At 6:01, Nathan’s car pulls into the sandy rut that serves as a driveway. I watch from behind the curtain as he steps out, runs a hand through his hair, and stares at the cottage like he’s making up his mind about something. He wears a dark shirt, sleeves rolled, and jeans that look clean but lived-in. He’s shaved, and there’s a nervous energy in the way he lingers beside the car.
The front door is only a few steps from the bedroom, but it takes me longer than it should to answer his knock. When Iopen it, he smiles, quick and lopsided, as if he’s been caught at something. There’s a small, crumpled bouquet of wildflowers in his left hand. Queen Anne’s lace, bluebells, a few pale weeds that haven’t yet decided if they’re flowers or not.
“These are for you,” he says, thrusting them forward with a shy confidence that makes my heart stutter.
“They’re beautiful.“ I take the bouquet, unsure what to do with my hands, then settle for cradling them awkwardly at my hip.
Cassie materializes at my elbow, having changed into a fresh T-shirt with a cartoon whale on it. Rolo is not far behind. Cassie regards Nathan with a blend of suspicion and admiration. “You’re late,” she observes, “but Mom looks nice, so I forgive you.”
Nathan laughs, his gaze darting between us. “I’m glad I have your approval, Cassie. And thanks for the recommendation. Dinner at the pier sounds perfect.”
He says it like it’s our idea, which technically it is. The Kitty Hawk pier has a restaurant attached, old as driftwood and just as knobby, famous for crab cakes and for being the only spot in town that doesn’t play Jimmy Buffett on a loop. I had mentioned it once, in passing, and he remembered.
As we leave, Cassie hovers on the porch, arms folded, as if she expects a full report upon my return. For a split second, I want to call the whole thing off, to stay home and order pizza and watch her doze off toAnimal Planetreruns while the dog snuggles between us on the couch. But then Nathan is opening the passenger door, his palm gentle at my back, and I let myself step into the unknown.
The drive is short, but the quiet inside the car feels like a second, smaller room. Nathan fiddles with the dial, finds a station playing old Motown, and leaves it there. My hand restson my knee, gripping the fabric of the dress so tightly that the skin underneath prickles.
“You look…really nice,” he says, eyes on the road.
“So do you,” I say and immediately wish for a better word. Dapper? No, too performative. Handsome? Too risky, too intimate. He is both, and neither, and something else entirely.
He seems to sense my nerves and offers up small talk. I respond in kind, describing my failed attempts at baking with Cassie, the latest discovery of a local goat farm, the impossibility of keeping sand out of the bedsheets. Each exchange is a stroke, gentle and careful, until the car is filled not with silence but with something approaching comfort.
As we pull into the parking lot, the pier stretches out before us. The restaurant sits halfway down, perched over the water on a spindly network of pilings. From the lot, you can see straight through the windows, the amber glow inside contrasting with the blue dusk outside. The entrance is marked by an old bell buoy, pitted and red, hung above the doorframe like a relic of some more nautical past.
The place is half-full. There are a few tourists in crisp polos, a cluster of locals at the bar, an elderly couple eating near the window. The walls are paneled with rough cedar and adorned with vintage photographs of hurricanes, shrimp boats, and teenagers in swimsuits holding up improbable fish. Nets hang from the ceiling, dotted with glass floats and the occasional plastic starfish. The tables are old, the wood worn smooth and sticky in places, the chairs so light you feel as if you might float away at any moment.
The hostess, a girl with salt-bleached hair and forearms like taffy, leads us to a table beside the main window. The ocean is right there, just beyond the glass, restless and darkening with the evening. We sit, and for a second neither of us speaks.
I busy myself with the menu, even though I already know what I’ll order. Nathan does the same, but his eyes keep darting up to meet mine, then away again, as if checking for a signal.
“Do you come here often?” he asks, and we both wince at the cliché.
“Yes, quite often,” I say. “Cassie loves the hush puppies. I’m pretty sure she’s angling for a job in the kitchen when she’s old enough.”
He laughs, shoulders relaxing. “I’d hire her. She’s got the kind of ambition I respect.”
The waiter arrives, a kid barely older than Cassie, nervous and eager to please. He takes our drink order (Chardonnay for me, local beer for Nathan), and when he leaves, I realize my hands are trembling just enough to make the menu shake. I set it down, folding my fingers in my lap.
Nathan sees the motion, but instead of commenting, he shares a story about the time he nearly set his apartment on fire attempting to flambé bananas, how he spent the next week trying to get the scorched smell out of his hair. I find myself laughing, not because it’s the world’s funniest story, but because he tells it so sincerely, unafraid to sound ridiculous.
The wine arrives, cold and bright, and I take a sip for courage. Nathan mirrors me, raising his glass.
“To first attempts,” he says.
I clink his glass, feeling a tiny jolt of electricity at the sound.
“And to surviving them,” I add.
The ice between us starts to melt, not all at once, but enough that I can feel the warmth beneath. We talk about everything but the things that matter most. How the weather here can flip in an instant, how people in small towns remember what brand of cereal you buy, the subtle differences between North and South Carolina barbecue. It’s easy, almost effortless, and I can see why people want to spend time with him.
When our food arrives, I’m so hungry I could cry. The crab cakes are perfect, crisp, and buttery, and the fries taste of malt vinegar and summer. Nathan orders the blackened fish, and when he takes the first bite, his eyes close in bliss.
“This is,” he says after swallowing, “maybe the best meal I’ve had since moving here.”
“I’m glad.”
As we eat, the conversation edges closer to the things we’re both avoiding. He asks about my writing, why I left journalism, how it feels to have so much time alone with my thoughts. I answer honestly, even when the truth feels jagged. I tell him about the memoir I wrote for Sara that started all this, about the pressure to produce, about how sometimes I worry I’ve already written the best thing I’ll ever write.