After that day on the ferry, we move back to Florida. We do it so we can be close to Annie until we figure everything out. We keep the condo in Port Townsend and fly back to visit as often as we can. I buy a navy blue Pottery Barn couch for the condo, and hang one of Greer’s ripple paintings over it. My heart is there, in Port Townsend. We take Annie back with us sometimes, and walk her around town so everyone can fuss. She’s beautiful like her mother, and perceptive like her father. She thinks Greer is a real fairy, and Greer plays the part. Della doesn’t ever forgive me, but that was expected. We were for a season. I don’t ever become good at art. I dabble here and there. I feel good about that. I’m a dabbler. When Kit’s mother becomes ill, I move back to Port Townsend to help her. Kit flies up on weekends, but the time with him never seems like enough. I am stretched, pulled tight. I want to be with Kit and Annie, but I want to be here, too. I am glad for the excuse to be in the place I love.
Eventually, we grow out of the condo and buy a small house in PT. A place where no one can find us. It’s a hidden plot. A side street, down a side street, down a side street. It’s not that we don’t want to be found; we just want to make it difficult.
The house has a wraparound porch. Kit has two chili pepper rocking chairs shipped to us from the goat farm. We set them up on the west side of the house, so we can hear the water from the stream, running over the rocks. Most nights I bring a warm mug of wassail outside, and sip slowly, listening to the creatures of Washington and watching the sun set over the Sound. They are loud, and they make me laugh. It feels like I’m waiting for something, though I’m not sure what. Everything makes me jumpy—noises, shadows, the sound of car tires on gravel.
In early August one year later, my wait comes to an end. Summer licks the sky clean of rain clouds, and the coast blows a hot breath across the Northwest. The weather drives me outside more than usual. I sip wine from an old, chipped mug one afternoon, as a truck bounces down the dirt road at an alarming speed. It hits a ditch, and I think it’s going to careen into my catalpa, when it suddenly veers right and comes to a halt in front of my house. My forehead dents as I lean forward in my rocker. I am not cool in that moment. Instead, I am like an elderly woman in her rocker, pissed that someone almost hit her favorite tree. The door of the truck swings open and black boots drop into my mud. I stand up, my heart racing, knocking over the mug of wine at my feet. The sun shines in my eyes. Goddamn sun! It doesn’t even belong here. I place a hand across my eyes to shield them and step through the wine, leaving footprints of red on the white paint. I see a face, striking blue eyes, and a lion’s walk. My whole world rocks. It’s been two years, but still, this reaction. I settle back into my chair, lest my knees give. I am too afraid to look, because what the fuck? I can’t survive another dream. Palms sweating, heart at a gallop, he lowers himself into the chair next to mine.
He sits. Like he’s been sitting there all along.
“Hello, Helena.”
“How did you find me?” I ask. He just smiles. “I saw you on the news,” I say. “Got yourself into a lot of trouble.”
“I blame you for that,” he says.
“Oh yeah?”
“You were the one. I could have changed, been better.”
“Just like a narcissist,” I say, “to blame someone else for their choices.”
He laughs.
“You can come with me now…”
I shake my head, though my heart is beating wildly. I almost did last time, didn’t I? Abandon everything and go with him.
He stands up to go, our reunion apparently over. The rocker creaks as it releases him and swings back angrily. He stops at the bottom of the steps that lead to the drive and turns around.
“Do you think they’ll catch me?” he asks.
I stand up and walk to the edge of the porch, wrapping an arm around one of the beams. I look down at him seriously.
“I think they need to.”
“You’re the only one who’s ever told me the truth,” he says, smiling. And then he leaves, the gravel sliding beneath his boots as he climbs back into the truck. “Goodbye, Helena.”
“Who was that?” Kit asks, coming to stand beside me. His hair is ruffled from his nap, and I reach up to smooth it. My heart clenches when I touch him. Every time. It was improbable, but he’s mine.
“That cult leader from the news I told you about. The one I almost ran away with.”
“Shit,” he says. “Should I get the gun?”
“Nah. He came to say something he needed to. Now he’s gone.”
“What did he say?”
“That I was the one.”
“I’m getting the gun.” Kit turns back to the house, but I grab his arm, laughing.
“I’m your one, Kit Isley.”
He leans down to kiss me, but his eyes are on the road where Muslim drove away. He’s not a jealous man, but he’s possessive.
“Do you think they’ll catch him?”
I think about Muslim's elusive, flowing personality. The way he can talk his way into or out of anything, and wrap my arms around Kit.
“No. But someone will.”
“It’s time to get married,” Kit says.
I push away from his chest and scrunch up my nose. “What the...?”
“You’re not dragging this out another year,” he tells me. “Not with that guy trying to recruit you. He’s like a cult leader pin up model.”
I lean back into his chest and close my eyes.
“You’re thinking about pulling out your box of socks,” he says, kissing the top of my head.
“I am. I believe there’s a match for each one and I’m going to find them.”
“All right, baby. I’m going to go cook some fish I caught with my own hands while you touch your socks.”
He disappears back into the house, but a minute later he sends me a text. It's a picture of our bed. Fuck, Love? It says underneath it. I laugh, and take a selfie because I am happy, and this is a weird night. Before I go inside I glance at the road one last time, wondering where Muslim will go from here. A lion on the prowl. I can hear a noise—something distant—a helicopter, maybe?
Ra
ta
ta…
Eventually, we grow out of the condo and buy a small house in PT. A place where no one can find us. It’s a hidden plot. A side street, down a side street, down a side street. It’s not that we don’t want to be found; we just want to make it difficult.
The house has a wraparound porch. Kit has two chili pepper rocking chairs shipped to us from the goat farm. We set them up on the west side of the house, so we can hear the water from the stream, running over the rocks. Most nights I bring a warm mug of wassail outside, and sip slowly, listening to the creatures of Washington and watching the sun set over the Sound. They are loud, and they make me laugh. It feels like I’m waiting for something, though I’m not sure what. Everything makes me jumpy—noises, shadows, the sound of car tires on gravel.
In early August one year later, my wait comes to an end. Summer licks the sky clean of rain clouds, and the coast blows a hot breath across the Northwest. The weather drives me outside more than usual. I sip wine from an old, chipped mug one afternoon, as a truck bounces down the dirt road at an alarming speed. It hits a ditch, and I think it’s going to careen into my catalpa, when it suddenly veers right and comes to a halt in front of my house. My forehead dents as I lean forward in my rocker. I am not cool in that moment. Instead, I am like an elderly woman in her rocker, pissed that someone almost hit her favorite tree. The door of the truck swings open and black boots drop into my mud. I stand up, my heart racing, knocking over the mug of wine at my feet. The sun shines in my eyes. Goddamn sun! It doesn’t even belong here. I place a hand across my eyes to shield them and step through the wine, leaving footprints of red on the white paint. I see a face, striking blue eyes, and a lion’s walk. My whole world rocks. It’s been two years, but still, this reaction. I settle back into my chair, lest my knees give. I am too afraid to look, because what the fuck? I can’t survive another dream. Palms sweating, heart at a gallop, he lowers himself into the chair next to mine.
He sits. Like he’s been sitting there all along.
“Hello, Helena.”
“How did you find me?” I ask. He just smiles. “I saw you on the news,” I say. “Got yourself into a lot of trouble.”
“I blame you for that,” he says.
“Oh yeah?”
“You were the one. I could have changed, been better.”
“Just like a narcissist,” I say, “to blame someone else for their choices.”
He laughs.
“You can come with me now…”
I shake my head, though my heart is beating wildly. I almost did last time, didn’t I? Abandon everything and go with him.
He stands up to go, our reunion apparently over. The rocker creaks as it releases him and swings back angrily. He stops at the bottom of the steps that lead to the drive and turns around.
“Do you think they’ll catch me?” he asks.
I stand up and walk to the edge of the porch, wrapping an arm around one of the beams. I look down at him seriously.
“I think they need to.”
“You’re the only one who’s ever told me the truth,” he says, smiling. And then he leaves, the gravel sliding beneath his boots as he climbs back into the truck. “Goodbye, Helena.”
“Who was that?” Kit asks, coming to stand beside me. His hair is ruffled from his nap, and I reach up to smooth it. My heart clenches when I touch him. Every time. It was improbable, but he’s mine.
“That cult leader from the news I told you about. The one I almost ran away with.”
“Shit,” he says. “Should I get the gun?”
“Nah. He came to say something he needed to. Now he’s gone.”
“What did he say?”
“That I was the one.”
“I’m getting the gun.” Kit turns back to the house, but I grab his arm, laughing.
“I’m your one, Kit Isley.”
He leans down to kiss me, but his eyes are on the road where Muslim drove away. He’s not a jealous man, but he’s possessive.
“Do you think they’ll catch him?”
I think about Muslim's elusive, flowing personality. The way he can talk his way into or out of anything, and wrap my arms around Kit.
“No. But someone will.”
“It’s time to get married,” Kit says.
I push away from his chest and scrunch up my nose. “What the...?”
“You’re not dragging this out another year,” he tells me. “Not with that guy trying to recruit you. He’s like a cult leader pin up model.”
I lean back into his chest and close my eyes.
“You’re thinking about pulling out your box of socks,” he says, kissing the top of my head.
“I am. I believe there’s a match for each one and I’m going to find them.”
“All right, baby. I’m going to go cook some fish I caught with my own hands while you touch your socks.”
He disappears back into the house, but a minute later he sends me a text. It's a picture of our bed. Fuck, Love? It says underneath it. I laugh, and take a selfie because I am happy, and this is a weird night. Before I go inside I glance at the road one last time, wondering where Muslim will go from here. A lion on the prowl. I can hear a noise—something distant—a helicopter, maybe?
Ra
ta
ta…
