Николас Спаркс - The Return

But I dismissed the idea. She’d see right through me, for starters. Strangely, the more she rolled her eyes, the more I felt like I could simply be myself. I liked that—hell, Natalie was pretty much the entire package as far as I could tell—but what did it matter? I was leaving, so it wasn’t as though we had a chance at any kind of lasting relationship. I’d head off on my journey, she’d continue on her way, all of which meant there was no reason to get carried away, right?

It was a familiar exercise for me. In high school, I’d kept an emotional distance from the girls I’d dated, and the same thing had happened in both college and medical school. With Sandra, it might have been different in the beginning, but toward the end, I could barely handle myself, let alone a relationship. While all of those women had their charms, it struck me that I was always thinking about the next phase of my life, one that didn’t include them. That might seem shallow and maybe it was, but I firmly believed that everyone should strive to be the best version of themselves that they can possibly be, a belief that sometimes required difficult choices. But Natalie had been wrong in thinking that it made me a player. I was more of a serial dater than a man on the prowl. Yoga Girl ( Lisa? Elisa? Elise? ) was the exception, not the rule.

On the porch, I could feel the pull of my own behavioral history, warning me not to fall for a woman I would soon leave behind. Nothing good could come of that. She would be hurt and I would be hurt, and even if somehow we tried to make a go of it, I’d learned firsthand that distance can put a strain on any relationship. And yet…

Something had changed between us, and there was no way I could deny it. Nor was I sure exactly when it happened. Maybe it was something as simple as a deeper level of comfort, but I realized that I craved more than a physical relationship with her. I wanted what we’d had when I’d shown her the beehives or ridden on the boat or sipped wine on the back porch. I wanted easy banter and deep communication and long periods when neither of us felt the need to say anything at all. I wanted to wonder what she was thinking, often to be surprised; I wanted her to gently trace the scar on my hand and show her the others that marked my skin. It all felt odd to me, even a bit frightening.

Outside, the moon continued its slow rise, turning the lawn a bluish silver. A warm breeze gently stirred the leaves, like the sound of someone whispering. Stars above were reflected in the waters of the creek, and I suddenly understood why my grandfather had never wanted to leave.

Behind me, I sensed a sudden dimming of light, heralding Natalie’s approach from within the house. Turning to greet her, I smiled automatically before fully registering the woman who stood before me in the doorway. For a moment, I could only stare, certain that I’d never seen someone more beautiful.

Natalie was wearing a low-cut, sleeveless burgundy pencil dress that clung to her slender curves. Gone was the chain around her neck I’d never seen her without, and she was wearing wide-hooped earrings and sleek, delicate pumps. But it was her face that mesmerized me. She’d put on mascara, accentuating her thick eyelashes, and her expertly applied makeup gave her skin a luminous quality. I caught the trace of perfume, something that hinted of wildflowers. In her hand, she held her empty wineglass.

My staring must have given her pause, because she wrinkled her nose slightly. “Too much?”

Her voice was enough to bring me out of my stupor.

“No,” I said. “You are…stunning.”

“Thank you.” She smiled, looking almost shy. “I know it’s not true, but I appreciate it.”

“I mean it,” I said, and all at once, I knew: This is what I wanted; I wanted Natalie, not just for tonight, but for a lifetime of days and nights like the one we were having right now. The feeling was undeniable, and I suddenly understood what my grandfather must have felt when he first saw Rose in front of the drugstore so long ago.

I am in love with her , a voice echoed clearly in my mind. It felt slightly surreal, and yet truer than anything I’d ever known. But I also heard that warning voice again, telling me to end things now, before they became even more serious. To make things easier for both of us. The cautionary voice was only a whisper, though, fading before the surge of my feelings. This is what it’s like , I thought. This is what my grandfather was talking about .

Through it all, Natalie stayed quiet, but for the first time, I knew what she was thinking. I could see in her radiant smile that she was feeling exactly the same way about me.

* * *

I forced myself to turn away as Natalie glided onto the porch. Clearing my throat, I asked, “Would you like another glass? I think I’d like one.”

“Just half,” she murmured.

“I’ll be right back.”

In the kitchen, it felt like I was finally able to exhale. I tried to get hold of myself, focusing on the simple act of pouring the wine as a means of slowing things down. I somehow made it to the back porch holding the two glasses, trying desperately to hide my inner turmoil.

I handed her the wine. “We can eat whenever you’re ready. I still have to sear your tuna, but that won’t take long.”

“Do you need help?”

“There are a few things in the refrigerator and the oven, but let me start your tuna first, okay?”

At the grill, I unwrapped the tuna, alert to Natalie’s approach. She stood close, enveloping me in the smell of her perfume.

“How do you like your tuna?” I asked robotically. “Rare or medium rare?”

“Rare,” she said.

“I mixed up some soy sauce and wasabi for you.”

“Aren’t you something?” she asked in a husky drawl, nudging me slightly, the feeling making me light-headed.

I really, truly have to get hold of myself.

After checking the heat, I put the tuna on the grill. Natalie took that as her cue, returning to the kitchen to bring the other dishes to the table.

I looked over my shoulder. “Could you bring me your plate? For your tuna?”

“Of course,” she said, sauntering toward me.

I plated the tuna and we walked to the table. As she took her seat, she nodded toward the food.

“You made enough for four people,” she observed. Then, leaning forward, she added, “I had a really nice time on the boat today. I’m glad you asked me to come.”

“A perfect day,” I agreed.

We served up, passing various sides back and forth with easy familiarity. The conversation roamed from the alligators and the eagles and life in Florida, to the places we wanted to visit one day. Her eyes sparkled with hidden fire, making me feel intensely alive. How had I fallen in love with her so quickly, without even being aware of it?

Afterward, she helped me bring the dishes to the kitchen and put the leftovers away. When we finished, we returned to the porch railing and stared toward the creek, my shoulder nearly touching hers. The music was still playing, a melancholy Fleetwood Mac ballad. Though I wanted to slip my arm around her, I didn’t. She cleared her throat before finally raising her eyes to meet mine.

“There’s something I should probably tell you,” she said. Her tone was soft but serious, and I felt my stomach contract. I already knew what she was going to say.

“You’re seeing someone else,” I said.

She was absolutely still. “How did you know?”

“I didn’t. But I suspected.” I stared at her. “Does it really matter?”

“I suppose it doesn’t.”

“Is it serious?” I asked, hating that I wanted to know.

“Yes,” she said. She turned away, unable to meet my eyes. “But it’s not what you probably think.”