Page 66 of Love Bound

He fits right in. He jokes with Laurel and Devon and talks philosophy with Travis and though it takes a little longer, even Travis thaws and sees Finn the way I do—as a good man.

It’s enough for now. My sisters and brother like my boyfriend. Just the idea that I have a boyfriend seems surreal.

We open gifts on Christmas morning. My present to Finn is a nice tie and a handmade card for a dinner date at the fanciest restaurant in Camden, the Tibador, which overlooks the water and the islands. His gift to me is a pair of delicate gold earrings—simple hoops with a tiny gold disc dangling at the bottom. His tiny card with the watercolor pencil chickadee sticks out from the small box. Two short sentences, written in his architect-all-caps way, makes me cry: I loved Allison for the memories of the past we shared. I love you, now, today and always, for the memories of a future we will make together.

I love Finn Colton.

Nothing—nothing—is going to ever change this.

Then spring comes.

Chapter Eighteen

Finn

Spring came in short waves, buoyed by warm tendrils of air, the call of tired Juncos, and the sudden energy of the gulls. I’m amazed at my life right now.

It’s Saturday, with a long list of to-dos but I am equally aware of the what-ifs. What-if Allison and I had never come here and she'd never fallen in love with Echo Bay? What if Claire hadn’t returned and opted for a more comfortable and lucrative practice near Boston? What if I hadn’t been such an asshole and fallen? What if she hadn’t come over that afternoon and found me?

What if we never met?

That's the question that makes me splash my face with cold water, grab a towel, and stare at myself in the mirror for a few minutes. Arching my arms above my head, I twist to the right and left to warm up my latts and stretch scar tissue, and then it's down to the basement to the gym to work out.

Though Claire and I have decided to maintain our separate places, we are over at each other's most nights of the week. Wednesday and Friday she's on call for the region, so she kicks me out so I can sleep, but I’m ready to give that up too.

I want her with me all the time. I want her to come to me at night after a call, lift the covers, and wrap her icy legs and feet around me to warm up. The few times it’s happened, when she's had to go out, it’s always been a thrill for me. To feel her tense with cold, then warming, and finally sloppy with heat before she succumbs to sleep. I kiss her as she dreams and I breathe her in.

But I'm also aware I shouldn't ask for too much too soon.

The basement door is thick with a latch about a hundred years old. Nic and Bryce helped me completely renovate it, from insulation to wallboard to installing a raised shower. Then heating, renovating the laundry area, and finally, converting the last third into a gym.

Nic had hauled the equipment from the storage facility and he and Bryce delivered it right after Thanksgiving. Now, working out is part of my routine, just like it always had been. Every other day, two hours, push-pull/resistance and isometric.

I do love to sweat.

I'm just cleaning off with a towel when the doorbell chimes. Glancing at the clock on the wall, an old battery-operated thing with an eggplant in the middle, I climb the stairs two at a time and though I can’t see anyone standing on the other side, I open the door.

There's no one. Frowning, I start to close the door, but then I see something that makes me catch my breath. It’s a pie box. Small, brown, and square. I can’t feel the cold spring air. It’s hard to focus on the new grass coming up or Salty nickering from next door. Slowly, I take my phone from my back pocket and take a picture. I take several, squatting at one point. Then I walk to the kitchen, tear off a paper towel, and retrieve the box.

My heart hammers hard against my sternum—not from fear, but from rage. The weird thing is, when I take a knife and open the lid with it, and the first thing I see are the cherries, I am almost suddenly and resolutely calm. I know who I’m dealing with.

I take another picture while an ugly idea wiggles its way into my head.

It takes two seconds to check Claire's driveway. Jeep's there.

I call Nic on speed dial, but I get his voicemail. "He's here," is all I say, as I sprint across the expanse that separates the two buildings toward the clinic. I hit the side door at about sixty and careen inside, noting that Claire doesn't lock her doors anymore.

Because of me.

Because of us.

"Claire! Claire!" I'm shouting, racing up the stairs.

She's nowhere.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I see everything. The coffee in the pot, steaming. The fire cold. The pans, wet in the dish drainer. Crumbs on the table. Mug, empty. Book open, face down. The blood in my ears makes it hard to hear, but then, there it is—the sound of the shower.