Not What You Seem

by Lena Maye

  I shake my head. “I could run laps around you on this boat.”

  “Laps don’t get girls, man. Muscles do.” Dev points at Sebastian. “Your brother knows what I mean. He’s bigger every time I see him.”

  I take a drink and look at Sebastian. Yeah, I guess he’s bigger. I should have noticed, considering we look so much alike, but it’s not like I go around comparing us. And I can’t picture myself in a gym. Ceiling overhead and all those people packed close together. Just the thought makes me tense. Sailing and refurbishing boats have kept me fit, and I don’t even have to think about it.

  “Girls might come for the muscles,” Sebastian says. “But they don’t stay for them.”

  “What are you? Some kind of dating Yoda?” Dev laughs and drops to a seat next to Matty, giving him a head scratch that’s rewarded by a tail thumping against the deck. The conversation about what happened with Matty and Elly went easier than I had anticipated. Although I’m pretty sure it’s going to get brought up every time I dog-sit again. Which I can live with.

  Sebastian looks off toward the bay and crosses his arms over his chest. I lean forward a little, eyeing him. He turns and puts his shoulder between us. “What?”

  “There’s a woman in Colorado.” I’m sure of it. Last night I’d gotten the idea he was talking around something. Like there was something he didn’t want to admit about why he stayed in Colorado for a full year.

  “Yeah, man,” he says. “There’s probably about two million women in Colorado.”

  I’m not going to be put off that easily. “That’s why you stayed the full year.”

  He takes a drink from his water. “The climbing’s good. I did some boarding this winter too.”

  I shove him lightly on the shoulder. “What’s her name?”

  Sebastian shakes his head.

  “Giselle?” I ask.

  Dev laughs. “That’s the first name you come up with?”

  “Okay, douche-rooster”—shit, I can’t even keep from smiling when I call him that—“you come up with one.”

  “Megan?” Dev calls a bit too loud.

  Sebastian just rubs one hand over his chin and shakes his head.

  “Imogen?” I offer—getting another laugh from Dev. “What? That’s not a strange name, is it?”

  “Cassandra?” Dev takes a drink and then crushes the bottle.

  “There’s no girl,” Sebastian insists, his hand rubbing his jaw.

  I pull out my phone. “How about we start with the As and go through one letter at a time?”

  He cuts a glare at me. “No girl.”

  I only get about twenty names in—with Dev throwing out other random ones—before he finishes his water and tosses the bottle at my chest. “Sloane.”

  “I’m glad you fessed up, because it was gonna take a really long time to get to S.”

  He runs a hand over the back of his neck. “It’s not worth talking about because I’m here and she’s there.”

  “That doesn’t mean much. It’s not like Colorado is a walled prison state.” I don’t think. I’ve never been to a landlocked state. “Just go back there. Or invite her out here. She can stay on the boat. We’ve even got that third cabin, if that makes her more comfortable. We can clean it out.”

  “I don’t know.” He rubs his chin. “She’s not really into… she doesn’t sail. Or climb.”

  My smile falls. Not at her lack of sailing—although it’s unfathomable to me why people don’t sail—but because something about this woman has him twisted up, something I can deeply identify with right now. Besides that, I’ve never quite seen Sebastian like this. He usually moves as quickly between women as he does between states.

  “I’m missing the part where these are relevant things.” I cross the deck to grab a second water out of the cooler and then throw one to Sebastian when he gestures for the same.

  Sebastian catches the bottle but doesn’t open it. “She’s a cop.”

  Okay, that’s unexpected. “A police officer?”

  “A woman in uniform,” Dev says. “Sounds hot.”

  Sebastian crosses his arms over his chest, looking up at him darkly. “She could kick your ass.”

  Dev slides his glasses back down. “Even hotter.”

  “How’d you meet her?” I ask. “Wait—you didn’t get arrested, did you?”

  “She arrested you?” Dev demands. “Dude, this girl sounds incredible. Where in Colorado does she live?”

  “No, I didn’t get arrested.” Sebastian shakes his head at Dev but turns toward me. “There’s nothing to talk about. She’s never thought about living anywhere except for the tiny town she’s in. I mean, she’s a cop there. She’s entrenched. And her sister and mother are there. I just… I need to let this one go.”

  I rock back onto my heels. “If that’s what you need to do. But if you’re thinking about her this much, then maybe it’s not that simple.”

  “It is.” He takes a drink and nods toward the Harborwalk. “Besides, you’re one to talk.”

  I follow his gesture up to the shops, and there she is. Elly. Slowly pushing a cart down the street with some kind of tent on it. Her hair is pulled back, bouncing behind her in a ponytail as she stares at the sidewalk intently. And I immediately hate that she’s walking away from me. Hate it so freaking deeply.

  I don’t want to let this one go.

  15

  Ella

  I push the cake toward the restaurant at the end, focused on every single crack in the sidewalk. Down the slight slope and up it again, past recently planted decorative flower pots. Spring always happens suddenly in Portage, and today feels like the transition. The sun warms my back as I stare at the sidewalk. I’m mostly around the display outside the hardware store when someone catches up—strolling next to me.

  “Need a hero?” Dean asks. “I’m an excellent cart pusher.”

  There’s a little drop in pressure at the sound of his voice. My shoulders tense and relax at the same time.

  “This isn’t my first time pushing the cart.” I keep my focus on the cake, and the only part of him I can see are his feet—or some sort of black canvas dock shoes that walk easily next to me. I keep my eyes down not just because of the cake, but also the itchy embarrassment that’s threatening to make me push the cart too fast.

  I slow my steps, staring at the peak of the tent covering the cake. “I’m s-s-sorry about yesterday.”

  His feet continue their easy stroll next to me. “Launching yourself in the water to save Matty?”

  “No, after.” I swerve to avoid a deep chip. “The part where I ran.”

  Tension runs down my arms with my admission, and I shove the cart forward.

  It tips—the front wheels must be caught on a sidewalk crack. The tent slides forward, and my heart goes with it.

  Dean grabs the far end and pulls it up, evening out the cart and setting it smoothly on the sidewalk after we’re over the uneven crack.

  Crap, he just rescued me again, didn’t he?

  “Thank you.” I take a breath and resume my careful pushing.

  “Any time.” It’s a few more paces before he speaks again. “Why did you run?”

  I let out a breath and open my throat. Letting myself hum a few bars of the lullaby while I guide the cart up to the door of the restaurant.

  “I don’t like the name Elly,” I say after a short pause. It’s part of the truth, at least. “I’d prefer if you call me Ella. And could you get the door?”

  “I can do both of those things.” He pulls open the door. “I called you that name because I remembered it.”

  The cart is halfway over the threshold, but I stop, gripping it hard. I don’t know whether to look at him or not.

  “What do you remember?” I try to ask it casually, and start to push the cart again.

  “Flying kites together. I remember you running ahead of me,” he says, and even though I don’t turn toward him, I can hear the smile in his voice. “Your hair bouncing as you ran.” />
  “My hair.” I bite my lip. “Do you… remember anything else?”

  He frowns. “No, I don’t think so. Should I?”

  My heart leaps up into my throat. “No. I just…” Relief floods me. A kite memory. That’s all. But relief is immediately followed by regret. And the thoughts I’ve had about him. So many wrong things.

  What if I just told him? Renee made it sound so simple. Would he be able to look past it?

  I jump a little when his hand falls on the cart, but he helps me guide it up the ramp toward the host stand and around the tight corner. Once I get it situated on level ground, I step back and take a breath.

  And I finally glance up—past those dock shoes. Up to blue board shorts that fall to just above his knees. A white tank top that’s speckled with something intensely green. Paint, maybe? It smudges over the curve of his right shoulder and speckles the complex crossroad of muscles that make up his shoulder. I wish I had the names for all those overlapping muscles. The sharp cut of his deltoid and weight of his bicep. Like a carefully constructed bridge from his neck down to his forearm.

  And the left shoulder…

  A rope winds over his left shoulder—not a real rope, a tattooed one. It loops his shoulder and then disappears under cotton. My heart thumps so loud that I’m sure he can hear it. He’s got an actual rope tattooed on him.

  And I’m staring at him. Probably drooling.

  This man is so stupidly attractive. But I can’t look past our history. He wouldn’t be able to either. My mother tortured his father. And I… I hid in that closet and did nothing. And then when his father asked me to help, I just... left him in a field.

  I’m staring at Dean, and I’m torn right down the middle. Half of me wants to run again—to put as much distance between us as I can. And the other half wants to leap toward him, discover where that rope ends. Tell him the truth.

  What would he say if I told him? He’d look at me the way Ms. Joanna does—with distrust. Maybe even disgust. Like the stares I’ve gotten from people before. And it’d be even worse since it involves his father.

  Benny is right. Sometimes people off are better not knowing the truth. Sometimes I wish I didn’t know the truth.

  But Dean’s going to be part of Portage and the Harborwalk Festival and this town, so I need to find a middle ground. One where I don’t run, but I just push this cart down the street and have a polite conversation. I can do that. And hopefully avoid ogling him too.

  “Okay, I have to ask.” Dean points at the cart. “What the hell is under the tent?”

  “A wedding cake.”

  He laughs. “I feel like I should have guessed that. Can I see it?”

  “You want to see the wedding cake?” I’m not sure why I’m surprised. Maybe because there aren’t a lot of twenty-something guys who stop into the bakery asking after wedding cakes.

  “Did you make it?” he asks.

  I shrug. “With my sister’s help. She does the decorating, and I do the baking.”

  “Then, hell yes, I want to see it.” He slides his hands into his pockets, stretching the front of his board shorts and putting pressure on the drawstring.

  I pause with my hand over the top of the tent. What if he doesn’t like it? Such a silly thought. It’s just a cake—not even mine. Not that I’ll ever have a wedding cake.

  I swallow and lift off the tent, double checking it as I do. The anchor cake topper still sits perfectly with Renee’s careful lettering of Finally Tied the Knot around it.

  He grins. “I like the anchor.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.” I circle the cake, checking it from all angles. Our fondant mishap is carefully covered by the blue buttercream swirls. The color looks lovely in the soft light of the restaurant. Perfect.

  He leans forward, looking at the detail. And that necklace slips from his shirt. There’s a coin attached to the end—the leather winding through a hole in the middle of the coin. I wonder what it means to him.

  He nods toward the lettering. “Why ‘finally’?”

  “They lived next door to each other. Saying hi when the other passed. To hear the groom talk about it, they were always looking at each other, but it took twenty years before they both realized the other was looking back.”

  “That’s a long time.” There’s a kind of serious look on his face, his eyes narrowed slightly, his lips parted. Like his thoughts are deeper than his words. The little inch-long scar on his jaw moves as he talks. How did he get it?

  But that isn’t a middle ground kind of question. I look down at my shoes, still slightly damp from yesterday. Even though I’d dried them with a hairdryer for as long as I could, burning the tips of my fingers.

  “I should get back to the bakery.” Renee probably has to get to her shift at Salt’s. I set the tent back over the cake and gesture toward the manager. She nods and waves. There aren’t many places in Portage large enough for a wedding, so it’s not the first time I’ve dropped off a cake here. They’ll push the cart back tomorrow. It’s all part of the ritual.

  “Can you stop by the ticket hut on the way?” Dean asks as we step onto the street.

  “I, um…” I glance toward the little building just down from us.

  “Question for the festival,” he says quickly, like he can see my indecision. “Something I’d like to show you.”

  I blow out a breath of relief. Festival questions are exactly middle ground.

  “Everyone likes the kite idea,” I say as we walk toward the ticket huts. I tell him about how I went down the line of businesses this morning while Renee was performing her cake-decorating magic, and the idea was met with eagerness all around. Mr. Henderson—from the hardware store—told me his son and a few of his friends fly those dual-line kites. He could probably get them to do a demonstration. And I used Renee’s phone to look into scheduling the pavilions at the park. Families could bring their own kites.

  “I’m not surprised.” He turns to face me when we reach the window of the ticket hut. “You had a good idea.”

  I shake my head. “You’re the one who said we needed something. And when I saw all those tangled ropes on the Heroine, it made me think of kites.” And Dean, I realize. I’d thought of kites the first time I saw him. Just like his kite memory of me.

  His lips twitch as he cuts off a laugh.

  I raise an eyebrow. “Why the laugh? Something about the kites?”

  “No, nothing with the kites. Just the ropes.”

  “What about the ropes?”

  “That’s usually not what they’re called.” He runs a hand over the back of his neck, which flexes and releases that tattooed shoulder. “It’s cute, that’s all.”

  “Cute,” I repeat. Does he mean in an attractive way? Or in a she’s silly way? But that amused look he’s giving me really doesn’t answer anything.

  “Then what are they called?” I ask.

  “Depends. Every line has a different use, so it’s got a different name. Halyard. Downhaul. Mainsheet. Forestay. Backstay.” He shrugs. “You get the idea.”

  “But they’re all ropes.”

  He bypasses the lip twitch and lets out a laugh this time. “Yeah, they are.”

  “Why do sailors have to make everything so complex?”

  “In our blood, I guess.”

  We walk around the corner of the ticket hut—toward the door, and I stop.

  “What is that?” I point at the side of the ticket hut. “That’s…”

  He tilts his head, studying me. “Yes?”

  “That’s…” I step back, like I need to get away from it. Get away from that awful color of green. It’s the same color that’s splattered across his shoulder, but it looks wildly different on skin. On the side of the ticket hut, it looks… I’ve never seen green that’s somehow both fluorescent and swamp-colored at the same time. It’s terrible. I can’t help but sneak a glance at him.

  “I sense you have an opinion about something,” he says.

  I shake my head. �
�I shouldn’t have an opinion.”

  “Come on.” He nods toward the ticket hut. “I want to hear it.” His lips curve into a smile that’s half challenge. But it’s the half flirt that makes me bite my lip.

  I focus on ugly things. “The green’s awful.”

  Dean turns to stare at the hut. “It’s called Selkie Green. How can anything with that name be awful?” He runs a hand through his hair. “Is it really that bad?”

  “Yes,” I admit. “What’s wrong with blue?” I step forward and let my hand press against the faded, unpainted part. “It’s pretty.”

  “My mother’s favorite color was green.” He lets out a breath. “She passed away a while ago.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. I hate that I’m pretending like I don’t already know.

  “She always painted the ticket huts green, so I wanted to do the same.” He laughs a little. “I’m color-blind, so I can’t actually see it.”

  “You can’t see green?”

  “Or yellow. Green looks gray-ish.”

  It’s my turn to hide a smile. “Your sheets are green.”

  “No, they aren’t.” His eyes narrow on me. “They are a very manly gray.”

  I shake my head, laughter bubbling out at his expression. “A pretty, light green.”

  He shakes his head. “Fucking Dev.”

  “Who?”

  “Just a friend. No one I want to talk about right now.” Then his gaze flicks down to my lips. “So, are you teasing me about my bedsheets?”

  “I…” Yes, I am. And remembering him sitting across from me in that small room. The way his eyes had flicked down to the sheets.

  This is so not middle ground. My fingers rattle against my thigh. All of me rattles, actually. His presence fills me, and I want so desperately to sink into it. Find out what that tattooed rope would feel like under my fingers. Where it winds. Across his chest?

  No. I close my eyes. The past calls.

  Loudly.

  Insistently.

  “Ella.”