Page 34 of Winter Break

As if no time had passed, my pounding heart reminded me of a younger version of myself, hovering over him, the two of us in holiday hats.

I can’t wait to hear about your time in Alaska and to show you the preliminary drawings.

I’ll be home in about two weeks.

I dropped to the couch, conscious of Austin staring at me, though he had the courtesy not to look at my phone.

I’m back to school next week.

Oh, well. I’ll see you over winter break, right?

“Seriously, Dalt. What’s his name?”

“Shut the fuck up. It’s nothing. It’s no one.”

“Uh-huh.” He leaned over then, and I slapped my phone on my chest.

“Uh-huh,” he repeated.

I checked in with Turner every so often during that fall semester, asking about the new store, and he would send a photo, always of the same location.

Check it out.

The first one he sent was a picture of an unpainted door frame.

We built a door from our office.

Whenever I asked how things were going, I’d get a picture taken from the doorframe into the back room of the old clothing store. I saw it go from a glorified closet full of clothes, to an empty room, to a construction site. With each update, I wished he’d turn the camera around, so I could see his face.

Turner would also ask me how school was going, and I’d share something about my grades, or a project I was working on, or about applying for another summer internship. Occasionally, Turner would share some Breakwater gossip, and I loved hearing about the goings-on in our small offseason town.

Between spending the better part of the year doing field research in Alaska, spending the fall semester wishing I was home in the middle of Turner's construction zone, and spending Thanksgiving away, like my family always did—after what seemed like forever, winter break finally arrived.

It was a few weeks before Christmas, and I’d gotten in late after my final, final exam. I had wanted to run right to BT&G, but Austin had called and insisted we plan our annual shopping spree for the next day. Since I was unwilling to hear Austin chastise me about Turner, I agreed. Bros first, or whatever that saying is.

I had been back in Breakwater for over twenty-four hours and hadn’t visited the toy store yet even though I was at the beach shopping with my best friend. We were heading south on the road behind the boardwalk, which meant we would hit the Three B’s before the toy store.

“Wow, there are way more stores open this year,” Austin said. “I think I’ve got most of my shopping done.” He nodded toward the restaurant. “Should we grab a bite?”

I may have looked longingly down the road, where I could see the cedar-shingled building I wanted to visit, but I nodded to my friend in agreement, instead saying, “Free lunch at my favorite restaurant, yes, please.”

Which is why Austin and I were having the following conversation as we walked in from the kitchen. “You wouldn’t be so worried about expenses if you gave up your unpaid internship with all the hot fisherman and came back to the beach for the summer instead.”

“Jealous, much?”

All eyes were on us. There was Preston, smirking from behind the bar; an older couple I didn’t recognize, glaring at us over their menus; and at the eight-top table in the corner, members of what I assumed was the Chamber of Commerce Off-season Planning Committee, including Austin’s dad and Turner. I don’t think I’d ever seen myself blush, but I sure as shit could feel my cheeks heating up as we walked into a mostly empty restaurant. My eyes locked onto Turner’s; I couldn’t help it. I smiled. I was so happy to see him after all that time.

Turner looked first at Austin, a frown on his face, but then he seemed to take me in from head to toe. I had let my hair grow out and had spent a lot of time in the gym and the pool during the past semester, working hard to maintain the fit body that came naturally when you spent your time on a fishing boat in rural Alaska.

Turner’s eyes returned to mine. He smiled, but he looked sad. My face burned, and Austin scoffed next to me. I nodded and tried for another smile, but Turner wasn’t smiling back. I saw him nod before Austin grabbed my wrist and dragged me to the bar.

Some habits die hard. So next I punched Austin in the arm and guided him to a pair of stools, positioning us with our back to the committee. “There were not hot fisherman,” I whispered, my back tingling, imagining Turner watching me, conscious of his presence.

Austin’s eyes called bullshit.

“Okay, maybe. But there were no hot, gay fisherman.”

“Really?”