Page 29 of Letting Go

"I bought these area rugs to cover up the worst of it."

"It looks great. I'm impressed."

My dad was in construction, all up and down the coast. What she's accomplished in such a short time is miraculous. I pull open the second kitchen cabinet door.

One ancient can of chicken noodle soup sits there.

"We kept a can in case one of us got 'sick.'" Her use of air quotes is adorable. The light streaming through the windows strikes her hair turning it into all shades of brown. The windows are sparkling. Everything is neat as a pin. I notice two bags of trash along the back wall.

"We should bring those back with us."

"That would be great," she says suddenly unsure of herself. "If you lug them back, then they all won’t badger me into telling them what I've been doing."

"Maybe they'd like to help, though."

It's clear she has not considered this.

She shakes her head. "This place was special to all of us. I feel like they're going to think I've just moved back and claimed this as my own. Like I'm taking it from them. I just want to show them when I'm done and offer it. Like a present."

Like a plea for forgiveness, I think. "What's behind that door?"

"The bedroom."

We walk in. There is an old, white, wooden frame with a sagging mattress in the middle. It has clean sheets and a blanket. In fact, it's the old threadbare blanket from the sofa in the library. No, it isn't. It's very similar though.

"My mother crocheted both. The one in the library, and this one for me. She wanted to make one for each of the kids, but she got too busy. Only I benefited from that talent." She straightens a little and starts a new line of conversation. "Whoever left here left in a hurry. When we kids found the place, it hadn't been lived in for decades. There used to be two sets of bunk beds in here. But they were really old and rotten, and I told the kids I couldn't let them climb on them anymore because I was afraid they break."

"So how did you get a bed here?

"Devon got a saw, cut them down, and then we just had four little twins in here. Then we connected the best two and burned the remaining two.

"And the mattress?"

"Down. I combined all four of them. Laurel, Devon, and I stitched like crazy. By hand. Touch it." She starts to lift a corner of the mattress. "Travis was no help. That was before he could come with us."

"Down? All of it?"

Nodding she pushes on the mattress and her hand just sinks.

"You can't even find them anymore. I mean the old-fashioned kind like this. I mean it was a mess a month ago, but I cleaned it up. I've taken a few naps on it." She smiles.

I wait for a moment trying to figure out how to frame this next question. "Why did you do all this? I mean I get the part when you were kids, but why now? This seems set up for guests."

Her smile is immediate. "I just want this place to be great for whoever needs to come here. Can you imagine stumbling along on the island and then seeing this note that says 'help yourself for the night'?" She smiles. "Maybe it's just someone who's lost a partner or somebody who's broken up with somebody or someone who is just lonely. I wanted this to be a place they stumble into. My dream was to put a little piece of slate out in front—" she makes a bracket with one hand and waves an arc in front of her, making an invisible banner, "'Welcome. Stay as Long as You Need."

My heart aches. Here's a girl who creates space for those who feel lost and unanchored. Just like her. Now I'm in love. I'm completely in love with this woman.

She's standing right in front of me, like a statue, looking out the little window at the sea, the early afternoon light on her face. Her collarbones are

thin, straight, defiant almost. Her head is high, equal to the defiance in those collarbones. I slip an arm around her turning her face to meet mine.

"I want to kiss you again," I say.

"You don't need to ask permission."

My mouth is on hers. Pressed against me I feel her chest tremble as her heart misses a beat and then corrects, thudding hard and fast, thin and light under her ribs, but in time with my own. But then the image of that go-bag under her bed bores into me. I grab her harder, press her to me, never wanting to let go.

Breaking away she gasps, stretches her swimsuit slightly, and guides my hand to the "V" between her legs. She's warm and wet, slick and my cock is hard, pressing uncomfortably against my damp cutoffs. When Chloe moans and closes her eyes, it starts to throb quickly at its base.