“You’re really not goingto tell me where we’re going?” he asks for the fifth time since I bustled him into the rental car outside our Boston hotel bright and early this morning. We’ve ditched both the guys and our security guards.
Off the grid.
I shoot a glance at him. “Where’s your sense of spontaneity, Woods?”
He smirks and stares out his window at the passing scenery.
December in Massachusetts is brutally cold, but still beautiful. Today seems especially pretty as we wind our way south along Route 3, then across the Sagamore Bridge, marking our official entrance onto Cape Cod. My hands curl around the steering wheel, and I can’t help admiring the way my engagement ring flashes in the early morning light. I’ve barely been able to take my eyes off it since he slid it onto my finger two nights ago.
“Staring again?” His voice is wry.
A dreamy sigh slips out. “It’s just sosparkly.”
Ryder chuckles. “You did say yes because you want to be my wife, right? Not just for the accessories that come with the gig?”
I glance over at him, swallowing hard. “I cannot wait to be your wife.”
His eyes simmer with heat.
It takes quite a bit of effort to refocus on the road in front of me. This time of year, the streets are deserted. The road drops from two lanes down to one as we snake lazily through a series of increasingly sleepy towns: Barnstable, Yarmouth, Eastham, Wellfleet. Come tourist season, they’ll be bustling, but now there’s hardly even another car on the road or soul to be seen.
After almost two hours, we come to a rotary. I turn off, following signs for Truro. A few side streets later, we pull onto an unpaved dirt road. Leafless tree branches claw at our windows, overgrown from months without proper trimming.
“Are you planning to murder me in the wilderness to get out of this marriage? Because, honestly, a simplenowould’ve sufficed…”
“Shut up,” I say, rolling my eyes at him as the lot comes into view. “And stop complaining. We’re here.”
His gaze turns toward the cottage, narrowing as he tries to figure out where the hell I’ve taken him. Admittedly, it doesn’t look like much from here — just a ramshackle little house with weatherbeaten shingles, sitting on a sand dune.
“Come on,” I whisper, climbing out of the car.
The wind whips at us as we walk up the stone path to the house. It’s tinged with a crispness that hints at coming snow. At the top of the lawn, the Atlantic peeks into view. I hear a low gasp from Ryder as he takes in the sight. The crashing waves are wild and white-capped, almost violent as they pummel the beach.
“Where are we, Felicity?”
I walk to the porch, bend to the small ceramic elephant sitting on the windowsill, and pull out the spare house key. It sticks in the warped lock for a moment, but the door eventually gives way with a shower of dust. We step inside the small space. Just one bedroom, with lofty beamed ceilings and stunning views. Most of the furniture is concealed by white sheets. It’s simple… but it’s peaceful, it’s pleasantly decorated, and… it’smine.
I look at Ryder and find him watching me carefully.
“This is where you lived,” he murmurs. “Where you were, all that time.”
I nod. “This was my home for the two years we were apart. I know it’s not in the best shape… that it doesn’t look like much of anything… but in the summer, with the beach rolling right up to the house…” I shrug. “It’s really not a bad place to be.”
His jaw is tight as he wanders through the house, staring at the leftover pieces of my life like artifacts in a museum you study intently, in hopes of learning more about a lost culture you’ll never witness for yourself. His fingers skim along the surface of my wood dining table, trace the rim of my favorite coffee cup collecting dust on the kitchen counter. He stares at my easel, still set up with a half-finished canvas, my novice attempt at an ocean watercolor painting.
“Thank you for bringing me here,” he says, gravely. “For… filling in the gaps.”
My heart clenches. “There’s one more thing.”
I extend my hand out, and he twines his fingers with mine. Together, we walk out the back door and up an overgrown, grassy path, ducking our heads against the wind. It takes a few moments to climb to the top of the bluffs — the highest point of my property, a windswept cliff overlooking the ocean with a thin cluster of trees and bushes. There, embedded in the hard-packed earth, lies a marble tombstone.
Ryder’s hand tightens fiercely on mine as we approach. Neither of us says anything as we look down at the simple grave marker, leaning on each other as the wind whips around us.
“I named him Apollo,” I whisper, winding my arms around Ryder’s waist. “After the ancient god of music, who chased the sun across the sky each day in a chariot of fiery horses. He brought light to the world.” I can barely speak around the growing lump in my throat. “He had the power to move the sun… to move the stars.”
Ryder’s eyes are red as they lock on mine. “Long may he shine.”
* * *