Patrick says something beside me, his hand at the small of my back, but his voice goes thin and far away, like he’s speaking from underwater. My body knows before my brain does. Every muscle tightens. My fingers go cold.
Because twenty feet ahead, sitting on a bench near a white arch covered with clematis, like this place was built just to frame him, is Tully.
Tully Whitman.
My Tully.
Myused to beTully.
The guy who once knew me in a way I didn’t let other people see. The guy I walked away from, and I tried to never look back. The guy I’ve thought about every day since.
He’s sitting next to an elderly woman, and they’re laughing at something, their heads tipped back. He has that same low, easy laugh that used to buzz through my chest when I lay on his shoulder. The sun hits his dark brown hair, like he personally negotiated the lighting with the universe.
“Oh my God!” I gasp.
No.
No, no, no.
“Lola?” Patrick says, finally noticing that I’ve turned tostone. His thumb rubs a small, absent circle against my spine. “You okay?”
I don’t answer.
Because Tully looks up.
And sees me.
It’s like someone slams two magnets together across a room. His expression just stops, his smile dying. His eyes lock on mine, and for a second I see the exact same shock I’m feeling ricochet through him. We stay in that frozen state for I’m not sure how long.
The garden noise keeps going—clinking glasses from the terrace, a fountain trickling somewhere, a woman in a floppy hat talking about ordering room service—but inside this invisible line between us, everything is silent and bright and terrible.
I forget how to breathe.
Patrick follows my gaze, and his grip tightens around me.
“Tully Whitman,” he says coolly.
“Yes,” I hear myself say, but my voice doesn’t sound like mine.
Across the garden, Tully runs a hand through his hair, his nervous tell. He says something to the woman next to him, but his eyes never leave me.
I feel exposed. Like someone just opened an old diary and started reading it out loud.
What is he doing here?
Windy Harbor was supposed to be a soft reset for Patrick and me. A place where I’m not haunted by a love story that ended in sadness.
My heart is trying to punch its way out of my ribs.
Tully stands and walks toward us.
Each step he takes feels like a countdown.
Ten feet.
Eight.
Five.