Finding Solace

I walk around him and point at the dock like that is actually going to deflect the shame creeping across my skin in a fiery, blotchy haze. “Is the dock safe?”

Staring. He’s staring again. “Yeah.” He chuckles when he speaks. “It needs a little work, some planks replaced sooner than later, but for tonight, as long as we don’t jump up and down on it, it’s good to go.”

I’m not even cold. It’s just him causing these goose bumps. I toss him the blanket and watch as he spreads it across the planks. Grabbing the picnic basket from the truck, I can’t believe I almost kissed Jason Koster. That is, if he would have kissed me. The man is magnetic, and I’m weak to his pull. Will this never change? Even after he broke my heart?

Reaching in after me, he grabs a small cooler and a few pillows, and follows me to the dock.

The scene is set, the sun going down. The cicadas get louder as early evening rolls into twilight. He’s thought of everything, including wine. I pull the containers out of the basket as he fills two glasses with Sauvignon blanc. He’s pleasantly surprising me. “I’ll admit, Koster, I expected beer, but you went all out.”

“I wanted to.”

I pause midair with a large container in my hands as his tone draws my attention. “Why?”

I’m not granted his warmth, but he does seem to struggle to keep his gaze on the glasses in front of him instead of on me. “Do you like chicken salad?”

He may have avoided the question, but I don’t point it out. “You know I love it.”

With a nod, a rogue grin spreads on his face, and he finally looks up. With the sunset caught in his eyes, they shine with that light that used to live there. “My mom taught me how to make her recipe. She makes the best with grapes and celery.”

“She always did. She’s a wonderful woman, Jason.”

He takes a baguette from the basket and rips it in half. “She says the same about you.”

The compliment makes me smile, but the baguette fascinates me. “Where did you get that? I know Smally’s Grocers doesn’t sell French bread.”

He glances up, his darker eyelashes highlighting the golden centers of his eyes. “I ran over to Kerbyville. They have a bakery this side of downtown.”

“That’s forty-five minutes away.” I’m not so much asking a question as questioning why he drove so far.

Returning to the bread, he shrugs and hands me half. “It was the closest bakery.”

“But it’s bread.”

“You don’t like it?” He rips his piece lengthwise.

I struggle to comprehend why he would drive two towns over for specialty bread. “I love it. I just . . . you really didn’t have to go to this much trouble, Jason.”

“I had some time to kill this afternoon.” He takes the lid off the container of chicken salad and then spoons some into the crevice of the loaf. “Did you know Smally sold the store?”

Smiling, I reply, “Yes, I live here. It was big news when he announced it. Raina Smith and her fourth husband bought it a few years back after promising Smally they’d keep the name.”

“It is a legend around here.”

“Well, Raina’s fifth husband disagrees, but I heard she filed for divorce last week, so he won’t have a say anyway.”

He laughs. “Wow, she’s only in her fifties.”

“She brags she’s had one husband for each decade of her life.” I laugh now, feeling silly talking about this.

He chuckles, and it’s a good laugh. The sound is a trigger of happier times in my life. I split my bread, and he spoons the salad inside, silence seeping in. I notice how his eyes take in the area as if he’s scanning more than casually looking around.

“It hasn’t changed at all out here,” he finally says.

“The whole world seems to except this little plot of land, which forever remains unchanged.”

“I like it. It’s exactly how I remember.” I look up when I feel his gaze lay heavy on me. “You haven’t changed either,” he adds.

My head lowers, and I feel self-conscious. I hate that my cheeks heat under the most innocent of comments. It’s been a long time since I’ve been complimented. Setting my sandwich down, I tug at my skirt with one hand and pick up my wine with the other. A single finger touches the base of my chin and lifts it up. “I like seeing your eyes and your sweet face.”

“I don’t feel so sweet these days.”

His hand returns to his side of the blanket, though there doesn’t appear to be defined lines with my legs stretched over to his side and the arm supporting his weight on my side. “Can I ask you something, Delilah?”

I know what it is. It’s always the same. People are baffled with how I ended up with my boyfriend’s best friend. Gullible. Naïve. I was so stupid. Something about Cole or the divorce.