used to fall asleep next to me. I’d always end up feeling so alienated from them, as they slept soundly and I tossed and turned, wracked by anxiety next to them. Just once, I wanted one of them to wake up and ask me if everything was okay. They never did. After college, I drew a line in the sand: no more sleepovers. But of course that hasn’t mattered over the last two celibate, nun-like years.

So Carter wanting to stay up with me does something criminal to my insides: it turns them into gooey, melted chocolate.

“Thanks,” I say quietly. “What should we talk about?”

He sits next to me on the bed on top of the covers, and something about his presence there, close enough to touch, makes me feel less anxious about sleeping, not more.

“Tell me about painting,” he says. “What do you like to paint?”

“Liked,” I correct. “I haven’t done it in years.” I pause, and consider his question. “If I was going to paint something right now, I’d paint this town. And then I’d paint the cabin we were in.”

“Why?” he asks, his voice soft in the darkness.

“Because it was beautiful there, and it’s beautiful here.” I take a deep breath in and let it out slowly. “And I want to remember it,” I admit.

“I want to remember it, too,” Carter says. “Tell me about what else you’d paint.”

And so I do, describing the places in Harborview I want to capture with brushstrokes, the beaches and coves, mountains and trees and valleys, that I want to try my best to depict. Carter tells me more about his research, too, and after a long while, we both fall asleep.

Carter’s alarm goes off at 6:00 a.m.

“Noooo,” I groan at the same time as a strangled cry leaves his throat.

It sounds like he’s right next to me, instead of on the couch where he?—

Oh.

Right.

We both slept in this bed last night—which explains why he’s right beside me. At some point he must have gotten under the covers in the night, because there’s nothing but my tank top between us. He puts an arm around me and pulls me against his bare chest. I have to stop myself from sighing contentedly, and then I have to stop myself from groaning because I can feel the hard length of him pressed against my ass, and fuck does it feel good.

On instinct, I shift back against him, and he nuzzles my neck, his beard scratching against my skin.

Fuck.

“Coffee,” I manage to croak, needing an excuse to get out of bed and away from temptation.

“What?” Carter asks, sounding completely confused. And, I have to admit, completely adorable.

“Gotta make coffee,” I say.

I haul myself out of bed and stumble over to the kitchen. I am pretty uncoordinated when I’m tired and before I’ve had caffeine.

Margery has really pulled out all the stops for this vacation rental, and she has a filter coffee machine, and an instant espresso machine. I grab an espresso cup, flip the machine on, fill it with water, and stare it down while it heats up.

After a minute, I have a steaming cup with three shots of espresso in it. I practically inhale it, and set up the filter coffee machine to brew. I saw a travel mug in the cabinet and figure I’ll need something for the boat as well. I make Carter a cup of tea because I noticed in the cabin that tea is all he drinks in the morning.

It takes him another few minutes before he’s brave enough to get out of bed, though. He slept in just his boxers, and I watch with rapt attention as he pulls his gray sweatpants back on. My mouth goes dry when I get a look at the impressive morning wood that I was feeling. Images of Carter pressing me into his bed all those years ago flash through my mind.

Tell me how bad you want it, Ange.

I turn around quickly and face the other side of the kitchen. I don’t want him to catch me ogling.

We busy ourselves getting ready, and eat some of the muffins Margery left with us and pack a few for the trip along with some (shudder) protein bars. Carter doesn’t say a word about the fact that we slept in the same bed and that I was actually able to fall asleep next to him, and neither do I. I’ll figure out what it means later.

We head outside and walk through the sleepy, tiny town towards the docks. The sun has been up for a while already, and it’s another clear, bright day. It’s even sort of warm out, and I’m glad I wore layers. Maybe I’ll be able to strip out of them on the boat and get some sun.

We head through the town and past all of the shops, and make our way to the docks where only two boats are tied up. A long figure, who must be Archie, is standing at the end of the dock, staring out to sea.

On a whim, I take my phone out and snap a picture.

“I want to paint it,” I say by way of explanation. “When we get back.”

I’ll have to buy completely new supplies, and I’m probably no good anymore, but the picturesque nature of this island has reignited that place inside of me that sees things in shapes and colors—how they’ll look on a canvas.

Though, maybe it’s less the island itself and more the fact that this is the most time I’ve had off of work all year.

“That’s a great idea,” Carter says encouragingly. “I can’t wait to see it.”

I snort.

“I mean it,” he says.

I don’t tell him that there’s no way in hell I’m going to show it to him. We may have reached an unspoken détente over the last few days, and the chemistry between us might still be there, but I’m under no illusions as to what is likely to happen once we get back to Harborview.

“Are you excited to get back home for anything?” I ask him, turning the conversation away from myself.

“Not really. I need to get back to work on my dissertation. And I have to apply for a job.” He pauses for a beat and then says hastily, “One at the university.”

Strange. Why would that matter? He can work wherever he wants.

I’m prevented from meditating on this anymore because we reach Archie on the docks, where he’s now standing by what must be his boat. It’s small, but it’s a classic Maine lobster boat, like the ones I’m used to seeing in the waters around Harborview. Archie’s boat is called “The Agnes,” and the name is painted in swirling black paint.

“Who’s Agnes?” Carter asks.

“The boat,” Archie grunts, but I notice that he furrows his brow and frowns as he says this. I’m sure Carter notices as well, and I don’t think he’ll be asking any follow up questions.

Agnes must be a real person, and I don’t think Archie wants to talk about whoever she is. He helps us onto the boat and insists gruffly that we both wear life jackets.

“I’m not having any accidents on my watch,” he says.

I accept mine willingly because honestly, dying in the frigid Maine waters after nearly dying in a frigid Maine storm a few days ago is something I’d like to avoid. Enough things have gone wrong for Carter and I this week.

“You look cute in a life jacket,” Carter says.

I take a gulp of my coffee. “What has you so complimentary this morning?” I grumble.

“Neon orange suits you, Angel. I can’t help myself.”

I roll my eyes, and turn my attention to Archie, who is unmooring the boat. Soon enough, we’re heading out to sea. The contrasting sensations of the warm sun and the cold wind feel refreshing and after a few minutes my second dose of coffee seems to start working and I fully perk up.

At the helm, Carter and Archie are talking together while Archie steers. Carter calls me over, and when I get there he explains that Archie has just outlined the day for him.

“We’re going to head around the coast of the island, and check the inshore lobster pots Archie has set,” Carter explains.

“Is it warm enough for them to be inshore?” I ask, knowing a bit about lobsters from my years living in Maine.

“The coast has populations of lobsters all year,” Archie answers. “Only some live out in deep waters, near the continental shelf. Those populations do migrate, and it might be warm enough now for us to get a couple. But it won’t be a big haul by any means.”

Archie explains a bit more to us, telling us that per regulations, he has to check the pots once a month to make sure no sea life is caught in the lines, and how he uses buoys to locate the pots.

“How many other lobstermen fish around here?” I ask.

“A fair few,” he says. “But I’m the only active one from Isle North, and not many have their pots laid down yet. But I need the money.”

“I thought it would be a main industry on the island,” Carter says.

Archie snorts and laughs at that. “Isle North only has one true industry now. Tourists.”

“That’s sad,” I say.

“That’s life,” Archie says, but he doesn’t look happy about it. “There aren’t many year-rounders on Isle North, especially these days. And I’m sure you’ve noticed, but there’s hardly anyone on the island under the age of forty.”

I consider this. The teenage waitress we had at Shaky Jane’s was probably the youngest person in the restaurant by far.

“We’ve got a few families with a kid or two,” Archie continues, “But no one is moving here anymore, and when kids grow up, they move off island and only come back in the summer.”

“How long have you lived on the island?” Carter asks.

“My whole life,” is all Archie says.

I can tell Carter wants to ask more questions, but he holds back, sensing, I’m sure, that Archie is private. I have to laugh—the three of us make quite the group. Neither of us are prone to sharing about our personal lives it would seem. And while Archie’s brand of private is more curmudgeonly than Carter’s proclivity for deflection, or my shyness, it has the same effect.

“I grew up in New York,” I offer. “My moms moved us to Harborview when my mama wanted to quit working in finance, and we’d been summering in Maine for years.”

“You have two moms?” Archie asks with interest.

“Yes,” I say, and hope he’s okay with that. I never know how people are going to react, and while my moms are accepted in Harborview, there have definitely been issues for them over the years when they’ve traveled elsewhere. Nothing horrible, but they’ve heard their fair share of snide comments.

“What’s that like?”

I’m surprised. Hardly anyone is ever upfront about asking me that. They either don’t ask at all or try to get me to talk about it in less direct ways. Like asking me if I wish I had a father (No, of course not), and if I get confused calling them mom and mama (No, I’m not stupid).

“Probably similar to what it’s like for anyone else who has two loving parents,” I say. “But I know that’s not the case for some people.” I add this last part while trying not to look at Carter. I know I’m lucky to have two parents who love me no matter what—and after talking to him about his parents, I’m less inclined to take that for granted.

“Do they ever wish you didn’t date men?” Archie asks in a lighthearted tone, and jerks his head towards Carter.

“It’s not like they’d ever tell me that I should try dating women. They know better than most that you can’t force your sexuality to be something it isn’t.” I think back to the stories my mama has told me about when she came out. How difficult it was for her to come out to her family, the struggles she faced as a Black lesbian. When she first started working in finance, she didn’t even tell anyone she worked with that she was queer.

“It’s more that they showed me,” I pause, and try to think of the best way to articulate this. “They showed me what a loving relationship could look like. They cared for me equally when I was little, and they did the same amount of work in the house, and emotionally supported one another really well. When I started dating, I really wasn’t prepared for certain things. I never imagined that it was okay to date someone for weeks and then stop talking to them out of the blue. Or that men could be so truly unkind to women.”

I try hard not to look at Carter as I say this, because I’m explaining something that really gets to the root of why him abandoning me hurt so much. I just wasn’t ready for it. My moms showed me what love could be like, and I na?vely assumed it was like that for everyone, every time.

Archie is quiet for a moment after I say this. “Most men are rats,” he says finally. “And it sounds like your moms shielded you from finding that out. I understand that. I never wanted my own daughter to find out how much hurt was out there waiting for her. But she’s found a good man. He’s not a lobster fisherman like I’d prefer, but he’s good to her.”

“That’s nice,” I say quietly. It seems that by sharing some of myself, I’ve made Archie feel comfortable opening up a bit, too. It’s a lesson Carter and I should take to heart.

“You might still find a good one,” Archie continues. “Just run him by your moms first. They sound like they’ll be good judges of character.”

“They are,” I say, and smile. My moms would both love Archie.

I don’t look at Carter, but he’s right next to me and I can sense a shift in his demeanor. The energy between us that was playful earlier this morning and last night is now serious and stretched thin. But he was the person who broke us all those years ago—who left me without a word. I can’t change that.

Problem is, I’m starting to think he’s actually grown into being one of the good ones. And I have no idea where that leaves me.